
## One-Click Buy: August Harlequin Blaze

Secret Seduction

The Hell-Raiser

Lie with Me

Pleasure to the Max!

Whispers in the Dark

Flashback

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Table of Contents

[Secret Seduction  
By Lori Wilde](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph01.html#ph01)

[The Hell-Raiser  
By Rhonda Nelson](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph02.html#ph02)

[Lie with Me  
By Cara Summers](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph03.html#ph03)

[Pleasure to the Max!  
By Cami Dalton](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph04.html#ph04)

[Whispers in the Dark  
By Kira Sinclair](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph05.html#ph05)

[Flashback  
By Jill Shalvis](oneclickbuyjulyblazebundle_ph06.html#ph06)

## Secret Seduction

## By Lori Wilde

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

## 1

"HEY, CHICA. Wanna come over, sit on my lap and see what pops up?"

Dr. Vanessa Rodriquez settled onto the bar stool, tugged down the hem of her flirty red dancing dress so as not to expose too much leg and bit back the scathing retort aching to spark off her tongue after her exceptionally disturbing day. At the same time, her mind was gauging how quickly she could get to the pepper spray clipped to the key chain at the bottom of her purse, in case things turned ugly.

The urge to seek refuge from the chic, white-bread world of Confidential Rejuvenations, the VIP boutique hospital where she worked as a resident in plastic surgery, had driven Vanessa to Emilio's, a neighborhood bar in a mostly Hispanic section of Austin, Texas, on this sultry evening in early August.

Lately, the staff of Confidential Rejuvenations had been left reeling from a series of odd occurrences and circumstances that was chipping away at the hospital's once impeccable reputation as a soothing oasis for the rich and pampered with very private health issues. The stress was starting to take a toll on the employees; Vanessa wasn't immune.

No matter how rough her childhood had been or how far she'd risen from that El Paso barrio, sometimes she simply had to sate her cravings for the culture she'd left behind.

She was feeling fragile, but was determined not to show it. She came to Emilio's whenever she felt out of step with her environment. Seeking to wash away the blues with top-shelf tequila, chicken flautas and mariachi bands. Unfortunately, along with the food, drink and music came masculine attention. She was in no mood to fend off unwanted admirers, innocuous or otherwise.

All she wanted for the night was a place where she could lower her guard, let down her hair and blow off some steam. A place where, if she so desired, she could let her true personality shine through. If the people she worked with at Confidential Rejuvenations knew the real Vanessa, they'd be thoroughly shocked at the bad-girl essence she struggled so hard to conceal.

At Emilio's she was free to express herself. Maybe even take a wild turn on the apron-sized dance floor if the spirit moved her. Just not with the overweight, middle-aged man sporting a gold wedding band on his left ring finger and a sprinkling of tattoos on his Popeye forearms who was leering at her from the other side of the bar. It had been a long time since she'd had to live by her wits, but she still knew how to deal with the likes of this loser.

Vanessa batted her lashes and retorted, "What, Cabron? And waste all your Viagra on something you'll never have?"

"She nailed you there," his buddy snickered in Spanish and elbowed him in the ribs.

The man scowled darkly.

She ignored the guy, raised two fingers and motioned for Julio, the bartender. "Tequila shot straight up, best you've got, lime and lots of salt," Vanessa ordered from the handsome, muscular man making his way over to her.

The corner of Julio's mouth tilted upward. He had a white bar towel thrown over one shoulder. "Bad day?"

Now that was a serious understatement.

"I've had better," Vanessa said evenly, hoping he wouldn't fall into bartender-as-therapist mode. Julio was a nice guy, but she wasn't interested in talking about her miserable day.

She was here to drink.

And to dance.

Julio, who had the dreamy face of a poet and the solid body of a heavyweight prizefighter, slapped a shot glass down on the scarred mahogany bar, poured in three fingers of Clase Azul Reposado, then put down a saucer of fresh cut lime wedges and a shaker of Marguerita salt in front of her.

He murmured an old Spanish axiom that roughly translated into, "May the burn soon sear away your troubles."

Vanessa dipped two fingers between the cleavage of her bra, extracted a folded twenty-dollar bill, warm from her body heat, and slid it across the bar to him. "Take me as far as this will go."

He nodded. The twenty would just cover two shots of the expensive tequila and his tip.

"And when the band comes back from their break, how about requesting something upbeat and danceworthy?"

"You got it," Julio said, polishing the chrome fixtures with the bar towel until they gleamed. The air smelled of lemon oil, cocktail peanuts and beer.

Vanessa licked the area between her thumb and index finger on the back of her left hand, and then shook a dusting of the Marguerita salt onto her dampened skin. Fully aware that the men across the bar were practically drooling over her, she picked up a lime wedge with the fingers of her salt-crusted hand and raised the shot glass of tequila with the other.

"Cheers."

With a flick of her tongue, she licked the salt from her hand, swallowed back the tequila and then bit on the wedge of lime. The tart burst of green citrus rode her throat down after the velvet smooth fire of the high-quality liquor.

Instantly the world brightened and her belly filled with bittersweet, nostalgic warmth. Ah, it had been a very long time since she had done this.

Felt this.

She might have a throbbing headache in the morning, but she didn't care. Tomorrow was her day off and she wasn't on call. She possessed a critical need for mindless distraction, and the tequila was merely a jump start. Reaching up, she massaged her temple with the flat of her thumb.

"You want to talk about it?" Julio asked.

"No." She shook her head.

"Bad day, huh?"

"You're too perceptive."

He shrugged. "I'm a bartender."

"Meaning?"

"There's only two reasons people come into a bar—to celebrate or to drown their sorrows. In spite of that killer red dress, you don't look like you're celebrating."

"How so?"

"No friends."

Touché.

"Have you heard from your cousin in Mexico?" Vanessa asked, changing the subject as she nibbled on the lime wedge. Six months ago, Vanessa had traveled to El Salvador as part of the group Surgeons Without Boundaries. Julio's sixteen-year-old cousin, Pilar, had been one of Vanessa's patients. She'd repaired the girl's cleft-palate malformation.

Julio's caramel-colored face beamed. "I just heard from Tia Giselle that Pilar is doing great. Healing well. She has her first boyfriend and she smiles all the time. Thanks to you."

"That's wonderful news. Thank you for referring her," Vanessa said. "It was my honor to help Pilar."

A chuff of pride filled her chest. Most of the time her work at Confidential Rejuvenations consisted of nipping and tucking wealthy clients as they chased the fountain of youth. Not that she disliked her job at the exclusive hospital, but it didn't give her the same sense of altruism, satisfaction and accomplishment that volunteering for Surgeons Without Boundaries did. The world of the rich and famous was galaxies away from what she'd experienced in the harsh but beautiful El Salvadorian landscape. It was nice having that balance in her life. For a moment, she wished she were there, performing surgery, changing lives.

Hiding out from Carlo Vega?

"You ready for another?" The bartender nodded at her empty shot glass.

"Not yet."

"Just let me know when," Julio said, and then turned to a young couple who'd sidled up to the bar, arms around each other, giggling and pecking kisses at each other's necks.

After reaching for another lime wedge, Vanessa brought it to her mouth and spun on the bar stool, enjoying the hazy glow settling over her. At first glance, she realized she didn't know anyone in the bar, but then she hadn't really expected to, since she hadn't been in Emilio's in a long time. Mainly she came here whenever she felt the constraints of her job squeezing in on her. Working for Confidential Rejuvenations meant you had to maintain the utmost sense of decorum and discretion. She'd signed a confidentiality agreement to that effect.

Whispers. Secrets. Mysteries. She was tired of subterfuge.

Suddenly, she felt exceedingly lonely and wished she'd called her best friends Julie Demarco and Elle Kingston to come drinking with her. But Elle had a hot new fiancé in Dr. Dante Nash, and Julie was studying to get board certification as a counselor specializing in sexual dysfunction.

In all honesty she'd needed to be alone. Her friends didn't know about her hostile past and she simply couldn't bring herself to tell them. Vanessa couldn't bear to see the disappointment, disbelief and shock in their eyes if they found out the truth.

No. Getting out of the house all by herself was the only way she could exorcise the demon plaguing her. She refused to stay home and cower under the covers simply because she'd gotten the news she'd spent fourteen years dreading. Come what may, she was going to live her life.

Drink. Dance. Forget.

Determinedly she motioned at her empty glass for another shot of tequila, and Julio returned to give her a refill. She swallowed it back with a tight-lipped grimace, this time forgoing the salt and lime.

What she needed to forget wasn't pretty and her method of forgetting shouldn't be pretty, either. It would take something raw and primal and elemental to blot out the past on a day like today.

But the tequila wasn't working.

In spite of the delicious heat searing straight to her brain, she remembered all too well that ugly night a little over fourteen years ago.

The night she'd witnessed a murder.

Vanessa shuddered and shoved away the memory.

Today had begun like any other weekday morning. Up at 4:00 a.m. to get dressed and head over to Confidential Rejuvenations. Grab a breakfast protein bar to eat in the car on the way. Prepare for her surgeries that usually started at six-thirty. The governor's wife's face-lift had gone splendidly, as had the nose job on an up-and-coming young Austin celebutante. Lunch had been an uneventful Cobb salad with low-fat raspberry vinaigrette, rye crisps, a fruit bowl for dessert and a bottle of Evian in the hospital cafeteria. Her follow-up appointments in the clinic had been run-of-the-mill.

And then her cell phone had rung and she'd heard a voice she hadn't heard in years. A voice she'd prayed never to hear again. A voice that had shaken her to the core.

Even now the memory of the phone call had her hand trembling and her heart racing.

It's not finished, a man had said. You owe me fourteen years of my life.

Drink. Dance. Forget.

The mariachi band trooped past her as they returned to the stage from the side door after their smoke break. They smelled of tobacco and marijuana and alcohol. Grinning knowingly at each other, they picked up their instruments and began to play a familiar dance tune with sexually suggestive lyrics.

It was the perfect song for her mood. Fast and hot. Vanessa smiled and licked her lips. Now all she needed was a dance partner.

She scanned the room for possibilities.

A minute later, she spotted him sitting in a darkened corner nursing a beer. Light skin, blond hair. His Nordic ethnicity stood out starkly in a roomful of Latinos. Not to mention that he was jaw-droppingly handsome.

For a brief, startling moment, his eyes drilled into hers.

Delicious bedroom eyes. Brilliant, blue and yet strangely brooding. Sultry, enigmatic eyes that both roused her curiosity and inspired her lust.

She studied him through the smoky haze. He possessed rugged masculine features that would make other men think twice about crossing him and he looked like a person who planned everything. She imagined he laid out the clothes he would wear in the morning the night before, hooking a wooden coat hanger laden with his pressed chinos and starched chambray shirt on the bedroom doorknob. Crisp new boxer shorts and rolled up socks stuffed inside his shoes.

Vanessa tilted her head. No, she decided. He wore briefs. He just seemed the tighty-whities type. Straight and narrow. Traditional. A good boy lurking behind that hard-ass mask.

The pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttered, and Vanessa's fingertips itched to trace the lines of his unyielding chin. To run her fingers through that thick shock of blond hair. To test his lips to see if they were as hard as they looked.

The thought sent her imagination soaring. In spite of her miserable day, Vanessa smiled. She hadn't had sex in months, and he was looking more and more like an ideal candidate to help her forget.

He was different from the other men in the bar. He didn't stare at her the way they did, but he was paying attention. It sounded illogical and maybe she was fooling herself, but he looked like a man she could trust.

Stupid, that thought.

But the expression in his eyes wasn't one of lust so much as concern. As if he somehow knew exactly what she needed and was more than willing to provide it. Scary.

Drink. Dance. Forget.

Then he quickly glanced away, dropping her gaze as if it was a hot lava rock. As if he had something to hide and he was afraid that if she looked too long into his eyes, she would figure out what it was.

Odd, this strange, inexplicable tugging that pulled her toward him.

Intrigued, Vanessa decided this was a man she simply had to know better. He looked like her ticket to oblivion.

And she intended to seduce him.

SHE WAS DEFINITELY the woman he was looking for.

Tanner Doyle didn't even need to consult the photograph he carried in the pocket of his jacket. Her beautiful face wasn't one a man easily forgot. And her slight resemblance to his dead wife made her doubly memorable.

Not to mention that today was the fourth anniversary of Maria's death.

Maria.

Tanner strummed the pad of his thumb along the back of his bare ring finger. God, how he missed her.

Briefly he closed his eyes, tamped down the grief he couldn't seem to shake. Maria wouldn't want him to grieve this hard, this long. She'd want him to let her go, get on with his life. But that was easier said than done.

Especially today.

He swallowed back the remains of the beer he'd ordered from the cocktail waitress after he'd followed the woman into Emilio's. His drink had gone warm in the meantime and tasted darkly bitter. Tanner didn't even like beer, but Maria had been a Dos Equis fan, which was why he'd ordered it.

Don't think about Maria, do your work.

Even though it entailed shadowing a woman who looked like Maria.

She doesn't look that much like Maria, he argued with himself.

Sure, they were both tanned, black-haired beauties with deep brown eyes and wide, generous mouths, but Maria had been petite, just over five feet. This woman was statuesque. At least five-eleven even without those stilettos. With them, they would probably stand eye to eye.

Maria had possessed a small chin, heart-shaped face and button nose. Vanessa Rodriquez had a strong jaw, oval face and regal nose that lent her a queenly air.

He'd seen the drunk at the bar mouth off to her with some smart-assed sexual comment, and Tanner had also noticed how quickly and effectively she'd shut him down with one stern look and a barb from her sharp tongue. Whenever he looked at Vanessa Rodriquez, the word formidable sprang to mind.

She slid off the bar stool as the band struck up a fast-paced dance tune, the hem of her sexy red dress swirling against her firm thighs as she walked. She was heading straight toward him.

When Tanner realized this, he set his beer on the table and straightened in his chair.

Had she figured out he was following her? If so, his employer was going to be pissed that she'd spotted him so easily. What kind of security expert was he?

How had she spotted him so easily?

You're off your game tonight.

She stopped at his table, held his gaze.

Unnerved but determined not to show any weakness, Tanner latched on to her bold stare.

She extended her hand. "Dance with me."

Restraint had him hesitating a fraction of a second. He'd already screwed up by letting her get a bead on him and he didn't want to draw any more attention to himself than he already had and risk blowing his cover. But then again, he didn't want her going on to the next guy—who could very possibly be the person he'd been secretly hired to protect her from. "How do you know I can dance?"

She eyed him up and down. "You look graceful."

"Just what every guy wants to hear."

Her soft laughter sounded like wind rustling through cottonwood leaves.

Actually, he did know how to dance. In college Tanner's football coach had made his players take lessons to improve their balance and agility on the field. It had worked. During his senior year, the University of Texas Longhorns had won the Southwest Conference.

She just stood there, one hand cocked on her shapely hip, her other palm held out for him to accept, a challenging quirk raising one perfectly arched eyebrow, her long, dark eyelashes lowering seductively.

It was his duty to watch over her. What better way to accomplish that than to dance with her?

Tanner took her hand and got to his feet in one fluid movement, pushing his chair back with a bump of his thigh. He shouldn't have noticed the sensuous curve of her breasts beneath the silky fabric of her low-cut dress.

But he did.

And in spite of his best intentions, he couldn't stop his gaze from roving over the lush, golden skin of her cleavage. She smelled as enticing as she looked. A tropical combination of coconut, vanilla and lime.

This attraction seemed surreal. He hadn't felt the slightest interest in a woman in four long years.

Oddly enough, he resented Vanessa for stirring his dormant desires. It didn't feel right; he felt as if he was cheating on Maria.

His desire tasted like wine. Oaken and loamy and lingering and more real than the taste of the beer he'd been drinking. One sip of sin and the daydream started—of long summer nights and sweaty flesh pressed hotly together.

Vanessa walked backward, swishing her hips, leading him out onto the patio-sized dance floor that was empty except for a young couple wrapped in the throes of a passionate embrace. The couple wasn't even bothering to dance. They just rhythmically groped each other in time to the music.

Reluctant to draw her too near to him, Tanner draped one arm around her shoulder instead of her waist as he would have done if they were intimate. He had to do something to moderate his escalating temperature or he'd have no control over his natural masculine response.

But the maneuver didn't work because her dark hair was swinging provocatively at the level of those fabulous breasts as she swayed her hot little fanny to the bouncy beat. She had the moves of a total pro and every gaze in the place was glued to her.

"You don't have to dance so far away, big man," she murmured, her eyes bright and direct.

She wasn't shy about expressing what she wanted. Tanner liked that about her, but he wasn't eager to hold her soft feminine curves against his body. He didn't trust this unexpected surge of testosterone blistering through him.

Didn't trust it and didn't want it.

But the feeling wasn't fleeting.

She wriggled closer, forcing him to drop his hand from her shoulder to the middle of her back. He could feel the outline of her bra and experienced curiosity, longing and annoyance with himself.

"I was right," she said.

"About what?"

"You are a good dancer."

"I'm out of practice," he said.

"So am I."

"You don't come here often?"

She shook her head. "You?"

"First time," he admitted.

"I thought you looked out of your element."

"You, on the other hand, look like you own the place," he said. "But then again, I bet you look like that wherever you go."

"Not hardly," she said.

He could tell by the faint smile playing at the corners of her lips that he'd pleased her. He hadn't been trying to flatter—he'd merely spoken the truth as he saw it—but it delighted him to know she was charmed.

The band morphed into a slower tune. More people drifted onto the dance floor, pushing them closer together.

Their hips touched.

Tanner heard her sudden, sharp intake of breath. The trumpet player wailed a mournful note that slid right down his spine and lodged in the center of his chest. The resonant vibrations throbbed through him, pounding rhythmically with each beat of his heart.

The yeasty flavor of beer lay on his tongue, mixed with the pungency of his desire. It tasted as taboo as this closeness felt. His eyes fixed on Vanessa's raspberry-colored mouth and he found himself wondering what she tasted like. Tequila and lime, for sure, but beyond that he had the unfathomable notion she also tasted of piquant mystery and salty pathos.

A light sheen of perspiration dewed her forehead.

He had a snapshot image of her tangled in his bedsheets, her head cradled on his pillow, hair fanned out like an inky pool as she gazed up at him with the same glistening gleam slicking her brow. He imagined her lips puckered in a playful pout, her long legs drawn up beneath her, the pink of her perky nipples peeping at him above the covers. The vision was startling, unexpected and erotic.

He shook his head, dispelling the picture. It was bad enough he was dancing with her; he wasn't going to give in to sexual fantasies.

But it had been so long since he'd held a woman in his arms. Felt the sweet curve of soft female flesh. Smelled the scent of freshly shampooed feminine hair. Tasted lust this strong on his tongue.

And it was a damned shame because she was out of his reach even if she was nestled in the crook of his arm. He felt like a kid with his nose pressed up against the front window-pane of a locked toy store, yearning for what lay beyond, but unable to get inside.

"What's your name?" Tanner asked, figuring that was what a regular guy would do under the circumstances. But he wasn't a regular guy. He was her bodyguard. Even if she didn't know it. "My name is—"

"Shh." She pressed her index finger against her lips. "No names. Let's not ruin the fantasy. I just want to dance."

Good enough. The more Tanner said, the more likely he was to reveal his reason for being there.

He spun her across the dance floor, carrying her away on the moment, the music. They moved as one unit. Gliding and swaying. Sliding and twirling.

This whole thing was strange, surreal, seductive.

Tanner understood that he was making a big mistake, that by just dancing with her something inside of him was changing, but he couldn't think of a graceful way to bow out. Didn't know how to stop.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and his heart jumped.

He made a strangled noise, half groan, half sigh.

She tilted her chin, angling her head to give him a sideways glance. The movement, languid and curious, was identical to the way Maria used to look at him when she was in a romantic mood.

Tanner's gut twisted and he suppressed a panicky urge to turn and flee.

A strand of midnight-black hair fell across her face and she tucked it behind her ear, studded with a ruby earring that matched the color of her dress. She smelled like sophistication from the way she held herself to her perfectly manicured nails to her cologne that smelled of forbidden secrets and starlit tropical nights.

The deal was he knew she was a fake. Knew the sophistication was all an act, something she'd developed rather than been born with. He admired her ability to pull it off with such smooth cool.

The song the band was playing was so slow in tempo that he and Vanessa were barely moving. He tightened his hand around her waist, breathed in the scent of her. All he could hear was the sound of his blood rushing pell-mell through his ears.

He peered into her eyes and caught a glimpse of it. The raw fear. The utter vulnerability. The real reason she was here.

In that instant the sophistication was completely gone. It didn't matter than she had a Mensa IQ or that she had learned to navigate the world of the rich and powerful successfully. She was still that scared kid who'd been forever marked by a very rocky early life.

That naked, vulnerable expression told him she was trying to blot out the awful news she must have gotten today. The same news that had spurred Tanner's employer to hire him, the news that must have rattled her secure little world.

Carlo Vega, the man who'd vowed to get even with Vanessa Rodriquez for testifying against him fourteen years earlier, had been paroled from prison.

The woman was hurting.

And was using Tanner to blunt her pain.

He understood. His protective instincts kicked into over-drive. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right. That she wasn't alone. That he was here now and no one would ever hurt her again.

But, of course, he couldn't say that. The man who had hired Tanner had been adamant. Vanessa could not know she was being guarded.

He gazed at her, trying to tell her with his eyes what he could not say with his mouth. I'm here for you. I'll keep you safe.

What she read in his face must have scared her even more than Carlo Vega's release. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open and for one brief second she looked absolutely terrified.

Then just as quickly as she had let it fall down, she zipped her guard back up, locking herself inside her tower, hiding her emotions beneath those dark eyelashes. He wondered what it would take to scale that fortress.

"I'm thirsty," she said matter-of-factly, pulling out of his arms and stepping away from him so quickly she almost collided with another couple. He took her elbow and guided her off the dance floor, but the way her muscles tensed beneath his fingers, he could tell she didn't appreciate his proprietary touch.

"What would you like to drink?" he asked, dropping his hand.

Her gaze darted toward the bar. "I have a drink."

"I'll get it for you."

"No, no," she said. "I can get it myself."

Tanner's eyes met hers again. "Am I being dismissed? Did I do something wrong?"

"Nothing. It was a nice dance. Thank you." She smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes.

"I am being dismissed."

She laughed a sound of nervousness, not humor. "I'm just tired of dancing."

"Is there something else you'd like to do instead?" He didn't mean to sound suggestive, but he heard the innuendo in his voice and instantly cringed. "I mean," he hurried to amend, "like play pool? Or shuffleboard? Darts, maybe?"

"I think it's time I called it a night," she said, walking away from him, heading toward the bar.

"Do you think that's wise?" he asked.

Vanessa halted, looked back over her shoulder at him. "I don't know what you mean."

"You've had two shots of tequila in under two hours."

Suspicion descended over her face like a heavy curtain. "You were watching me?"

"The entire bar was watching you," he said. It was true enough. "You shouldn't be driving. Maybe we could go to the hotel down the street, next block over, and grab a late dinner in their restaurant. They stay open until eleven on weekends."

"I don't drink and drive," she said. "I took a taxi. When I plan to drink, I think ahead."

He knew that. He'd followed her here from her condo, but he couldn't show that he knew it.

"But," she said, "I am hungry." Then she raked a glance over him like a very naughty girl and licked her lips. "So I accept your offer of dinner."

Whoa, Tanner thought as he stared into her dark, enigmatic eyes.

How had he ended up here? Nothing about this evening had gone according to plan. He was getting in over his head and he realized too late that he'd forgotten how to swim.

## 2

"I'M IN THE MOOD FOR STEAK," Vanessa told her dinner companion as they sat in the hotel dining room. At this late hour there was only a handful of other diners in the place. "I don't normally eat red meat, but tonight I'm feeling—"

"Like you need to bolster your courage?" he finished.

That wasn't what she was going to say at all, but it was the truth. Taken aback, Vanessa stared at him.

The man's unsettling blue eyes held her own over the flickering candles in the middle of the white linen tablecloth. She had an urge to put up her dukes in a boxing stance.

"Why did you say that?" she asked.

"Going to a nightclub you don't often frequent, dancing with a stranger, then joining him for dinner. Now ordering steak. Do you want to talk about it?"

Irritation sideswiped her like transfer paint in a fender bender. Vanessa swallowed, arranged her face into a smile. Was she that transparent or was he that perceptive? "I changed my mind. I do want to know your name. But only your first name."

"Why's that?"

"Last names complicate things."

"Tanner," he said. "How 'bout you?"

She extended her hand across the table. "Vanessa."

He shook her hand. His palm was warm in hers, calloused. These were not the pampered hands of a surgeon, the type of men she usually dated. These hands knew manual labor.

The waitress appeared at their table with two glasses of water.

"Two tenderloin steaks." Tanner looked at Vanessa, "Medium?"

"Medium rare," she supplied to be perverse. She did prefer her steaks cooked medium, but she didn't like him guessing that about her.

"Two coffees, steaks medium rare and the sautéed vegetables," he told the waitress and handed her their menus.

She frowned, not knowing why she was feeling so argumentative and yet so interested.

"Why are you trying so hard to look so tough?" he asked.

"Who says I'm not tough?" She hardened her jaw, sat up straighter in the seat and gave him her best barrio-girl expression.

"That cross-me-and-you-die look in your eyes."

"You don't think I'm serious?"

He shook his head. "Oh, you're tough on the outside, but inside—" he thumped his right fist over his heart "—you feel deep."

A sense of vulnerability wrapped her in a sweaty hug. She made a derisive noise even though she would like very much to feel him inside her. "Is this your best pickup line?"

The notion was unexpected but intriguing. One night in bed with this tall drink of water might just be the antidote she needed to quell thoughts of Carlo Vega. She found Tanner far more appealing than she should. Everything about him was sexy, even the proprietary way he'd ordered for her.

"You picked me up, remember?"

She had indeed. "And now you think you know everything about me."

"Not everything." He took a sip of water. "But I'd like to know more."

Yeah, she'd like to know more about him, too. But why? She wasn't in the market for a serious relationship, or any relationship for that matter. She still had a year to go on her residency and it required all her dedication and concentration. But one glorious night with the studly Viking here? Oh, yeah.

The waitress, clad in a simple uniform of black slacks and a white silk blouse, brought their order, rescuing Vanessa from having to answer the question in his piercing blue eyes. She couldn't help wondering what he would think if he knew the truth about her. Where she was from. The things she'd done to survive and make her way in the world. And that nothing mattered more to her than her career.

"Did you used to be a Boy Scout?" she asked to derail him.

He stopped buttering his roll and looked at her. "What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "You just look like a Boy Scout. Blond. Clean-cut. Perfect posture."

"Yes," he said. "I was a Boy Scout. Even earned a good conduct medal." His grin was self-deprecating. "Were you ever a Girl Scout?"

In the barrio?

"So what do you do for fun?" he asked, cutting into his steak. "When you're not dancing at Emilio's?"

"I don't have much free time. The closest I come to a hobby is my daily jog." Vanessa cut into her own steak. "And once in a rare while I get to indulge my passion for old movies."

"Ah," he said. "A workaholic."

She eyed his biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt. She wished she had X-ray vision so she could see the delineation of each strata of those muscles. "I can see you're not a slacker in the exercise department. What do you do to keep your guns in shape?"

He smiled and flexed his upper arms. The man had every reason in the world to be proud of his spectacular physique. "Power lifting. But for fun, I kayak the Colorado. You ever been?"

"No," she admitted. Not much opportunity for kayaking where she came from. "But it sounds like fun."

"Maybe I'll take you sometime."

Hope coiled tight inside her. Sometime. Ha! There'd be no other time with him. Now was all she could afford and even this was risky. She ducked her head, busied herself with spearing a bit of juicy tenderloin. "So you're a Texan?"

"Born and raised," he said.

"Where's your hometown?"

"Right here in Austin. You?"

"El Paso."

"What brought you to Austin? Boyfriend? Husband?"

"Is this your way of asking if I'm attached?"

His eyes darkened. "Hey, no guy likes ugly surprises when he's out with a pretty woman."

The comment made her smile. "I'm single," she said. "Never married."

"I'm single, as well." Tanner nodded, but he had a strange look on his face, almost as if he were lying. "So you're in Austin because..."

Here he was asking the question she dreaded most. Vanessa gave him the pat answer that was only partly the truth. "Med school."

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she could have bitten off her tongue. She hadn't wanted him to know she was a doctor. A lot of guys got weird when they found out what she did for a living. Many of them felt challenged by a smart, successful woman.

"You're a doctor?" He sounded impressed.

"Resident."

"I see why you don't have much time for fun."

"Work does take up most of my time."

"So what is your favorite classic movie, when you have time to indulge your passion?" he asked.

"Dark Victory," she said without hesitation.

"You go for the tearjerkers."

"Tearjerkers are more like real life."

"Which is exactly why some people like to escape into comedies."

"Let me guess, you're a Three Stooges fan," she said. "Or maybe the Marx Brothers?"

"Actually, "he admitted, "when it comes to classic movies, it's John Wayne all the way."

"I should have guessed." She smiled. "What's your fav? Rio Bravo?"

"McLintock!"

"Seriously?"

"I'm a sucker for romance. Plus Maureen O'Hara was pretty easy on the eyes. I have a thing for feisty women." He winked.

Suddenly she had a hard time catching her breath.

The conversation lagged and Vanessa didn't try to stir it. Strangely enough, the silence between them didn't feel awkward at all. It felt nice. Natural.

They finished their meal and lingered over a cup of coffee.

"What's your specialty?" Tanner asked.

"Specialty?" She was so busy staring at his impressively broad shoulders, his question caught her off guard and for a minute there she thought he was asking her a very personal question.

"Pediatrics, internal medicine, heart surgeon?"

"Cosmetic and reconstructive surgery."

"Really?" His tone sounded almost accusatory.

She bristled. "Something wrong with plastic surgery?"

"Settle down," he said. "The question wasn't a shot against your chosen career. You just seem like you'd be a pediatrician."

"Why? Because I'm a woman? You just assume I'd be good with kids?" She knew she sounded defensive. She didn't even know why she was reacting this way.

Tanner held up his palms. "I surrender. I can see I'm snugged up behind the eight ball on this one."

He looked so contrite, Vanessa laughed. "Well, thanks for having dinner with me, Tanner," she said, opening her wallet to pull out enough cash to cover the cost of her meal.

His hand closed over hers. "Dinner is on me."

"No," she said and lifted her chin proudly. "I always pay my own way."

He didn't argue, just let go of her hand. Vanessa suddenly realized she was breathless. "All right," he said. "If you insist. But then at least let me give you a ride home."

"I'll catch a cab."

"Beholden to no one," he said lightly.

"That's right."

He studied her for a long moment. "Doesn't it ever get exhausting?"

"What?"

"Never letting anyone help you. Always going it alone."

"I've been beholden to people before," she said. "There are always strings attached. I prefer life without any ties that bind."

"So you don't have any family."

"No."

"Don't you ever get lonely?

Yes.

The man was too perceptive. It unnerved her that he could assess her so easily, how much he seemed to understand.

Vanessa swung her purse strap up on her shoulder and pushed back her chair. "Nice dance, nice meal, have a nice life, Tanner."

She got to her feet, her movements tense and jerky. She felt so many conflicting things at once—nervousness, disappointment, sexual frustration—and he was the cause of it all.

Not really. Carlo Vega has a lot to do with you ending up here.

"What's your hurry, Vanessa?"

She wished she'd given him a fake name. The sound of her name on his tongue, spoken in that deep, arresting voice, did funny things to her insides. "It's late," she said. "I gotta go."

Without a backward glance, she hurried from the hotel restaurant, pushing through the revolving glass door and ending up on the vacant street.

The wind had kicked up while they'd been inside, tossing litter and leaves along the sidewalk. Lightning lit the sky in the distance. Thunder rumbled. An unseasonable rainstorm on the way.

Goose bumps raised on her arms. Who would have thought she'd need long sleeves in August in Austin?

She walked to the front of the hotel entrance, but there were no cabs at the cab stand. She stood underneath the streetlamp, glancing up and down the block. No taxi in sight, but surely one would be along in a minute. No sign of the valet, either. She paced to the end of the block, feeling like a target in her red dress and high heels. Maybe she should wait in the hotel lobby.

And risk running into Tanner again? No thank you. She had the feeling if she saw him again she'd throw all caution to the wind and ask him to take her home with him.

Where was a taxi?

"Come on, come on," she muttered and glanced at her watch. She remembered other late nights, other lonely streets and her gut squeezed.

Footsteps sounded behind her and her heart froze. She fumbled for the mace in her purse and found it.

With the mace in her palm, finger on the nozzle, she whirled around, growling, "Back off!"

Tanner raised both arms. "Don't shoot."

"Oh," she said and let out a breath. "It's you."

"Storm got you spooked?"

"A little," she said, dropping the mace back inside her handbag. She hated to admit it, but she was relieved to see him. "What are you doing here?"

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you stand out here alone? Are you sure I can't give you a lift home?"

In the time it took her to draw in a deep breath, she considered his offer, but she was intensely private and didn't like strangers knowing where she lived.

No, but you'll dance with a stranger and have dinner with him.

That wasn't normally true, which was what was so unsettling about this man. He made her want to do lots of things she normally wouldn't do.

Lightning flashed again, moving closer, rapidly followed by more grumbling thunder. Fat raindrops spattered the cement around them.

"Let's go back in out of the rain," he said, and inclined his head toward the hotel.

The combination of his hard body, his delicious masculine smell and the quickening raindrops were too compelling to deny. She nodded. They pushed through the double doors together and ended up inside.

Vanessa couldn't deny she was attracted to the man. She loved that he was taller than she. At five eleven, it was often a challenge to find a man whose height surpassed her own. Even with the two-inch stilettos she wore, he was still taller. He made her feel petite, which was an alien feeling. She wanted him and that was damned dangerous considering how emotionally vulnerable she was right now.

He said nothing. Just stood waiting beside her. A powerful, comforting presence. He felt like a bodyguard. Strong, silent, but muscles coiled, ready for action. They stared out the window, watching the rain coming down. She was so aware of him, her skin prickled.

"Really," she said. "You don't have to wait with me."

"I don't mind."

The earnestness in his eyes unnerved her. Why did he have to be so nice? She wasn't accustomed to the men she met in bars being so chivalrous. Neither was she accustomed to the rampant fantasies circling in her head. She kept imagining him hot and hard and naked.

Oh, God, it had been far too long since she'd gotten laid. She was a hormonal disaster. All it would take was one kiss from those rugged lips of his and she'd melt like candle wax. And judging from the look he was giving her, he knew it.

"You want to go back to Emilio's?" she found herself asking. "I could use another drink."

"A drink isn't what you need," he said.

She dared to look him in the face. There was no mistaking the glimmer in his eyes. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

The air around them snapped with sexual energy. His gaze hung on her mouth and he angled his head lower.

Was he going to kiss her? Right here in the lobby with the desk clerks watching them from the registration counter?

She could see the invitation in his eyes, but he wasn't crossing any boundaries. She flicked a tongue out to lick her lips, egging him toward that kiss.

"There's a taxi." He nodded toward the street.

"Is there?"

"Which is a damned good thing, but I was just about to ask you to stay."

"Were you?"

Vanessa knew a crossroad when she saw one. Take the well-traveled fork and you knew you could stay safe. Take the fork that disappeared into the undergrowth, and while there might be adventure, you were also taking a big gamble.

It was stupid. She knew it as she was doing it, but all she could think of at the moment was how his eyes promised the pleasure of great sex. Sex that would help her forget all about the lousy day she'd had.

She wrapped a hand around his forearm. "So ask."

He blew out his breath and pulled from her grasp, but he took hold of her chin and tipped her face up to his.

Outside the thunder boomed.

Vanessa's heart galloped.

Tanner brushed his lips over hers. Not so much a kiss as the inherent promise of one.

All the air left her body.

Then he dipped his head lower and lightly pressed his mouth to the pulse beating in her throat. Heat shot through her body, pooling low in her abdomen. The first pinch of pure passion fisted inside her.

"Tanner." Her voice came out in a choked whisper.

His lips were back on hers in a feather-soft kiss, and Vanessa simply had to have more. Against all common sense, she curved her body against his and opened her mouth. He inhaled sharply and slipped his tongue between her teeth. She came undone.

Languid heat curled through her body. Was it so wrong to sate the yearning sexual needs she'd been holding at bay for such a long time? Would it be so terrible to have a one-night stand with this man? They were both mature, consenting adults. They were both unattached and attracted to each other. What could possibly be the harm in letting nature take its course?

He deepened the kiss, breaking the last tenuous thread of restraint she'd managed to hang on to until this moment. Why not? As long as she kept her heart out of the fray, as long as she accepted this for what it was—a one-night fling—everything would be all right.

No expectations, no regrets, just mutual pleasure giving and receiving. She was a physician. Vanessa was aware of how important a healthy sex life was to mind, body and spirit.

He pulled back and looked into her eyes. The question was there. He was waiting for her to answer it.

"Tanner." She breathed. "Get us a room."

He studied her face, his hand on her shoulder. "I don't want you to do anything you'll regret. Are you certain this is what you want?"

She didn't know where the word came from, but it was completely heartfelt. "Absolutely."

FUMBLING, TANNER TRIED to slip the electronic key through the card reader while still kissing Vanessa. After three attempts and a couple of well-timed curse words, he got the door open and they tumbled inside.

Vanessa giggled. Funny, she didn't seem like a giggler. It was probably the tequila.

The door slammed closed behind them.

Her mouth was on his and her arms were around his neck and they were sort of dancing around the room. They fell onto the bed. Tanner was on his back. Vanessa straddled him.

She tugged his shirt from his pants and plowed her hands underneath the hem to plane her palms over his belly. Then she lowered her head and planted hot kisses around his navel.

His body burst into flames. His blood burned and his cock throbbed. He hadn't been with a woman in four years. Not since Maria. He told himself that's why he was so hard, so blindsided by lust. He couldn't even think straight. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. He was her secret bodyguard and he was about to screw the woman he'd been hired to protect.

He was breaking the number one rule of the bodyguard's code: Don't get sexually involved with your protectee.

But the sweet, intoxicating smell of her warm body and the taste of her hot lips and the feel of her soft flesh made him forget his job. At the moment he was all male, awash in testosterone and desperate to have this woman.

She traced her thumbs over his nipples and Tanner groaned aloud. He grabbed her hips and pressed her flush against his pelvis, letting her see exactly what she was doing to him.

The bedsprings creaked beneath their weight. He didn't care how noisy it got. He had to have her or go mad.

He flipped her over, pinning her to the pillow-top mattress, and speared his fingers through her mass of lush black hair, holding her in place while he ravaged her mouth with kisses.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, simultaneously opening her mouth and letting in his tongue. She tasted incredible. Rich and robust and sexy.

"I want you, Tanner. I want to feel you, all of you," she murmured against his mouth.

"We've got all night. Let's take our time," he said, as much to convince himself as well as her. What he wanted was to hike up the hem of her skirt, strip off her panties and plunge right into her.

Not since Maria had a woman made him so hard. Who was he kidding? Until Vanessa, he hadn't even thought of another woman. This felt strange but good. Healthy to be able to feel something again.

It's neither good nor healthy. You've been hired to protect her. You've got to stop this.

It was a rational thought, but the ability for any rational action was lost when she angled her head up to take his earlobe between her teeth and nibbled.

Outside the storm raged. Rain pelted hard against the third-story window. The scarlet-neon hotel sign threw a red glow into the room. Vanessa's smile was wickedly naughty as she dropped her head back to the mattress and looked up at him, her lips glistening.

She splayed a palm against the flat of his chest and pushed him away.

"What is it?" he rasped huskily. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Sit," Vanessa commanded, getting to her feet and patting the mattress with her hand.

Tanner obeyed.

She stepped away from him and in that soft red glowing light slanting through the window, she slowly begin to disrobe, sliding down the zipper of her dress, easing the capped sleeves over her shoulders, exposing inch after tantalizing inch of light caramel skin.

He gulped. What a show.

Finally, the silky dress floated down her body to pool at her feet. She stepped out of the garment, but Tanner didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the hot vision of her in a black lace bra molded to her high, sumptuous breasts.

His hands tingled with the need to touch her, to fill his palms with the weight of her bosom. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin, taste her rich womanly flavor. He wanted her in the most elemental way. At least for tonight, for this moment. She was the antidote to his malaise.

Tanner's attention fully captured, his gaze tracked from her chest to the smooth curve of her belly to her black satin thong panties, clinging so provocatively to her sweet, luscious ass.

Then slowly she raised one leg and cocked her stilettoed foot on his thigh, the thin heel digging lightly into him. "Undo me."

His fingers felt big as sausages as he fumbled with the delicate buckle at her slender ankle.

Her breathing was shallow and quick.

The buckle was stubborn.

Not looking so smooth, slick.

In irritation, Tanner slipped the strap under her heel and just peeled the shoe off her foot, leaving the buckle still fastened. He tossed the shoe over his shoulder. It landed with a plop on the other side of the room.

"Give me," he said, indicating her other foot.

She complied, putting her bare foot on the floor and extending her other leg across his outstretched palm. Touching the sensuous curve of her calf proved more than Tanner could handle—he had to have her now. He dispensed with the second shoe, then wrapped his hand around that delicious calf and lay back against the headboard, pulling her with him.

Vanessa made a soft noise of half surprise, half pleasure. She was atop him again and his arms went around her waist. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and her head was cocked back.

She was ogling him as if he was something interesting she'd found in a novelty store. Her look was both unsettling and provocative.

His fingers went for the clasp of her bra.

She reached back and closed a hand over his fingers. "Not so fast, Tex. It's your turn to remove an article of clothing."

He didn't need any more encouragement than that.

Tanner pulled his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it, and toed off his shoes. Her fingers were plucking at the waistband of his pants, working the snap and zipper almost simultaneously.

She shucked the pants down his legs, Tanner lifting his hips to help. His slacks quickly joined her dress on the floor. He and Vanessa were left in their underwear staring into each other's eyes.

Sharp appreciation increased Vanessa's awareness as she drank in Tanner's muscular body. The man was a work of art.

A flash of lightning flooded the room in split-second illumination, emphasizing the intensity of what was happening between them. A myriad of sensations pelted her. The sound of his ragged breathing. The heat of his flesh. The scrape of his beard stubble as he claimed her mouth in another kiss.

Passion surged high within her, increasing the sexual drive that had been building since their dance at Emilio's.

He tasted robust and piquant, like the roasted coffee they had shared at dinner. She was thirsty for more.

Their tongues played, gliding in and around and over each other. The tender slide of his palms underneath her breasts as he made her bra disappear became a hungry hunt to increase her pleasure.

The burning urge to stroke him, to travel the tempting terrain of his body compelled her.

She ran her fingertips over his belly, exalting in the way his taut stomach muscles quivered at her touch. His low groan lit her up inside. She tracked her hand lower, finding her way through the coarse curls to glide her palm up the long, hard length of him.

Excitement stirred her blood. A murmured whisper of delight slipped past her lips at the sexy feel of him pulsating in her hand.

Her body clenched, anxious to have him inside her, filling her up, making her whole, but she didn't want to rush things. She wanted to savor this moment, savor him. It took every ounce of will she possessed, but Vanessa forced herself to hold back. She knew he was worth the wait.

He eased her hand from his shaft and pulled his mouth from hers. "You keep doing that and I won't last two minutes."

Tanner kissed his way down her neck to her swollen and achy breasts. His mouth settled over one straining nipple, sending a coil of heat firing like an inferno into her blood.

Her body grew heavier, more languorous until it seemed to liquefy into his. He forsook her nipples and returned to making idle circles around her breasts, until once more he was back, pulling and plucking the straining peaks.

She writhed against him.

He circled back.

This time she moaned through clenched teeth when he reached her nipples at last and rolled them between his rough fingers.

Her breath came out in low gasps and her entire body felt aroused. Nibbling her ear, he lifted her up onto his thigh.

His lips tugged on her earlobe. She delighted in the sensation as he began to suckle on her flesh and the ruby stud nestled there. She shuddered at the wetness of his tongue, the heat of his mouth.

He spread his legs and, in the process, pried hers apart with his knee. His hand slid down her breast and across her inner thigh. His other hand gently massaged her buttocks.

Her breathing quickened and her heart thumped.

Flashes of pleasure bombarding her, Vanessa let out a muted purr of confirmation, telling him he was on the right path as he blazed a trail down her torso with his wicked tongue. She felt his hand at the waistband of her panties, his fingertips taunting her by slipping underneath the silky elastic.

"I'm going to love you with my mouth," he promised, not asking her permission, simply telling her what he was going to do.

His comment shot her arousal to a fevered pitch. His heated breath against her bare belly was driving her insane. His fingertips shifted through her moist curls, headed for the area she most wanted him to touch.

In response, she arched her back.

Come on, come on.

If she didn't feel the warmth of his hot, wet tongue against her soon, she was going to lose her mind.

Tanner slipped her panties over her hips, slid them down her thighs, past her knees. She kicked them off.

"You smell so sweet." He inhaled and then placed a smattering of kisses down the area below her navel.

She felt every quiver of her body, every ragged breath.

With excruciating slowness, Tanner moved his hand to cover the triangle of hair between her legs.

Vanessa moaned her pleasure as his hand cupped her gently.

She allowed her legs to drop open, giving him full access to her body. He lay on his belly between her knees and lightly brushed his lips over her feminine folds.

He hissed in air. "You are so wet."

Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of wonder in his voice. Desire for him seared her nerve endings as she surrendered to him completely.

It wasn't easy for her. Vanessa wasn't used to exposing herself like this, neither out of bed nor in it. Ever since she'd escaped Carlo Vega, she'd been in control of her own life. But now passion was forcing her to relinquish the reins to Tanner's tender tongue. She wasn't sure she liked it.

The air was thick, weighted with tension. The sheets smelled slightly scorched, as if they'd spent too many minutes in a commercial drier. Her breath crawled sluggishly through her lungs, filling her with lazy heat. Her limbs were made of marble, heavy and smooth.

Then everything vanished from her mind except the erotic moisture of his lips against her throbbing sex. And when his mouth formed a gentle suction over her clit, she came completely unraveled.

Gently he inserted one thick finger inside her tender folds. She lost all sense of herself, all sense of time. The world tumbled, creating an easy glide into ecstasy.

The pressure mounting inside her womb was sublime torment. At that point, nothing else mattered to her except Tanner making love to her with his mouth and his fingers.

He teased her clit, nipping lightly with his teeth.

All the air left her body and she felt reborn. Her pulse pounded like drums in her ears, rushing blood through her veins, pushing her toward an inevitable conclusion.

Tanner was desperately fighting off completion, but it was almost impossible. She knew the soft sounds of her sexy cries, and the way she threaded her fingers through his hair were getting to him.

She wanted him to be inside her. He had to get inside her now. "Please," she whispered. "Please take me."

"Not yet."

Cruel, sweet torment. He kept at her. Licking and teasing until she was shaking from head to toe and oh, so wet.

He paused long enough to retrieve a condom from his wallet and slip it on and with the intermission she felt oddly bereft. He spent a few moments working her up again and then finally, finally he slowly entered her.

Vanessa whimpered gratefully.

Her body enveloped him. She provided him with her heavenly, moist cocoon. She met each of his thrusts with corresponding movement of her hips, arching her back up to meet him. Urging him to quicken his pace.

Instinct took over. She could no longer think, could only feel. Her focus was attuned to one thing and one thing only—the merging of their bodies. His energy swirled up through her until her whole universe spun dizzily. His stark reaction was such a powerful thing to behold. Vanessa felt both awed and blown away by his responsiveness.

His hands trembled as he held her. He thrust into her again and again. Her entire being seemed to pull him deeper and deeper into her until she simply could not differentiate where his body stopped and hers began.

He cried out one last time and shoved himself as deep as he would go into her warmth. The walls of her sucked at him, gripping, kneading, pulling him into the very core of her.

Then Tanner's body shuddered as he poured into her.

They clung to each other, helpless, as wave after wave of the orgasm rippled through them. Binding them together in one blazing, crazy light before expelling them into the infinite beyond.

Gasping, Tanner rolled over, sinking onto his back and taking her with him.

He held her close as her chest heaved. He held her and they listened to the rain and Vanessa thought, What in the hell have I done?

## 3

AS DAWN CREPT IN through the window, Vanessa crept out of bed.

She pulled her dress down over her head and poked her arms through the sleeves, then realized she'd forgotten her bra.

Where was her bra?

Frantically her gaze fell on the bed where the blond Viking she'd picked up at Emilio's lay on his belly, a pillow thrown over his head. What had seemed like a splendid idea in the heat of last night's passion was looking more and more like a very big mistake by the cold gray light of morning. Not that she hadn't enjoyed herself. They'd spent hours exploring each other's bodies, giving and receiving pleasure after pleasure.

Her cheeks warmed just thinking about it.

It had been great actually. Maybe even the best sex she'd ever had. And he'd stirred something deep inside her. Something she couldn't identify because it wasn't like anything she'd ever felt before.

That was most unnerving of all.

Please let me get out of here without him waking up, she pleaded to the heavens. Dropping to the floor, she raised the bed skirt and searched underneath.

No bra.

It was probably in the bed with him.

She did find her panties on the floor and wriggled into them as quietly as she could. A quick trip to the other side of the room retrieved her high heels. She wondered how she had come to be the kind of woman who picked up men in bars for one-night stands. Wondered how she was supposed to handle this casual new way of being. She didn't know if it was freedom or rock bottom.

Forget the bra. Get out of here. And go jiggling out of the hotel, dressed in last night's now very rumpled dress? It would be a true walk of shame.

Embarrassing as that might be, she simply had to get away from the smell of their lovemaking and that weird sensation knotting her stomach.

She plunked down in the chair parked at the desk long enough to slip on her stilettos. Bra be damned, she was almost out of here. Once her shoes were on, she stood up, only to be confronted by the sight of the gorgeous Viking sitting up in bed stark naked.

His hair was sexily tousled and his eyes were half-closed, but he was awake and eyeing her as if she was his favorite dish of ice cream. She could almost feel his gaze reach across the room and stroke her.

Gulp.

"Running out on me?"

Inwardly she groaned and dipped her head, unable to look at him. She reached for her purse that had somehow ended up slung across the back of the desk chair. "Hmm, no, not at all," she lied. "I've got a really busy day planned."

A grin curled the corner of his mouth upward. "Uh-huh, sure you do."

"I do. I have to get the oil changed in my car, swing by the ATM and take some movies back to Blockbuster." That was the truth.

"Yeah, your day sounds jam-packed."

"It is." She could hear the defensiveness in her own voice. "Well, see ya." She headed for the door.

"Wait."

She stifled a sigh and turned around. "Yes?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Huh?"

He held up her bra, the thin strap of black material dangling from the tip of his big finger.

Vanessa went for it.

He pulled his hand back, holding the bra out of her reach.

She lunged and lost her balance on the stilettos and ended up tumbling headlong onto the bed.

Vanessa glanced up.

Tanner was looking down.

What she saw in his eyes stunned her. It was a mixture of longing, regret and sadness so deep she could feel it straight to her soul.

But in an instant, the look disappeared, replaced by stark sexual hunger and she almost believed she'd imagined it.

Almost.

The physician part of her brain told her that this man had been using her to salve some secret pain of his own, just as she'd been using him to forget about Carlo Vega. No need reading something more into this than there was.

But the urge to grab him and go at it again was so overwhelming she knew she had to get out of here. Stat.

Anxious to escape, Vanessa scrambled to her feet. But she wasn't quick enough.

Tanner reached out a hand, encircling her wrist with his strong fingers. "I'd like to see you again."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Impossible?" His touch burned her skin, sent heat flaring up her arm.

Vanessa sucked in her breath. She might be a lot of things but she was no coward. She'd been cornered. She'd tell him the truth.

"Look, Tanner..." she began and tried to tug away from him, but he wasn't letting go. The man was like a snapping turtle and she found herself wishing for thunder.

"I'm listening."

"Last night was great. A lot of fun. We met each other's needs, and I thank you for being there. It's just that—"

"I'm not good enough to be seen with you in the light of day."

"No, no." She shook her head. "That's not how it is."

"How is it?"

He had a way of looking at her that made her feel both guilty and empowered. It was an odd sensation.

She cleared her throat. "Look, I don't normally do things like this. Picking up strangers in a bar."

"And you think I do?" He wasn't letting go.

"You don't?"

He shook his head. "First time."

His gaze never left her face. He looked so earnest, she believed him. "Okay, here's the deal. I don't have room in my life for a relationship."

"You could make room."

"Not much."

"We could take off one afternoon and go kayaking. Or you could call me on those nights when you're watching movies all alone. I could bring the popcorn."

It was so tempting. Too damned tempting. Panic fluttered, turning in her chest. "I don't like popcorn."

"Sure you do. Everyone likes popcorn. We can even rent Dark Victory."

"Look, I'd just rather not, okay?"

Abruptly, he let go of her wrist. Vanessa, who'd been pulling against his grip, stumbled backward at the sudden release. She breathed a sigh of relief, even though her skin still tingled from his touch. "Thank you for letting go."

"Have a nice life," he said.

"You're mad."

"No," he said. "I'm disappointed."

"Disappointed?"

"I thought—" He paused. "Never mind what I thought."

He'd thought they had a special connection? It would have been laughable except for the small knot in her stomach that whispered, I thought we had a special connection, too.

Vanessa had to get out of here before she crawled right back up into bed beside him.

"Take care of yourself, Tanner," she said, grabbed up her purse and ran out the door.

And you claim not to be a coward.

"SO WHERE WERE YOU last night?"

It was an innocent enough question. Vanessa was supposed to have called Elle last night to make plans for Julie's birthday, but she'd forgotten. To Vanessa's ears, Elle's question sounded like an accusation. She shrugged, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to admit where she'd been. "I got caught up in something."

"A man's arms perhaps?" Julie Demarco asked with a teasing gleam in her lively blue eyes.

"You're such a die-hard romantic," Vanessa said, effectively dodging her comment.

All three friends worked at Confidential Rejuvenations. The cloistered hospital had been built fifteen years earlier on the banks of the Colorado River. It was owned by a group of private physicians with high social standing and powerful connections in Hollywood, the Austin music industry and Texas politics. It was the place where anyone who was anyone came to receive the very best in specialized medicine and cutting-edge health care.

While their jobs held a degree of glamorous cachet, they were also stressful. To deal with the demands of their professions and the secrets the job forced them to keep, Vanessa, Julie and Elle had formed an after-hours club where they could get together and vent. Sharing their hopes, dreams and fantasies with one another. Today, they were meeting for lunch at a cozy tearoom that also served as an antique store in a genteel area of Austin. Vanessa appreciated her two best friends, but sometimes—like now—she wished that they weren't so perceptive.

"How are things in the E.R.?" Vanessa asked, hoping to throw Elle off the scent. "Has it calmed down any after what happened with Mark?"

A few months earlier, Elle's ex-husband Mark Lawson, who had also been one of the co-owners of Confidential Rejuvenations, had been murdered by the gangster he'd been doing business with, selling designer party drugs on the black market. Elle and Dante, an undercover FBI agent who'd been investigating Mark, had barely escaped with their lives.

Elle scowled at the memory. "Things were improving. We'd stopped seeing kids come into the E.R. with overdoses, and we thought all the petty vandalism was over, but last night someone sliced all the tires on the cars in the employee parking lot."

"Oh, gosh," Julie said. "The hospital saboteur strikes again?"

Elle blew out her breath. "Apparently."

Besides the issues with Mark, over the past few months several odd incidents had occurred at the hospital. From anonymous leaks to the press about celebrity patients to an arson fire in the laundry room to items stolen from the kitchen and central supply. Taken one by one, the occurrences were nothing more than criminal mischief, but put together they seemed suspicious, especially with all the security cameras in the hospital. It seemed odd that the perpetrator hadn't been caught on the monitor.

"Dante told me the hospital board hired a new head of security," Elle said. "Let's hope this puts an end to this mess. Confidential Rejuvenations had taken a big financial hit from the fallout over what Mark did. The last thing the hospital needs is more scandal."

Vanessa nodded. She knew all too well how scandal could ruin lives.

"Anyway," Julie said. "Back to Nessa's boyfriend."

"There is no boyfriend," Vanessa corrected.

Elle eyed Vanessa speculatively, running a hand over the beige linen table cloth. "I don't know, you look different somehow."

"Must be the lighting in here," Vanessa said, embarrassed to think she had that freshly and well-laid look about her. She picked up her menu. "I'm having the curried chicken salad. How about you guys?"

Elle leaned in closer and narrowed her eyes. "No, it's not the lighting. Your skin is glowing and you keep glancing off into the distance and smiling as if you have a sweet secret. And when you walked in, your step seemed peppier than usual. You've had great sex."

A waitress brought over a communal bowl of bread-and-butter pickles, the house specialty, and took their orders, but the momentary distraction offered Vanessa no reprieve.

As soon as the waitress left, Julie rubbed her palms together. "Oooh, something juicy's up with Nessa."

"Nothing's up," Vanessa denied, but her voice was higher than usual, totally giving her away.

Elle's eyes widened and she chuckled. "Omigosh, you were with a guy last night."

Apparently it wasn't going to do her any good to deny it. Vanessa took a deep breath. "Yes, okay, I met a guy last night. But it's not a big deal. Don't make anything out of it."

Julie rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her upturned palms. "I want every detail. Since I'm sans boyfriend, I have to live vicariously through you and Elle."

"There's nothing much to tell. I think I'll have the fruit cup as well as the chicken salad."

Julie and Elle exchanged glances and for one brief moment Vanessa thought they were just going to let the topic drop, but no such luck.

"What's his name?" Elle asked.

"What's he do for a living?" Julie quizzed.

"You guys," Vanessa sighed in exasperation. "It's nothing. Seriously."

"Are you going to see him again?"

Pretending she hadn't heard the question, Vanessa reached for a bread-and-butter pickle and munched on it.

"Come on, Nessa, throw me a crumb," Julie begged. "I need details. My love life is in the toilet."

Vanessa chewed the pickle, determined not to make a huge hairy deal of a one-night stand. She didn't regret it, but neither was she particularly proud of it. She wouldn't be seeing Tanner again. It had been a glorious, blissful, one-time-only thing. Besides, she didn't even know the guy's last name, so that settled it right there.

"How cute is he?" Elle asked, her eyes twinkling.

Vanessa sighed. "You're not going to let this go are you?"

Julie grinned. "Nope."

"We met, we danced, we had dinner, we got a hotel room. End of story," Vanessa said in a rush. She shifted in her seat, looked out past the restaurant to the antique section of the store. "Is that armoire new? I don't remember seeing it the last time we were here."

But Julie wasn't having any of it. "You had a one-night stand?" Her voice was filled with a mixture of shock and admiration. "I'd never have the courage for something like that. Weren't you scared?"

"Actually," said Elle who'd broken a few rules in her affair with Dante. "That was probably part of the charm. Right, Vanessa?"

Julie sighed. "Not to me. I love being romanced too much for a one-night fling. With those you don't get any flowers or chocolates or tickets to a Longhorns game."

"Sometimes," Vanessa said, "all you want is someone to help you wash away your troubles."

Elle sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes. "Is there something you're not telling us, Vanessa?"

She met her friends' interested gazes. How could she tell these two women about her secret past? A past she was so ashamed of that even fourteen years later she couldn't bring herself to talk about it to the two people who meant the most to her in the entire world.

Knowing it was the only way she was going to get out of this conversation, Vanessa forced a grin. "You guys, please don't read anything into this. It's cut-and-dried. I just needed to get laid."

"AMANDA BET ME that you would come," Texas State Senator Robert Garcia said as he turned the steaks on his backyard grill. He was a little over six feet and narrow of face. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was combed back off his forehead. He flashed the megawatt smile that had helped him get elected.

"Now I'm going to have to let her buy new draperies for the living room."

"That's what you get for gambling," Tanner said to his uncle-in-law and took a sip from the beer bottle the senator had pressed into his hand. Was Robert still his uncle-in-law, now that Maria was gone? he wondered.

"Seriously, this is the first time you've been to our house since—" Robert snapped off his sentence.

Since Maria died.

The words hung unuttered in the air.

"I had a reason for coming," Tanner said. "Besides the barbecue."

Robert closed the grill, hung the tongs from a hook and turned to look at him. "Oh?"

"This job you asked me to do for you." Tanner put his palms to the back of his head. "I can't do it."

"Of course you can. It's all set. Everything's been arranged."

"I'm not talking about the head of security position at Confidential Rejuvenations. I'm talking about being Vanessa Rodriquez's bodyguard," he said.

Robert cast a surreptitious look over Tanner's shoulder. His wife and some of their guests were standing on the other side of the patio admiring the new garden landscaping. Robert leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "What do you mean you can't do it?"

Tanner drew in a deep breath. How did you tell your late wife's uncle that you'd slept with the woman he'd hired you to watch? "I just don't think I'm the best man for the job. I can recommend someone else."

"Are you kidding? You're the best bodyguard in the business. You were guarding the governor until—" Robert stopped again.

Until Maria had been killed in a convenience store robbery while Tanner had been out of town on a security detail.

He still hadn't forgiven himself for not being there when she'd needed him. "This just doesn't feel right."

"What do you mean?" Robert kept looking over Tanner's shoulder, keeping an eye out for his wife. He was definitely keeping something from her.

"Level with me," Tanner said. "Why are you putting a bodyguard on Dr. Rodriquez?"

"I told you. Carlo Vega was released from prison yesterday. The man is a cold-blooded criminal. I fear he's going to come after her for putting him away."

"And she testified against him?"

"Correct."

"She witnessed him murder a man in a fit of rage, right?"

"Yes. Vega went up on second degree manslaughter."

"How did all this come about?"

"Look, is this really important? All that matters is that Vanessa stays safe from Vega."

"You're sure he's going to come after her?"

"He threatened her fourteen years ago and now he's out of prison."

"That's just it." Tanner clenched his jaw. "Why do you care about Vanessa Rodriquez so much that you'd foot the bill for her personal bodyguard?"

"It's none of your concern."

Tanner placed a palm to the back of his neck. Maria had loved and admired her uncle Robert. As far as Tanner knew, he was a good man, but something about this whole thing didn't add up. He swung his gaze around to take in Amanda, the senator's wife. She was a slender woman, still quite lovely in middle age. Her skin was well pampered. She possessed almond-shaped brown eyes and a short cap of curls highlighted with stylish streaks of red and gold.

"Are you having an affair with her? Is that it? Is Vanessa Rodriquez your lover?" The thought made him sick to his stomach, but he had to ask the question.

"No." Robert growled. "God, no. Why would you even think that? I love my Amanda. I would never cheat on her."

Relief coursed through Tanner at the senator's denial. It was bad enough that Tanner had slept with the woman he was supposed to be guarding, but to know that she was also Robert's mistress...well that would have been too much for him to handle. "So why the interest in her?"

Robert swallowed. "Let's walk."

"Where are you going, honey?" Amanda called out to them.

"To show Tanner the koi pond." Robert raised a hand. "Could you keep an eye on the steaks?"

"Will do." She smiled gaily.

They walked toward the back of the senator's five-acre lot, flush with native trees—pecan, red oak, elm and cedar. The pathway was made of quaint cobblestone, and around the perimeter of the place stood six-foot-high privacy hedges.

"Vanessa is from my hometown," Robert said when they were out of earshot from the house. "From my old neighborhood. I knew her family, her mother, but Vanessa doesn't remember me. She wasn't even born when I left El Paso."

"Why don't you want Vanessa to know you hired me to guard her?" Tanner asked.

"Because after what happened with Carlo Vega, I paid for Vanessa's way to medical school. I felt sorry for the poor kid. She needed a break and I could give it to her, so I did. No one knows about it. Not Amanda, not Vanessa. Only you."

"Why the secrecy?"

"It's not an altruistic act if people find out about it, now is it?" Robert asked.

They came to a halt beside the elaborate goldfish pond. It was a fair argument, and Tanner wasn't sure he believed that explanation, but he let it go. "Whatever your reasons are for wanting to protect Vanessa from this Vega character, I don't think I'm the right man for the job."

"Now who's hiding secrets?"

Startled, Tanner met the senator's gaze. "What do you mean?"

"It's not like you to renege on an agreement."

"I'm not reneging. The truth is I think I might have blown my cover."

The senator put his hands behind his back and leaned against the trunk of an impressive old oak tree. "What makes you say that?"

"She went to a bar last night. I followed her, but I stood out in the place. She spotted me. She came over. We danced."

And we did a lot more than that.

"But that's good," Robert said.

"How do you figure?" To avoid the senator's probing glance, Tanner bent to pick up one of the flat red river rocks landscaping the area and skipped it across the pond. It skimmed four times before sinking below the surface.

"She trusted you enough to dance with you. I think that's a good sign. Vanessa's pretty cautious."

Shows how much you know her. From what he'd seen of the sexy Dr. Rodriquez, cautious was not an adjective that popped to mind.

"The fact that you were able to get close to her gives you an edge in guarding her," the senator said.

You have no idea how close.

Tanner inhaled deeply. "I'm going to be honest with you Robert. I can't guard Dr. Rodriquez because I'm physically attracted to her."

Robert made a noise of surprise. "But that's good, healthy even."

"You think so? Because I sure don't." Tanner chuffed in a breath.

The senator laid a hand on his shoulder. "Maria would want you to move on. You've been grieving hard for four years. It's time to let go. Letting go doesn't mean you didn't love her."

"Yeah, but the first time I'm attracted to anyone since I lost Maria and it's with someone I'm protecting."

"It just means you're not dead below the waist." Robert tightened his grip on Tanner's shoulder. "And just because you're attracted to Vanessa doesn't mean you have to act on your feelings."

This is the time. Tell him you already did.

But for some reason, Tanner simply couldn't force himself to say the words. Part of it was a misguided attempt at chivalry. Part of it was because he felt ashamed of what he'd done. But another reason had to do with the senator himself. Tanner felt there was still more to the story than Robert was telling him, and as long as the senator was holding out on him, he felt uncomfortable with full disclosure.

"And Vanessa's safety is not the only reason I need you," Robert continued. "Confidential Rejuvenations is in turmoil. That ugly business with Mark Lawson aside, something odd is going on in that hospital and I need someone on the inside that I can trust."

Like everyone in Austin, Tanner had heard about the scandal. Confidential Rejuvenations had been front-page news for weeks after Mark Lawson's murder, and for a chic boutique hospital with a reputation for closely guarding its clientele's privacy, the fallout had been disturbing. Particularly for Robert, who was a former board member and who had bought a controlling share in the hospital.

"What do you mean?" Tanner asked.

"I think someone is trying to sabotage the hospital. Even before it was discovered that Lawson was mixed up with that gangster, there were strange happenings. I think someone is out to do permanent damage to the hospital's reputation."

Their conversation lulled.

In the hushed moment, the sound of a twig snapping was almost deafening.

They both raised their heads and turned to see Robert's twenty-two-year-old adopted daughter, Chloe, standing in the clearing. The young woman had just finished up her nursing degree from the University of Texas and she worked as a scrub nurse at Confidential Rejuvenations.

Tanner had the strangest feeling that Chloe had been there for a long time, eavesdropping on their conversation. He remembered Maria saying her younger cousin had been a strange girl. Quiet but sneaky. Now he knew what his late wife had meant. Tanner found himself wondering what Chloe would think if she knew her father had sent Vanessa Rodriquez to medical school.

"Dad," Chloe said. "Mom says the steaks are ready."

"We'll be right there."

She turned and walked back to the house.

"So anyway," Robert said, "don't let this attraction to Vanessa throw you. You're finally getting back to yourself and that's a good thing. I know you can guard her without letting your emotions cross the line. Keep her close to you. I have a really bad feeling about Carlo Vega. After he was convicted, he swore he'd kill Vanessa whenever he got out."

That, Tanner realized, was the real reason he didn't tell Robert the whole truth about what had happened last night. When it came down to it, Vanessa needed him, and since he hadn't been able to protect his wife, he was damned determined not to screw this up.

Guarding Vanessa was his chance at salvation.

## 4

THE MONDAY MORNING brow lift on a thirty-something Austin musician wanting to look younger for her new album cover, went quicker than Vanessa expected, thanks in part to her accomplished team.

She loved working with the circulating nurse, Lisa Patrone, and the anesthesiologist, Dr. Brad Mertz. She and Brad had even dated a couple of times, but although they liked, admired and respected each other, the lack of sexual chemistry had kept them from becoming anything more than friends. How come it always seemed the guys who were perfect for her just didn't seem to elicit sparks and the guys who were all wrong for her charged her up like gangbusters? Vanessa shook her head. Mother Nature was an odd creature when it came to sexual attraction.

Lisa was in her midforties, married to a firefighter, with her first grandchild on the way. She'd been at Confidential Rejuvenations for her entire career. She had a passion for haunting garage sales for a bargain and she was always gifting her co-workers with tokens of her affection. She also made one mean guacamole salad, but refused to share her recipe.

The only newbie in the operating suite was Senator Garcia's daughter, Chloe, and even though the girl was rather withdrawn and still in her externship phase, she was turning out to be quite a talented scrub nurse. Like all good scrub nurses, she could anticipate Vanessa's needs and have the appropriate instrument ready right when she needed it.

"Are you going to the special doctors' staff meeting Covey and Butler called?" Brad asked as the four of them moved the still-unconscious patient from the OR table to the recovery room gurney.

"I was hoping to skip it," Vanessa admitted, "but we finished up ahead of schedule and now I don't have a good excuse."

"I'll save you a seat." Brad winked at her over the top of his mask. "Near the door in case it runs so long we want to sneak out."

"Good plan. Butler can get long-winded."

"No kidding. He went on for twenty minutes at Mark Lawson's funeral."

Vanessa followed Lisa and Chloe as they wheeled the patient into the postanesthesia care unit that adjoined the operating room. Vanessa wrote orders on the patient's chart, double-checked her surgical handiwork, then headed out in time to make the 10:00 a.m. assembly.

Pulling off her surgical cap, Vanessa let her hair tumble about her shoulders as she walked into the conference room to find most of her coworkers already seated. Elle's fiancé, Dante Nash waved and she waved back before slipping down beside Brad as Butler and Covey entered the room.

She tried to settle her scattered mind and pay attention to the proceedings, but she kept thinking about her mysterious midnight lover. Surgery was the only place where she'd been able to compartmentalize and shut out the memory of what she'd done on Friday night.

Why had she slept with Tanner?

You know why. Deep inside you're a very bad girl and all the university degrees in the world can't hide who you really are.

She was damaged goods and that's all there was to it. She could climb as high as she wanted in her career, but she could never escape who she was or where she came from or the things she'd done to survive.

Jarrod Butler and Covey made their way to the podium on the small dais in the comfortable conference room where they held the monthly Morbidity and Mortality meetings to review the mistakes they might have made in caring for patients and to improve their performance as physicians.

Like everything else at Confidential Rejuvenations, the room screamed money. From the solid walnut podium, to the state-of-the-art audiovisual equipment to the plush leather swivel chairs they sat in. It was a far cry from Vanessa's squalid upbringing. She had come a long way indeed. Even after all these years, she still had trouble believing this was her new life.

She was so lucky to have landed a residency at the hospital. It was a much-coveted position and she was eternally grateful. She loved working at Confidential Rejuvenations even if at times she felt a bit out of place on the hallowed grounds.

Every day when she drove up the flagstone driveway, she appreciated the lush green lawns and bountiful privacy hedges that were perfectly clipped. Ivy-twined trellises shaded genteel park benches testifying to the exemplary gardening skills of the groundskeepers. On many occasions after work, Vanessa took a walk along the flagstone path to an elaborate hand-carved gazebo positioned on a bluff above the Colorado River's sensuous curve. There she would sit and breathe and give thanks for how blessed she was to have escaped her past.

As the senior member, Dr. Butler approached the lectern first. He spoke about the steps the hospital was planning to repair Confidential Rejuvenations' damaged reputation—new advertising campaigns, the hiring of a professional spin doctor, beefing up the in-house security staff.

Then Dr. Covey took over the discussion, announcing a new co-owner. State Senator Robert Garcia, had stepped forward and bought out Mark Lawson's share in Confidential Rejuvenations. Everyone knew who Robert Garcia was. A few years earlier he'd sat on the hospital board. Vanessa was familiar with him mostly because of his daughter, Chloe. When the timid nurse spoke in the OR, it was usually to talk about her father.

Vanessa heard the conference room door whisper open behind her, but she didn't turn around to see who'd entered. Her mind was still hung up on her Friday night escapade.

"And lastly," Dr. Covey said, "we want to introduce you to the new head of security recommended to us by Senator Robert Garcia. We're expecting big things of him. He has an impressive list of credentials, including serving as Governor Perry's bodyguard for three years." Covey waved a hand to the back of the room. "Please help me welcome Tanner Doyle. Come on up here, Tanner."

Tanner?

Her body tensed at the uncommon name and her breathing grew shallow. She folded her hands in her lap and resisted the temptation to get up and run from the room. No, no, it couldn't be him.

But sure enough, stalking up to the podium was the big blond man she'd picked up at Emilio's.

The hairs on her forearms lifted, Vanessa didn't believe in coincidences. What was he doing here?

To polite applause, Tanner took his place at the lectern as if he was the rightful heir to a throne. In the light of day, dressed in a navy-blue pinstriped business suit, he looked even more handsome than he had in the dim lighting of Emilio's.

Pausing, Tanner adjusted the microphone to accommodate his height. "Thank you for the welcome," he said, his velvet-rich voice pouring over her.

Vanessa struggled to ignore the prickle of awareness tripping down her spine. That voice had whispered sweet nothings to her in the dark of an anonymous hotel room. Now the voice, the face, had a full name, a real identity.

He was no longer a figment of her imagination. He was too real and she suddenly felt as if she were a mouse trapped in a tight corner by a tabby cat with lightning-fast reflexes.

Tanner glanced out into the audience and his gaze zeroed in on her. She did her best to remain detached, impassive, but she had no idea if she was pulling it off or not.

"I spent the weekend with Dr. Butler and Dr. Covey going over Confidential Rejuvenations' security needs." He gestured toward the two men.

Oh, you liar. You spent half the weekend going over my needs.

"I've been briefed about the—" he hesitated, searching for the right words "—incidents that have occurred here over the past few months, and I'm going to need your help in making this hospital as safe as it can possibly be for both our patients and the staff."

He paused to make eye contact with the assembly. He had a commanding presence, she'd give him that. Vanessa gritted her teeth, knotted her hands in her lap.

Brad leaned over, touched her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Vanessa assured him with a smile and forced herself to unclench her hands and her jaw.

"Scary business," Brad murmured.

"Yes," she said, but she wasn't talking about the hospital sabotage.

"To that end," Tanner continued, "I will be interviewing each one of you separately to get your take on the events and to elicit your opinion on how best we can meet your security needs while you're on the grounds of Confidential Rejuvenations."

Great. Terrific. Just what she wanted. A one-on-one with the man she'd shagged in a moment of weakness.

"What is this?" Vanessa heard one of the doctors behind her mumble. "Are we suspects?"

"Not surprising, after what Mark Lawson pulled," another doctor whispered in response.

Dr. Butler raised a hand, quelling the hushed discussion going on behind her. "I know you'll all give Tanner your complete cooperation. Patient and staff safety is our utmost concern during this trying time. Mr. Doyle wants to start the interviews right away. I have your schedules in front of me and I see that, Dr. Rodriquez, you have an opening in your schedule."

Vanessa was caught off guard and didn't have a ready excuse. "I was planning on using my downtime to catch up on my surgical notes."

"It can wait," Dr. Butler said. "The sooner Tanner can interview the staff, the sooner he can implement his new security measures."

Vanessa sighed. Dammit.

She could feel the heat of Tanner's gaze, cool and assessing, on her face. She'd cooperate because Dr. Butler told her to, but she still couldn't shake her suspicion there was a hidden agenda behind the scenes.

After all, what were the odds that the sexy stranger she'd picked up on Friday night would end up being a coworker by Monday morning?

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Vanessa demanded, eying Tanner suspiciously.

Tanner smiled. "My job."

She looked gorgeous, if somewhat uptight, in a high-necked lavender blouse with prim gray tweed suit and matching pumps. The outfit was all for show, part of the glossy straitlaced image she'd perfected, but he knew firsthand this woman was anything but. Who was she trying to fool most? Other people? Or herself?

They were standing in her office. Like any good security expert, Tanner took in every detail of the room. From the pricey mahogany desk to the overstuffed chair upholstered in Corinthian leather to the heavy tapestry at the windows overlooking the rolling green lawns of Confidential Rejuvenations.

The hospital itself possessed a presence. It was almost as if the place had a personality of its own. Regal yet soothing. Seething with secrets and yet somehow coy, with the expensive modern art paintings displayed in the hallways and the spa treatment facility that rivaled any resort hotel's.

How much of this room was Vanessa? How much simply the persona of the boutique hospital?

He noted nothing was out of place. On the desk, the papers in her in-box were stacked as orderly as those in the out-box. The pens were arranged in order of their color in the holder—blue, black, green, red. The paper shredder at the side of the desk was empty, as was the trash can across from it.

Vanessa Rodriquez was a neat freak.

Diplomas hung on the walls paneled with real cherry-wood. She'd done her undergraduate work at Trinity University in San Antonio, graduated summa cum laude and gotten her medical degree from the University of Texas.

Robert had told Tanner she had an IQ of 156. Not for the first time, he wondered how and why the senator knew so many details about the testy Dr. Rodriquez. He wanted to believe the man wasn't having an affair with her, but he still wasn't convinced.

In the far corner a ficus tree sat in a painted red clay pot and several other green plants hung in front of the window—a dumb cane, an English ivy, an aloe vera cactus. One wall housed a built-in bookcase loaded with medical tomes and even more plants.

The only personal item in the place was the hand-beaded necklace that looked like something a child had made dangling from the desk lamp. The necklace was out of place with the rest of the room, not fitting either the elegant doctor or the expensive surroundings.

Was the necklace a talisman of some kind? Had someone made it for Vanessa? A sister perhaps? A niece? Or maybe one of her patients?

The woman was a fascinating enigma, and the fact that Robert wouldn't share the exact details of how Vanessa had got involved with Carlo Vega intrigued Tanner all the more. Curiosity had sent him to the newspaper morgue to research the trial, but he'd found little press coverage of the El Paso case in the Austin newspapers, and no mention of Vanessa's name in the newspaper accounts. There had been a seventeen-year-old girl named Trudy Valdez, who'd been the main witness against Vega, but she'd been a dancer in one of Vega's strip clubs.

How had Vanessa figured into the murder trial? Was Robert lying about the whole thing? But why would he do that? Tanner wondered if he was being played for a fool.

Vanessa watched him assess the room, hands cocked on her hips. "I don't believe in coincidences, Mr. Doyle."

"You can call me Tanner." It might be perverse, but he was getting a kick out of irritating her.

"No," she said. "This is a professional relationship. I will call you Mr. Doyle and you can call me Dr. Rodriquez."

She was pulling rank, setting him straight. He bit down on the provocative and completely inappropriate response on the tip of his tongue. She hadn't been so formal when she'd cried out his name in the middle of the night.

"Yes, Doctor," Tanner said, injecting his voice with more than a measure of sarcasm.

She ignored the dig. "First you're at Emilio's and now you're working at the same place I am. Were you following me on Friday night? When you took this job, did you decide to case all the doctors? Are we suspects?"

The woman got straight to the point. She was a sharp cookie. Tanner hated lying, but he knew it was necessary. Robert had been adamant. He didn't want Vanessa knowing he'd been assigned to guard her.

"I was doing some freelance security work for Emilio," Tanner said, surprised at how easily the fib rolled off his tongue.

"Still," she said, her eyes narrowing, "it's pretty coincidental."

"How do I know you weren't following me?" he asked, turning the tables on her.

Confusion replaced the suspicion in her eyes. "Excuse me?" She sounded annoyed.

He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her, which was all Tanner wanted to do. Palm his hands over her skin. Hook two fingers under her chin to raise her face up for a kiss. "I was here on Friday afternoon for a meeting with Covey and Butler. How do I know you didn't see me, take a liking to me and then follow me to Emilio's?"

Her delicate nostrils flared indignantly and it was all he could do to keep from smiling. "That's an insulting suggestion."

"My point exactly."

Her gaze was steady, but he saw a flicker of doubt in her chocolate-brown eyes. She didn't apologize. He understood. An apology could look like a weakness. She took a seat behind her desk and said, "Let's get this over with. Just tell me what you need from me."

Tanner pushed aside the gouge of frustration digging deep into his gut. The truth was he didn't know what he needed from her. Hell, he didn't want to need anything from her.

But he did.

He wanted her to smile at him the way she had on Friday night. He wanted to dance with her again. And he wanted to feel the way she'd made him feel. Alive again and fully masculine for the first time in four years.

His job was to protect her, and losing control of his thoughts and his libido was no way to accomplish that goal. She'd set things on a professional keel insisting they call each other by their last names.

She wasn't looking back and neither should he. Yes, she had spectacular breasts and one of the sweetest asses he'd ever held in the palm of his hand, but they weren't worth jeopardizing his career over.

Or her life.

From here on out, he told himself, everything that happened between them was strictly business.

HE'D SEEN HER NAKED.

Vanessa couldn't get past the fact. Not only naked, but he'd seen her in a few compromising positions. If word got out that she'd diddled the new head of security...

The word is not going to get out, she assured herself. No one at Confidential Rejuvenations had to know Tanner was her late-night lover.

Not even Elle and Julie.

He was sitting across the desk from her, a black spiral notepad in one hand, a ballpoint pen in the other. He wasn't doing anything the least bit sexy, and yet she found everything about him incredibly compelling, from the muted scent of his woodsy cologne to his long, broad fingers, to the measured expression in his intelligent blue eyes.

The gaze he sent her was not provocative and yet she felt mightily provoked.

His mouth was pressed into a straight noncommittal line. He wasn't giving anything away, and yet her nipples tightened as she remembered what his hot lips felt like.

Nervously she picked up the necklace dangling from the desk lamp and ran it through her fingers like a rosary. The necklace was the only thing she had left of her old life, of the girl she used to be. She kept it around because it calmed her somehow. Made her feel that if she could survive her past, she could survive anything. She remembered stringing it with her mother. One of the last happy times they'd shared together before her mother had married her stepfather. Somehow along the way, the bracelet had come to symbolize Vanessa's hopes and dreams. A desire to find happiness again by becoming a doctor.

She'd gotten her wish, made her dreams come true, but she always felt as if she'd never quite escaped her past.

Tanner clicked his pen. "Your legal name is Vanessa Delores Rodriquez, is that correct?"

The question startled her. It was her name now. Once upon a time she'd been someone else, possessed a different name. She waited too long to answer, she could see it by the accusatory expression clouding his eyes. She had to tread carefully, the man was sharp.

"How can my legal name possibly assist you in providing this hospital with a safe working environment?" she asked coolly.

"Just want to dot all the i's and cross all the t's." Tanner smiled at last, as if trying to get her to relax. The sight of his upturned mouth unraveled her more completely than his question.

She nodded, put down the beaded necklace and picked up a paper clip from her desk, unbending the little trombone shape until it broke into two pieces.

"Vanessa," he said and then hesitated.

She swept the paper clip pieces into the trash can with the flat side of her hand. "Yes?"

"If I'd known your last name, if I'd had your phone number, I would have called you."

She held up her hand. "Please. I want to forget Friday night ever happened. I suggest you do the same."

His smile disappeared and his pupils constricted. "I can't forget."

"You have to."

"I don't want to."

She felt a warm, melty sensation near her heart, which had been frozen for years. Vanessa swallowed. Stop this, she berated herself.

And yet, she couldn't seem to stop spinning fantasies about the man. Silly, because she felt sure if he knew who she really was, he wouldn't want anything to do with her.

She had to change the subject and fast, before she did something totally stupid like tell him she couldn't forget him, either. "So how come you ended up here if you were on Governor Perry's detail? Isn't Confidential Rejuvenations a bit of a comedown from the governor's mansion?"

"That's personal."

She met his challenging gaze. "Oh, so you can ask me personal questions but I can't ask them of you?"

"I like to keep my private life undercover."

Undercover.

The was no mistaking the innuendo in his voice or the sultry look in his eyes as he raked them over her. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. She looked away, flicked at imaginary lint on the sleeve of her gray tweed suit. Vanessa lifted her eyebrows and tried her best to look unaffected by his searing glance. "Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? I have work to do."

He jerked his head in agreement. "Tell me about your daily routine and current safety habits."

"I lock my doors and windows, if that's what you mean."

"That's good."

"I carry condoms." She couldn't resist adding that and immediately wished she could have bitten off her tongue.

He arched one eyebrow. "Do you have a security system in your home?"

"I do."

"Your car?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever leave or arrive at work late at night?"

"I'm a resident. I'm on call. Of course I come and go at all hours of the day and night."

The word come seemed to hang in the air like a tantalizing aroma.

"During your comings and goings have you ever noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

"Could you be more specific?"

He shifted in his seat. "On Friday night someone slashed all the tires of the cars in the employee parking lot. To get away with the crime, the perpetrator disabled the security camera in that area."

"You know where I was on Friday night."

His smile was brief but slightly smug. "I'm not accusing you of sabotaging the cameras or slicing car tires. I just wanted to know if you saw anything."

If he knew who she was and where she came from, he'd probably accuse her of sabotaging the cameras and slicing the tires. "Sorry." She shrugged. "I can't help you with that."

He flipped back a few pages in his notebook. "How about three weeks ago? Someone pilfered a crate of medical supplies from central supply. Again, the security cameras had been disabled."

"Maybe it's one of the security guards. Have you considered that?" she asked.

"I'm investigating all possibilities."

"Have you checked for fingerprints?"

"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Doctor?"

"Just offering suggestions."

"The culprit wore gloves."

"You think the same person is responsible for all the things that have been happening?"

"I don't assume anything." He held her gaze, looking at her as if she were holding out on him, as if she knew something and was simply refusing to come clean. She'd seen that look before, in the eyes of the cops fourteen years ago.

An unexpected shiver ran up her spine. "Look," she said, "I'd like to help. I really would. But I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary."

He got to his feet.

Vanessa sighed in relief and stood up, as well.

"You'll keep me informed if you do see anything suspicious." He said it as a statement, not a question.

"Yes, absolutely."

He walked to her window, looked out and then pulled the cord on the blinds, dousing the sunlight.

She blinked against the sudden darkness. "What are you doing?"

"Surveillance."

"Of my office?"

"Seeing how vulnerable you are."

"Excuse me?" The shiver was back, skating coldly over each vertebra. Vanessa crossed her arms and hugged herself.

He drew the drapes, further snuffing out the light. "We don't know what this mischief maker is capable of. Things could escalate."

"Meaning..."

He gestured toward the window. "Your desk is in the direct line of fire if someone were to take up a rifle on the knoll behind the doctors' offices."

Real fear hit her then and she thought of Carlo Vega. The man was capable of anything. Even hiring a hit man to take her out after fourteen years. He'd sworn revenge. "You have a dark perspective of the world," she said.

No darker than your own.

"Comes with the job description." He ambled back across the room, took hold of her heavy mahogany desk and pushed it as if he was moving Lincoln Logs.

Vanessa tapped her foot. "Now what are you doing?"

"Moving you out of the line of fire."

"This is silly," she said, even as the fear filled up her stomach. "No one is going to try to shoot me from the grassy knoll."

He wasn't listening. He was busy positioning her desk in a more secure location kitty-corner along the wall on the same side as the window. Now, with the wall to her back and the window to her left, she could see both the front door and out the window, but someone lurking about outside would not be able to see her.

"As an added bonus it's also feng shui," he said. "You're never supposed to have your back to the door the way you had it positioned."

"What would you know about feng shui?" she teased.

"My wi—" He broke off and then said, "I'm a lot more feng shui savvy than I look."

She could have sworn he was going to say "my wife," but she let it go. He didn't wear a wedding band and he'd told her he was single over medium-rare steaks on Friday night. She'd chosen to believe him. Perhaps he was divorced or widowed, but she wasn't going to ask. He had his secrets. She had hers. It wasn't as if she was going to sleep with him again.

Silence fell.

They stared at each other and Vanessa felt the now-familiar sexual tug that pulled at her every time she met his heated stare.

"Thank you for rearranging my furniture," she said.

Tanner looked surprised at her politeness, quirked half a grin. "Just doing my job."

"Are we through here?"

He took her chair, which was still in the middle of the room, and spun it into place behind the desk. "I want you to know that I'm going to be around a lot."

She had to admit she was both relieved and concerned to hear this. Relieved because she was truly afraid of Carlo Vega, concerned because the thought of having Tanner around excited her far more than it should. What was the matter with her? She wasn't given to flights of fantasy, yet every time she looked at him she found herself imagining things she had no business imagining.

"If you need anything, Vanessa, anything at all. Even if you just need someone to talk to or—"

"I know where the security office is," she said, cutting him off. She had a sudden longing to tell him everything and that scared her almost as much as the threat of Carlo Vega's henchman creeping along the grassy knoll behind her office.

"I'll leave you to your work." He stuck out a hand.

Reflex had her reaching out to take it.

Big mistake.

His palm was hot and hard against hers and he held on just a second too long. She kept her face a smooth mask, not letting herself reveal how much touching him affected her.

As she watched him walk away, Vanessa couldn't help wondering how on earth she was going to keep herself from seducing him again.

## 5

"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT our...um...mysterious occurrences?" Jarrod Butler asked from the doorway of Tanner's new office in the security department on the basement level of Confidential Rejuvenations.

On this subterranean level, the hospital took on a whole other personality. Like a well-bred woman without her makeup on, down here you could see the cracks in the beautiful facade. The corridors were narrower, the lighting dimmer, the temperature three or four degrees colder than it was on the ground level. Down here, there were no windows. None of the sunny radiance that greeted guests when they walked through the front door.

Tanner glanced up from the data gathered after five days of analyzing the hospital's current security systems and the interviews with the staff. "I'm not ready to offer an opinion at this point, Dr. Butler. I'll write up my recommendations in a full report."

The Chief of Staff had a lanky build and an unhurried way of speaking that reminded Tanner of the actor Gregory Peck in the role of Joe Bradley in Roman Holiday. It had been Maria's favorite classic movie. For no good reason at all, Tanner found himself remembering Vanessa had told him her favorite classic movie was Dark Victory.

Two very different movies. Two very different women. One a romantic and starry-eyed. The other a hard-nosed realist.

"Fair enough. Senator Garcia asked me to give you this." Butler stepped over the threshold to lay a house key on Tanner's desk.

"Thanks."

"You moving?" Butler was fishing for information, but this part of the assignment was between him and Robert Garcia. Butler wasn't privy to the plans for guarding Vanessa.

"Yes," he said lightly. "To be closer to the job."

"Ah," Butler said. He stood there waiting as if he expected Tanner to say something more.

"Is there anything else?" Tanner leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out behind his head.

He'd been looking for ways to shore up Confidential Rejuvenations' security deficiencies for most of the afternoon and he felt the strain pulling across his back. He wasn't a desk jockey and his muscles were yelling at him that it was time for a run along the river path adjoining the hospital grounds. He needed to do something to burn off this excess energy.

"If you need help moving," Butler said, "let me, or any of the security guards know."

"I appreciate the offer." Tanner wouldn't use the security staff to make his move. For one thing, he didn't want everyone at the hospital to know he was moving into the condo across from Vanessa's. For another, since losing Maria, he'd down-sized to the point where his personal belongings could fit neatly in a half-dozen packing boxes. The condo was furnished, just like the apartment he'd be vacating. He also wasn't completely convinced that none of the security guards were involved with the disturbances. Whoever it was knew where the security cameras were located and how to disarm them. Tanner didn't want to get so close to anyone that he couldn't view them with an objective eye.

You're too late when it comes to Vanessa. You've lost all objectivity where she's concerned.

"Well, have a good evening," Butler said. "I'm looking forward to reviewing your report."

"Good night, Doctor."

Butler paused at the door. "You can call me Jarrod."

That surprised Tanner. From what he'd seen so far, Confidential Rejuvenations was high on formality. Probably due to all the VIPs they dealt with. Was he being tested?

"I appreciate that, Dr. Butler, but I prefer to keep things as professional as possible."

"Robert told me you were a straight arrow." Butler nodded in approval.

Butler had been testing him, he realized, and he'd passed.

Once Dr. Butler had left the room, Tanner picked up the key and stuck it in his pocket. He got to his feet and walked out into the control room with the bank of security cameras.

There were three guards monitoring the screens. Tanner had a half-dozen more men patrolling the grounds. He planted a hand on the backs of the chairs of two of the security guards and watched Butler leave the hospital through the emergency room entrance and head for his Lexus parked at the back of the lot. There were only two other cars remaining—one was a silver BMW belonging to Dr. Covey, the other was Vanessa's burgundy-colored Acura.

He shifted his gaze to the camera monitoring the side entrance to the doctors' offices directly across the road from the hospital. So that no one would catch on that he was paying particular attention to the surveillance cameras focused on the doctors' offices, he purposefully asked questions of the guards about what else was going on in the rest of the hospital.

Even though his real job was to guard Vanessa, the hospital had hired him as the head of security. He told himself he could juggle both assignments.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement on the previous camera, drawing his attention back to the doctors' side entrance. There was Vanessa, her lab coat draped over her arm. In her right hand she carried her car keys. Mace dangled from the key chain. She stopped, then cautiously glanced right, left and then behind her.

Good girl.

"She always acts like she's being followed," commented Josh Newberry, the youngest of the security guards. He'd just turned twenty-two and from all accounts he was the ace player on the hospital's softball team.

"She's just playing it safe," Tanner said. "Actually, I approve. Most people are far too complacent when it comes to their safety."

"With gams like those—" Charlie Martin whistled "—she can't afford to be complacent." Charlie was built like a tank and had deer hunter stickers plastered all over the Igloo cooler he used as a lunch box. He'd been working at Confidential Rejuvenations since its doors opened and he had exemplary evaluations, but his comment irritated Tanner.

"No woman deserves to be a target of sexual harassment simply because she's attractive," he growled.

Charlie raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, boss. I agree with you. I have teenage daughters at home, but reality is reality."

Tanner knew that all too well. He watched Vanessa walk briskly to her car. Saw her glance into the backseat as she pressed the button to deactivate her car alarm and open the door.

Here was a woman who was accustomed to looking over her shoulder and he was having trouble reconciling that with the woman who had picked him up in a bar the previous weekend. Vanessa Rodriquez was one helluva paradox.

In a weird way, he supposed he understood how she could be of two minds. One, the cautious, suspicious young doctor; the other a sensual woman out to meet her sexual needs with seemingly reckless abandon.

He suspected when she'd asked him to dance at Emilio's it had been her way of whistling in the dark, of facing her fears, of vanquishing the bogeyman from her past. Particularly on the day she'd learned the man who vowed to kill her had been released from prison. By making the move on Tanner in a place where she felt comfortable, she'd been in control.

The core emotion of both her caution and her bravery was fear, and she was doing what she could to reconcile the two sides of her personality and live life the best she could. From what he knew about her personally and from what he'd observed over the past week, she was loyal, responsible and witty and people really seemed to like her, but she let very few people get close to her. What was she so afraid of?

He had a sudden, intense yearning to free her from the prison of her fears and that scared him. What was he so afraid of?

Startled by the surge of feelings, Tanner stepped back from the bank of computers. He hated this undercover crap. He wanted her to know that he was there for her, guarding her, protecting her. He was used to being up-front.

He hated even more that he had to pretend that...what? They weren't involved? Because they weren't involved. Not really. They had made love.

Correction, they'd had sex. Granted it had been great, mind-blowing sex, but it had been nothing more than a one-time thing. He couldn't step across that line again. He wouldn't.

Forget about Friday night.

Easy to say, not so easy to do. Not when she looked the way she did. Not when she stirred things inside him he thought long dead.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to stop the need. He liked her. She was smart and sexy and feisty as hell. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything that scared her.

He'd learned she was suspicious of others, loved spending her limited spare time watching old movies or hanging out with her two best friends, Elle Kingston and Julie Demarco, and that she kept a hand-beaded necklace dangling from her desk lamp. Tanner knew that nibbling the nape of her neck sent her body into paroxysms of delight, and what she sounded like when she had an orgasm, but he didn't know what she thought about him.

Although he might soon find out.

Tanner stuck his hand in his pocket and fisted it around the condo key Butler had dropped off. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and let himself dream of impossible possibilities.

AFTER A QUICK GLANCE up and down her street, Vanessa let herself into her condo and turned off her alarm. The minute she stepped through the door, her black cat, Fantasia, coiled around her legs, purring like a Porsche engine.

"Hey coo-coo kitty," she said, kicking the door closed with her heel, dropping her keys on the foyer table. She bent over to scoop up the American longhair who'd just shown up on her doorstep one day last summer.

She rubbed the cat's fluffy fur against her cheek and breathed in her precious smell. Independent Fantasia, who could only take so much affection, jumped from her arms and pranced toward the kitchen, tail in the air. It was suppertime.

"Tuna Delight good for you?" she asked the cat as she opened the pantry and took a tin of cat food.

Fantasia swished her tail and meowed.

"Tuna Delight it is."

Vanessa pulled the top off and served up Fantasia's dinner, tossed the can, then turned her attention to her own supper needs. She opened the pantry door again and stared inside.

Plenty of cat food. She bought Fantasia's food in bulk from a warehouse club, but she hadn't made it to the grocery store for herself in weeks. She had a canister of whole-wheat pasta, sundried tomatoes and black olives. She could sauté some onions and garlic in olive oil and make a pasta toss. It would do.

While the onions caramelized, she poured herself a glass of red wine and wandered into the living room to pop Norah Jones into the CD player.

Soon the smell of simmering food, the sound of soft music and the taste of dry Merlot took the edge off the past week. Here it was Friday again. A week since she'd picked Tanner up at Emilio's. And he'd been on her mind almost nonstop ever since.

Funny how that one reckless indiscretion had turned out to wreck her whole week. She still found it awfully coincidental that Tanner had shown up as the new head of security at the place where she worked. But other than catching a few glimpses of him around the hospital, Vanessa hadn't seen Tanner much since that day in her office when he had rearranged her furniture.

Just thinking of how his muscular arms had strained at the sleeves of his shirt had her heart thumping. Gee, he did as much for a woman's cardiovascular system as a good step aerobics class.

By the time the she'd eaten her pasta and finished up the wine and Norah had played her course, Vanessa was in the mood for something more hardcore. She browsed through her CD collection, her hand stopping when she happened upon a rock-and-roll album.

A blast from her very dangerous past. Back before she was Vanessa. Back when she danced as Trudy Valdez.

"Honky Tonk Women" poured from the sound system. Fantasia appeared; the cat loved the Rolling Stones. Vanessa scooped her up and danced around the room, swaying her hips in time to the smoky beat.

Then she heard a loud thumping sound like something falling downstairs, followed by a loud, masculine curse.

She set Fantasia on the floor, muted the music and tilted her head.

Another muffled curse.

Vanessa edged to the front room, peeked out into the twilight. A man sat on the front steps of the vacant condo next door. A busted-open packing crate lay in two pieces beside him. Pants, shirts, leather belts, work boots, tennis shoes and other belongings were scattered on the ground. She couldn't make out his features in the dimness, but she noted he had blond hair and appeared to be holding pressure on his arm as if he'd cut himself.

The doctor in her reacted immediately. She jerked open the door, hurried across the lawn.

The man raised his head.

Vanessa halted.

Tanner Doyle.

What was he doing here?

Suspicion took hold of her, but then she saw he was bleeding quite freely around the fingers he had clamped around his left forearm. "Lock up your condo first, then come inside," she said, motioning toward her house. "Let me see the damage you've done to yourself."

Without a word, he stood and followed her, dripping blood along the way. She raced ahead, running into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel and meeting him at the front door. She wrapped the towel around his arm and applied steady pressure.

"In the bathroom," she said, indicating the direction with her head. She led him down the hallway, walking backward and pushed the door open with her tush. "Arm in the sink."

He did as she directed.

Vanessa unwrapped the towel; blood oozed thickly from a four-inch gash, but thankfully he hadn't clipped an artery. "What happened?"

"Packing crate nail," Tanner ground out through gritted teeth.

Vanessa reached up in the cabinet over the sink and retrieved the antiseptic solution. "This is going to sting," she warned.

He hissed in his breath as the yellow-brown liquid washed out the jagged edges of the laceration.

"When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?" she asked briskly, professionally.

"A year ago. Part of my annual physical."

"That's good." She opened a cabinet drawer, found a pair of green latex gloves and snapped them on. "You won't need another." He muttered another curse as she probed the wound. "But you do need stitches."

"You got the equipment here to do the job, Doc? I mean why waste a trip to the E.R. when I've got the best plastic surgeon around?"

"I can sew you up here if that's what you prefer."

"Please."

Vanessa slipped around behind him, found her bandage supplies in another drawer and tore into a package of sterile gauze. She pulled up her girlie pink vanity chair. "Sit."

His big body looked so incongruous perched on the delicate chair, she feared the thin wrought-iron legs would snap off the thing. The man was imposing, no doubt about it.

"Hold the gauze on there while I find my suture kit."

A few minutes later she was kneeling in front of him and Tanner's injured arm was stretched out on the counter. She threaded a suture needle with 4-0 nylon while she waited for the Xylocaine she'd injected around the lacerated area to numb his skin. She couldn't help but notice the blond hair on his tanned arms and the strength of his muscles as she dipped the curved suture needle down to close his torn skin.

It was only then, once she had the minor emergency under control, that it dawned on her that Tanner Doyle was in her house. They were alone together. No one around to interrupt them except for Fantasia. The thought was more unsettling than Vanessa could have imagined.

"What were you doing next door with a packing crate?" she asked, although the answer was pretty obvious. She made a second stitch.

"Moving in."

Her hand froze in midsuture and she had to fight to quell the sudden rush of panic pinching her chest. "You're moving in next door to me?"

"That's right."

Her hair had fallen across her face and she didn't dare look up. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest. First he was at Emilio's. Then he showed up as head of security at Confidential Rejuvenations. Now he was moving in next door. One coincidence she could almost excuse, but three? No way. Something was fishy.

Vanessa's hand trembled so hard she could barely take the third stitch. Her mind raced as she compiled a frightening scenario in her mind. After he'd been released from prison, had Carlo Vega hired Tanner to kill her?

If that was the case, if Tanner was a hit man, why hadn't he already killed her? He'd had ample opportunity.

Could he be some kind of weird stalker?

Seriously, he'd guarded the governor. His background would have to be impeccable for a detail like that.

Still, her heart thumped erratically; she couldn't make sense of the situation.

And while she might have been a poor judge of character in her youth, she'd learned from her mistakes. Her gut feeling told her Tanner would never intentionally harm anyone unless he was trying to protect another.

Somehow she managed to take the final stitch and tie off the nylon thread. It was only when she tried to get to her feet that she realized she'd been breathing so shallowly she'd hyperventilated. Her head spun, her knees buckled.

Tanner reached out for her.

Primal instinct had her grabbing for the scalpel lying beside her suture kit. Practice had her flipping off the protective cap with the end of her thumb without thinking twice. She jumped back, and dizzily held the blade in the air between them.

In that one moment of terror, she was jettisoned back fourteen years and she was Trudy Valdez again. Scared, skinny, alone and her life was in imminent jeopardy. She had to fight or die.

"Whoa!" Tanner raised his arms and stepped back. "Vanessa, what's going on here?"

She put her left palm to her forehead now damp with sweat and kept him at bay with the scalpel in her right. "Who are you?" she croaked.

"You know who I am."

"I don't. You're a stranger."

"I know you intimately."

"You might know my body intimately," she forced through her teeth. "But you don't know me at all."

"I want to."

"You can't."

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong, Vanessa?" His voice was even, logical. Already she was feeling foolish for having pulled the scalpel on him. What was wrong with her?

"You're everywhere. At Emilio's, at the hospital, next door. Who are you?"

"Your face is pale. Take a deep breath."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"I'm just worried you're going to pass out and fall on that sharp scalpel," he said patiently.

"Explain yourself." She wasn't going to let him sidetrack her.

"You think I'm a stalker?"

"Are you?"

"Babe, you are gorgeous and sexy as hell, but I don't have to stalk women for attention."

She was definitely feeling foolish now, but she was still so knotted up inside she didn't know how to back down.

"Emilio's and the hospital were just coincidence," he said. "Moving in next door is all part of my job package. Senator Garcia owns the condo. He's letting me stay there to be near the hospital. How many other people who work at Confidential Rejuvenations live in this subdivision?"

She had to admit there were quite a few employees residing here. The condos were just a mile from the hospital and located on a hill that afforded a stunning view of the Colorado River from balcony windows on the second floor.

Before she could decide what to do, a shadow moved behind her and she felt a swish of something against the back of her calves.

Vanessa shrieked. By the time she realized it was Fantasia's tail stroking her legs, it was too late.

Tanner leaped into action. He jumped the short distance across the bathroom floor, and quick as a striking cobra, he wrapped his hand around the wrist that held the scalpel. She tried to fight, but he was just too strong.

He grabbed her chin with his other hand and held her steady. "Vanessa, calm down, you're safe. Look at me."

She didn't want to look at him, but he wasn't letting go. She stared into his piercing blue eyes.

"I am not going to hurt you."

She squirmed, trying to get free.

He put added pressure on her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife. "Attagirl," he murmured, releasing her wrist and confiscating the scalpel. He slid the protective cover back over the blade and tossed it in a drawer.

When he turned his attention back to her, his eyes had darkened. "You're one helluva fighter," he said, and there was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. "But I'm not the enemy."

She was staring at him and he was staring at her. They were breathing in tandem. Rough, jagged gulps of air.

His lips were so close to hers, hard and angular and masculine. From her peripheral vision she could see the navy-blue stitches in his arm. He smelled of antiseptic and toothpaste.

The tugging pull of pleasure-pain burned deep within her. She'd never felt such intense arousal, such raw, aching need. She needed relief and he was the salve.

The next thing Vanessa knew she'd flung her arms around his neck and was kissing him as if it were Armageddon.

He kissed her back fiercely. She'd angled her butt up against the counter. Raising her legs, she wrapped them around his waist and clung on for dear life.

They were like wild things, going at it in primeval mating. He was holding her head between his palms and thrusting his tongue inside her mouth as if he could never be sated no matter how long he drank from her.

Vanessa pulled up the back of his shirt with both hands, and he sort of carried her, sort of danced as they bounced from the bathroom wall to the hallway wall like a pinball.

It was hormonal insanity. That was the only excuse she had for what was happening. She was lust driven and the excitement of the unknown threw fuel on the sexual fire.

Her sex contracted tightly, begging for him.

"I'm so hard for you," he rasped.

As if she couldn't tell. The bulge behind the zipper of his jeans felt like concrete.

She kissed him frantically.

He came back at her like an explosion.

His fingers kneaded her ass, pushing her firmly against his pelvis. When she slipped her tongue into his mouth, he slid his hand underneath her shirt and beneath her bra to pinch an erect nipple lightly.

They slid to the floor and it was only when she saw the beige tiles that she realized they'd somehow made it to the kitchen. The cool ceramic against her back felt both exciting and strangely safe. Smells of onion and garlic and stark human need filled her nostrils, filled her brain, launching her to a whole new height of passion.

"You make me so horny," Tanner said.

She nipped at his bottom lip with her teeth and murmured the same thing back to him, only in Spanish.

"Say something else in Spanish," he said. "It drives me wild."

She complied, telling him in her native tongue just to shut up and do her.

He groaned. "You are so damned sexy," he said, and captured her mouth with his once more.

They were writhing away on the floor when Vanessa noticed Fantasia sat perched with her tail wrapped around her on top of the curio Vanessa had found on her trip to Madrid. She watched them with a detached feline eye.

Vanessa knew if she had to look at the cat for one more second she would burst into a fit of giggles and kill the mood. So she slid half her body out from under Tanner, turned him over on his back and rolled atop of him.

Straddling him, Vanessa unbuttoned his fly and yanked his jeans down below his hips. Heat swamped her when she realized the stud was not sporting any underwear.

She licked her lips at the sight of his flat, rippled abdomen. Tanner was more magnificent than she remembered. His penis jutted up, hard and straight and tall. Throbbing for her.

How she wanted every inch of him inside her!

She stood up to slide her pants and panties down to her ankles in one gliding motion. Then she resumed her straddle, reaching a hand down to touch herself the way she wanted him to touch her, while Tanner watched wide-eyed.

She put her damp fingers over his face and lowered her head to his steely erection. While she ran her tongue around his moist head, he gingerly licked her fingertips, tasting her.

He wrapped his lips around her thumb, down to her knuckle. She sucked him hard, all the way to the bottom of his shaft. She could feel him pulsating against her tongue and she imagined hot ejaculate coursing through his penis. The image thrilled her all the more.

His thigh muscles tightened, his abdominal muscles turned to pure marble. He gripped her wrists tight when he let go. He cried her name hoarsely as she swallowed down his hot male come.

Her feminine core was squeezing so tight she could hardly breathe. She shuddered with desire.

With his sense of urgency spent, Tanner began to tongue her with amazing tenderness, making a slow glide from the sensitive spot behind her knee, around to her kneecap and up her inner thigh until she was rolling in ecstasy.

He kissed lazy circles of heat around her navel and she was transfixed. Finally he edged to the spot where she wanted him to be, at the sweet V between her legs.

When his full, wet lips locked onto her, she imagined she was a succulent summer peach, ripe for the taking.

He sucked at every fold, lapped at her ridges and lifted her buttocks to deliver his meal. An electric flash of brilliant energy lit the inside of her head and all the air rushed from her lungs.

Vanessa's ears throbbed, obliterating all other sounds. She thrust herself against his mouth, gripped the sides of his head with her thighs, letting her juices flow.

Tanner released his hold but wouldn't remove his tongue from her twitching clit. His tongue danced with it, wriggling nimbly around and around until she moved from easy chacha to frenetic tango in no time.

Her skin was incredibly sensitive, her body tingling and tender. She tried to push him away—it was simply too much pleasure—but he stayed put, pushing his tongue deep inside her, then out and down to the region beyond.

This new sensation drove her crazy. He sucked and lapped and swirled in a fury, wetting her down with his saliva and her own juices. Then, when he sensed her second climax, he dived his index finger into her aching behind.

Bull's-eye.

Her muscles flexed. She saw blinding flashes of light, heard the rushing sound of ocean waves in her head. Uncontrollable spasms rattled her body.

She didn't know where she was or who she was with. Who was she? Woman or creature?

In delicious anguish, she cried out her delight.

He rocked back on his heels, clasped her to his chest and held her tight, his hand threaded in her hair until her heart calmed.

Then, when she had rested, he made love to her again, sinking his flesh into hers. He was her lover and he wanted her desperately and she wanted him right back with the same high-octane intensity.

The entire time he made love to her, he stared deeply into her eyes as if he was lost in her gaze and could not find his way out. They were locked.

Mated.

Both trembling and clinging to each other.

His cock filled her up, pushing deep inside of her until he could go no farther, then he pulled back. In and out, he moved in a smooth rhythm that rocked her soul. He rode her, she rode him until they both came in a searing white blinding light.

## 6

SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING to Tanner, something he'd never experienced. He didn't know if he welcomed or feared the feelings stirring deep inside him. What he did know was this thing between him and Vanessa transcended the boundaries of sexual attraction, but he wasn't ready for these emotions. He was still raw from his relationship with Maria, yet dammit, part of him wanted to try.

You can't. Not as long as you have to lie to her.

Thing of it was, she really needed him. Vanessa was wound so tight she'd practically attacked him with a scalpel because she thought her safety was in jeopardy. It was almost as if she suffered post-traumatic stress disorder. What had happened to her and why did she view him as the enemy?

That she saw him as a threat bothered him.

A lot.

Propped up with his back against the kitchen island, Tanner held her in his arms, felt her body trembling with pleasure and the power of her release. They were skin to skin, body to body. Him, hard muscles; her, soft curves.

It had been four years since he'd felt a connection like this. He'd missed it. He savored the closeness, his mind holding on to the memory of just how great intimacy could be.

"Wow," Vanessa breathed, and idly curled her fingers through his chest hairs. "What was that?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"You were amazing. I've never had...no one...never two at one time..." she murmured.

"Are you trying to tell me that was the first time you ever had multiple orgasms?"

"Uh-huh."

She was sitting naked in his lap, her bare bottom against his thighs, her hair curling over his arm. Tanner lowered his head and kissed her lightly.

Lips touched. Tongues greeted. Teeth nipped.

He breathed in the taste of her. Earthy red wine. Polished grapes. Inside, his heart expanded, then contracted, beating just for her.

"Mmm," she purred and reached up to stroke the line of his jaw.

Pulling her lips from his, she ran her hot little mouth over his chin. He tilted back his head as she worked her way down his neck to his Adam's apple.

She softly bit down. It tickled.

Tanner chuckled.

"I like making you laugh," she said.

"Half an hour ago you were ready to slice me to pieces," he said. "And now you like making me laugh?"

"What can I say?" Her eyes glistened and she gave a casual shrug. "I'm mercurial."

"Seriously, Vanessa. I want you to know you can trust me," he said as sincerely as he could.

"Ah," she teased, "but can you trust me?"

"I feel that I can, yes. So how about it?"

"I want to trust you."

"That's good." He kissed her forehead.

"Your arm," she said. "I forgot. How is it?"

In the heat of their lovemaking, he, too, had forgotten about his wound, forgotten his belongings were strewn over the lawn, but now that she mentioned it, the damned cut was throbbing. "I'll live."

Vanessa uncurled herself from his lap and got to her feet. He couldn't take his eyes off her firm, high breasts. God, she was stunning.

"Come on," she said and extended her hand to him. "A glass of wine should take the edge right off the pain. Doctor's orders."

He really should go pick up his things off the lawn, instead he took her hand and let her pull him up. He liked that she was so tall and could look him straight in the eyes without tilting up her head.

Still gloriously naked, she moved to the counter, took the stopper from a bottle of red wine and poured two half glasses. No two ways about it, the woman intrigued him. Vanessa could be as commanding as a general one minute, as sensual as a cat the next. She was complex and he wanted to know more about her. Like why she was so guarded in life, but so uninhibited when it came to sex.

Vanessa led the way into her living room, decorated sparsely but tastefully in beiges and light browns. Her couch was leather, her coffee table brass and glass. She curled up on the couch, tugging her long legs up underneath her and covering her lap with a fat pecan colored throw pillow.

Tanner sat beside her, his dick half hard again. He opted for a lap pillow himself. A smile lifted the corners of her lips, flashing straight white teeth as she brought the wineglass up for a sip.

The minx.

She knew exactly what she was doing to him. It was all he could do to keep from plunking his glass on the coffee table, closing the distance between them and making love to her all over again.

To hide his desire, he took a long swallow of wine. Sweet, mellow warmth curled down his throat to his stomach and beyond. Another swallow washed away the stinging in his arm.

And then something shocking occurred to him. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten to use a condom. Protection had never entered his lust-soaked mind. He set down his wineglass, pressed his hands against the pillow in his lap. "Vanessa, we forgot...I forgot..."

"Uh-huh?"

"To use protection," he finished, stunned by his own stupidity. It wasn't like him. He'd never done anything so spontaneous and irresponsible.

"Don't worry. I'm on the Pill."

"But there's other things."

"I keep tabs on my health."

"Me, too," he said. "I did have a complete physical a year ago. Got the all clear on STDs."

"A lot can happen in a year."

"Not with me. I haven't had..." He swallowed. "Since my wife...that is until you."

"Let me get this straight," she said as she slowly ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass in a rhythmic circular motion. "You haven't been with anyone except your wife until you met me?"

"That's right."

"How long has that been?"

"Four years," he admitted.

"You've been celibate four whole years?" She sounded shocked.

"I had a tough time after my wife died." Tanner was surprised he was talking to her about it. He hardly ever talked about Maria, because it was so difficult. "Some guys go off the deep end, have lots of sex. I just wasn't interested before now. Before you."

Would admitting that scare her off? he wondered.

"You're a widower."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

She didn't ask how it had happened the way most people did when they found out about Maria. He was glad for that because he didn't know if he could talk about it with Vanessa, but it felt as if he should say something else.

"She was Latino," he said. "Like you."

"Really?" Vanessa arched an eyebrow. "So you have a type. Do I remind you of her? Is that the attraction?"

He shook his head. "Not at all."

Initially, at Emilio's, she'd reminded him a little of Maria, but since he'd gotten to know Vanessa he'd discovered she and Maria were nothing alike. His wife had been a bit scattered in her thinking. A ditz, her family had called her lovingly. Sweet, impulsive, trusting Maria was the kind of person who never met a stranger. That had been her fatal flaw—assuming everyone was as guileless as she was. She could have used some of Vanessa's suspiciousness.

With Vanessa's face bathed in lamplight, he noticed the planes of her high cheekbones, the faint frown line between her eyebrows. Her face told him what he'd already guessed. Here was a woman who'd never lost herself to love. A woman who was terrified to let herself go. What made him think he could crack the code to her heart?

She slipped a strand of dark brown hair behind an ear and canted her head at him. She gazed at him for a long time without saying anything. In the tension of the moment it was all Tanner could to do to keep from staring at her bare breasts.

"Do you still miss her?"

Tanner nodded, his chest tight. Maria had been the love of his life and he didn't believe that lightning could strike twice, yet there was something about Vanessa that had him questioning his beliefs. What if a guy could be lucky enough to have two great loves in one lifetime?

Love? Are you out of your freaking mind? It's bad enough that you're having sex with the woman you're supposed to be guarding. Falling in love with her isn't a possibility.

"Losing your wife must have been rough."

"Worst thing that ever happened to me," he confessed. Tanner realized this was the most he'd ever talked about Maria since the funeral. He didn't know if that was good or bad.

"You must have loved her very much." She sounded wistful.

"We had something great." He nodded. "But life has a way of kicking the crap out of your hopes and dreams. Things happen. Circumstances change." He paused, thinking about the past.

"Yeah," she whispered, with a faraway look on her face that had him wondering if she'd lost someone she cared about.

"Have you ever been in love?" he found himself asking.

She gave a short laugh. "You mean with something other than medicine? I'm afraid not."

"Why not? You're a beautiful, sexy woman. I'm sure you have men falling at your feet."

"I can't afford the distraction. It takes full concentration to become a surgeon," she said.

"Is this your last year as a resident?"

"It is."

"So you've kept your relationships casual."

Her eyes met his. "Exactly." Her meaning was clear. Don't get any ideas that you're not dispensable.

"Any plans to change that when you're no longer a resident?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." She yawned. He could tell it was faked. "It's getting late."

His cue to exit, but Tanner didn't want to leave. "I'd like to stay the night," he said.

All the better to watch over you.

"I don't think that would be such a hot idea." She got up and moved to the kitchen.

"No? Why not?" Tanner couldn't stop watching her curvaceous hips sway as she walked. He stood and followed her.

Vanessa bent to scoop his clothes up off the floor and then shoved them into his arms. "Look, I have an early surgery in the morning. Having you stay the night would be a distraction I can't afford. I wouldn't get any sleep."

"Is that the only reason?"

"I like to sleep alone."

"Have you ever tried sleeping with someone? Really sleeping?"

"No," she admitted. "All the more reason not to start now."

"You're an independent woman, I've gotta give you that."

She smiled. He could see she took it as a compliment. He wondered exactly how long she'd been this lonely. "If you need anything, anything at all, I'm right next door."

The reminder of his proximity brought the suspicious look back on her face. "As if I could forget something like that."

Tanner dressed. "I had a good time."

"Me, too," she admitted, donning her own clothes.

He leaned in to kiss her and the conflicted expression in her dark eyes told him she wanted to resist him. He puckered.

She waited.

But at last she gave in. Her lips met his in a tentative kiss.

"What are we doing?" she murmured, her words creating a tickly vibration against his mouth.

"Kissing."

"Beyond that?"

"Nothing," he lied as they moved together down the hallway to her front door. "You're a busy doctor and I'm having my first fling after losing my wife."

She licked her lips, clearly liking his answer. "So you think we could keep doing this for a while?"

"What? Having sex?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like that very much."

"Me, too."

"Well..." Tanner paused. "How does this work? I'm just getting back into the game."

"You'll need to have those stitches removed in ten days," she said, a knowing grin on her face. "Why don't you give me a call then?"

Ten days, Tanner thought as Vanessa shut the door behind him. Ten tortuous days until he could make love to her again. How the hell was he going to make it so long without her?

AFTER TANNER LEFT, Vanessa paced the kitchen, uncertain what to do about the feelings jumping around inside her. She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to calm down. Fantasia, sensing her jumbled mood, paced, too, stalking the kitchen like a miniature leopard on the hunt, all black and sleek.

Vanessa made herself a pot of coffee and downed a cup to shake the cobwebs of great sex and wine from her mind. She took a shower, washing the smell of Tanner off her body, hoping that would make her stop thinking about what he'd done to her. She cleaned up the bathroom, putting away her medical supplies, getting rid of all evidence that he'd been in her condo.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop the montage of images flipping through her head as she relived every delicious moment of their savage lovemaking. They'd needed each other.

Badly.

It was damned scary how hungry they'd been for each other's bodies. Grappling, groping, hanging on for dear life. What was even scarier was that she'd green-lighted an affair with him. Not so smart when they were working in the same place, living next door to each other.

She blew-dry her hair in front of the mirror. The coincidences still bothered her and were suspicious maybe, but in spite of it, Tanner made her feel safe in a way she could neither explain nor rationalize. What would happen when their red-hot love affair ran its course and she had to see Tanner at work every morning, had to live next door to him?

Maybe by then she would have finished her residency and moved on to a new hospital, a new opportunity, even a new town.

But the thought of leaving her friends and the hospital saddened her in a way she hadn't expected. Confidential Rejuvenations had an almost magical energy to it. The minute she'd walked into the place, she'd felt the power. It had certainly helped to heal her. From its white, natural stone walls to the elaborate stained-glass window in the reception hall to the interesting architectural archways, Confidential Rejuvenations promised a respite from the hectic world beyond the privacy hedges.

She loved her job, loved the people she worked with. No doubt about it, the hospital was her home, the people in it her surrogate family. She had no contact with her real family, nor did she want any. They hadn't been there for her when she'd needed them most.

The only person who'd helped her had been the mysterious benefactor who'd stepped forward to pay her way through college and then medical school after Carlo Vega's trial. At first, Vanessa had not wanted to take the anonymous donations offered to her through a lawyer; she'd been skeptical. No one in her life had ever helped her without some kind of strings attached. But her dream of being a doctor had gnawed at her until, eventually, she'd accepted the money. To her surprise, the benefactor had never made a single demand on her other than to do well in her studies.

She'd never met the person. She still didn't know who it was. She hoped to find out who this individual was someday and thank him or her for their generosity.

And what of Tanner? whispered a voice in the back of her mind. This casual fling might be just fine for her, but what about his feelings? She was the first woman he'd slept with in four years. The first woman he'd been with since his wife died. There was bound to be some kind of attachment on his part.

That disturbed her more than anything else. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him, but she wasn't responsible for his well-being. He was a big boy. She hadn't led him on in any way. In fact, she'd pulled a scalpel on him.

Vanessa groaned, remembering what she'd done and turned off the blow-dryer. What if he fell in love with her? Worse, what if she fell in love with him and she turned out to be nothing more than the rebound girl for him?

Come on, aren't you jumping the gun? Falling in love? All you two have done is share some great sex.

But what if she could have that kind of rip-roaring sex for the rest of her life? Her pulse leaped at the thought.

"Knock it off," she said out loud, but she couldn't stop thinking, what if?

Although it was late, she thought about calling Elle. She was the voice of calm, rational reason, whereas Julie was a starry-eyed romantic, but Vanessa paused. Elle and Dante were still newly together, and Vanessa hated the thought of interrupting something.

Rubbing coconut-scented lotion into her hands, she went to the foyer to retrieve her cell phone from her purse and call Julie.

"Hello?" Julie answered.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I filled in for someone on the swing shift," Julie said. "I just got home from work. What's up?"

"Um, where are we meeting for lunch next week?" Vanessa hedged.

"You called me at eleven-thirty to ask about lunch next week?"

Julie knew her too well. Whenever she needed someone to talk to she always turned to either Elle or Julie. They were like sisters. "No," she admitted.

"Is this about that guy?"

Darn Julie and her uncanny ability to ferret out romance in the air. "Yes, it is," she conceded.

"Did you see him again?"

Vanessa ran her fingers through her hair. This was why she called but now that the conversation was rolling, she wanted to back out. Unfortunately, the scent of juicy romance was like a soup bone to a hungry pup for Julie. Her friend wasn't about to let this go.

"It's a little bit more complicated than that."

Julie whooped. "You had sex with him again."

"You don't have to sound so tickled about it."

"Why not? You deserve something good."

"That's not all of it." Through the phone Vanessa heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening, the plop of ice falling into a glass, the pop and fizz of a soda being poured. Julie was a diet cola fiend.

"Ooh, tell me more. How did you find him again? I thought you said you two just exchanged first names. Did you go back to Emilio's?"

"No."

"Are you going to make me pry this out of you?"

"It's not important."

"Come on, I'd tell you."

"I don't want it getting around Confidential Rejuvenations," she said.

"He works at the hospital?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Oh, come on, you have to tell me now."

Vanessa realized she wanted to tell her. Needed to share this experience with someone. "He's the new head of security."

"Omigosh." Julie laughed. "The whole hospital is buzzing about what a hunk Tanner Doyle is and you landed him. You sly woman, you."

"It gets worse." She moaned. "He moved into the condo next door."

"So?"

Vanessa swallowed, hating to confess her thoughts even to her friend. "So I like him too much."

"And that's bad because...?"

"Julie, have you not met me? I don't do relationships," she said.

"You know, I've never understood that."

"It's because you've never been to medical school." The minute the words were out of her mouth, Vanessa regretted them. She didn't think doctors were better than nurses, but she knew nurses were often treated as second to physicians in the medical hierarchy. The truth was, no hospital could function without dedicated nurses. Doctors got all the glory when the nurses did ninety percent of the patient care. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"You're right," Julie said, forgiveness in her voice. "Medical school requires a degree of commitment that I've never experienced. But other doctors fall in love, have relationships and get married. Many of them while they're still interns and residents."

"Quite often, unsuccessfully," Vanessa pointed out and drummed her fingers on the counter.

"You make a good point, but you're using your work as an excuse."

That was true. Vanessa blew out her breath.

"What are you so afraid of?" Julie asked.

"Losing everything."

"You're not going to lose your career if you let yourself fall in love," Julie said sensibly.

Vanessa wasn't just talking about her career. She'd spent too many years under the thumb of controlling men and she was terrified she would fall back into old patterns. "I'm afraid of losing my independence."

"You don't have to. In fact, if you're with a guy who really loves you he'll admire and respect your independent nature."

"In my experience that's not the way it works."

"Look at Elle and Dante. They have a great relationship," Julie pointed out.

"Dante's different from most guys."

"Who says Tanner isn't different, too?"

"Come on, let's be realistic. A doctor and a security guard? I mean what do we have in common besides sex?"

"That's up to you to discover. Besides, it's true what they say—opposites attract. Think of it as balancing each other out. He can provide you with the kind of security you never had growing up and you can provide him with—"

"What? What can I possibly give a man like that?" Besides the hot sex of course.

"Loyalty."

"Loyalty?"

"You're the most loyal person I know. Yes, it takes you a long time to warm up to people, but once you're committed to them, you're committed." Julie paused. "Maybe that's the real issue."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe you're afraid to commit to anyone because once you do, you know it'll be forever."

Vanessa inhaled sharply. "I'm not afraid of anything," she denied, hearing her own words ring false.

Julie mumbled something Vanessa didn't catch, but she could imagine what it was.

"Thanks for listening to me," Vanessa said. "I'll let you go to bed now."

"There are nice guys out there, Nessa. Guys who won't hurt you when you give them your all."

Easy for Julie to say. She'd been raised in a happy, middle-class, Leave It To Beaver kind of family—honest, committed, loving. She had no clue what it was like to spend your childhood in the barrio dodging gang members' drive-by bullets and sexual advances from your lecherous stepfather.

"Tanner and I are just having fun," Vanessa said. "It's not even a relationship. This affair will burn out soon enough and then it will be over. We're grown-ups. We'll handle it like adults."

"Sure, sure," Julie said, but she didn't sound convinced. "If that's the way you really want it. Me, I'd rather take a chance on love, even if it means that I end up with egg on my face."

"Like you did with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named," Vanessa said, referring to Julie's last lover, who she'd discovered too late was a married man.

Julie's swallow was audible. "Yeah."

"You're saying all the heartache was worth it?" Vanessa challenged.

"I'm saying the gamble is worth it. Life is short. It's either a daring adventure or nothing."

"Thanks for that fortune-cookie moment."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Julie laughed.

Vanessa pretended to yawn, using the same ploy she'd pulled on Tanner to get out of an uncomfortable conversation. "I better get some sleep. I have a 7:00 a.m. case."

"Nessa?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it be so bad if this thing between you and Tanner developed into something more?"

Vanessa let herself imagine the possibilities for one brief, hopeful moment. It sounded good, but she couldn't help wondering what he would think of her if he knew the real Vanessa. She was afraid to take that chance. Afraid to see the disappointment—or worse, disgust—in his eyes. She shook her head. "It's not a road I want to go down. Just the thought of it has my knees shaking."

"That's what love does to you," Julie said. "It's why they say falling in love makes you weak in the knees."

"Lucky for me," Vanessa said glibly. "I've always had strong knees."

SLEEP ELUDED TANNER.

The clock he'd plugged into the wall socket beside the mattress thrown haphazardly onto the floor glowed green, letting him know it was 2:36 a.m. Heaving in a deep breath, he cradled his head in his palms and stared up at the ceiling.

Every nerve ending in his body was tuned tight as piano wire. The wound on his arm burned. His inner thighs ached from the wild, and unexpected, sexual activity. But worst of all, his mind felt as if it had fractured into a hundred jigsaw pieces that wouldn't fit back together again, no matter which way he turned and twisted his thoughts.

He hadn't felt this alive, this edgy in years. Tanner equally loved and hated the sensation. He tasted his regret, swallowed frustration. What in the hell was happening to him? He didn't like the way Vanessa unhinged his thinking.

Unhinged him.

And yet he couldn't stop dreaming about her. Just when he was about to fall asleep, he'd catch a whiff of her orchid perfume or hear the feral sounds she'd made in the middle of their lovemaking. He could see into the gut-clenching bottomless abyss of her dark chocolate eyes, and he'd actually felt...like a man again.

God, but Vanessa Rodriquez knew how to make love.

Tanner allowed himself to think about it, about the shape of her mouth, about her long, slender fingers, the feel of her incredible body writhing beneath his. He knew he should be sleeping instead of getting a fresh boner all over again.

That's when the guilt set in.

It came at him from two directions, barreling down like speeding 18-wheelers headed straight for each other, and he stood frozen in the middle of the intersection.

He had always been a dutiful man, doing what was expected of him, toeing the line, never stepping out of bounds. Maria had often teased him when he refused to break even the smallest of laws, like not wearing a seat belt for a quick trip to the corner store. She called him her Eagle Scout. He never crossed the kind of boundaries he'd crossed with Vanessa. He didn't know what possessed him, or why he hadn't been able to stop himself.

An affair with Vanessa broke all the rules and that only made him want her more. Confusion had him sitting up on the mattress, propping his shoulder against the wall.

Being with her breathed fresh air into his stagnant lungs. Where had being a good guy ever gotten him?

Then there was the guilt that haunted him over Maria. He couldn't help feeling as if he was cheating on her.

He pushed up from the mattress, walked naked into the living room where the broken packing crate sat, the contents he'd scooped off the front lawn scattered across the carpet. Flicking on the light, he combed through his keepsake box, unearthing his Eagle Scout good conduct medal. That made him smile. If his old troop leader could see him now, he'd strip him of the medal. Tanner's conduct lately had been nothing short of dangerous.

He put the medal aside and kept digging until he found what he was looking for—the framed picture of him and Maria on their wedding day.

They looked so damned happy.

Maria was beautiful in her wedding gown, her dark hair curling down her shoulders, her eyes sparkling. His eyes were on her, even though he was supposed to be looking at the camera.

Tanner traced an index finger over their smiling faces. Stupid fools, not knowing what was ahead of them. He curled his hands around the frame, clutching it tight, thinking of everything he'd lost. For the longest time he'd been caught in a black fog, putting one foot in front of the other just to survive, going through the motions of daily living without being alive. Trudging toward an empty future.

Alone.

Thinking of all he'd been through had him closing his eyes, pressing his lips together. Tanner braced himself for the flood of despair, but the usual grief he felt did not ambush him with abject misery. Instead, he experienced an unlikely sense of calm.

Opening his eyes, he stared again at the photograph. It felt as if he was looking at total strangers.

Detachment, tranquil and unexpected, settled over him.

He was no longer that man in the picture and Maria was gone forever. Suddenly this calm feeling worried him. Where was the anger and grief he'd nursed inside his heart for four long years?

He tried to conjure it up. Tried to force the anguish. But he could no longer summon the anger nor the grief nor the black depression. They'd vanished, and in their place was a quiet feeling of acceptance.

Was this it? The place his friends and family had told him he'd eventually find? Serenity in the face of reality?

Maria was gone.

There was no need to feel guilty. Or angry. Or depressed. Or aggrieved. Emotions wouldn't change the facts. Time had marched on.

It disturbed him. He felt as if he'd lost something important but necessary. Blowing out his breath, Tanner put the picture down, went to the kitchen for a glass of water and then walked out onto the back patio to peer at the condo next door.

The lights were out.

As he stared at Vanessa's condo, he felt something new. Longing, wistfulness, hope.

You can't have her. She's off-limits.

He turned and went back into the house, more confused than ever. He might want Vanessa, but he couldn't have her. No matter how badly he might want to do so, he could not make love to her again. The affair had to end. He couldn't do right by her otherwise and at the moment, she needed his protection more than his love.

Tomorrow he would tell her their affair was over.

His decision made, Tanner went back into the house and fell into a hard, dreamless sleep.

## 7

ON THE HEELS of her conversation with Julie the night before, Vanessa awoke with the resolve to stoke her affair with Tanner so high and hot it had no choice but to burn out. By the time she'd finished her early-morning surgery and the patient was in recovery, she had a plan of attack in mind.

When Tanner had started at Confidential Rejuvenations he'd issued everyone a card with his cell phone number. After doffing her blue surgery cap and matching paper shoe covers, she plunked down on the bench in the female surgeons' locker room and sent him a text message.

You're needed in surgical locker room 2, stat. Vanessa.

Fortunately she was the only female surgeon operating today. They'd have the locker room to themselves.

Her pulse thudded. She'd never done anything like this on the job and the excitement revved her blood. Seconds later, she heard the sound of shoes running in the corridor. The door to the locker room swung open and Tanner came barreling inside. His hair was mussed, his eyes wide with concern as if someone had just delivered him some terrible news and he was trying to escape it.

He stared at her. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Are you all right?"

"Now that you're here," she said, giving him her most arresting smile.

"What is it?" He broke their eye contact to gaze around the room, searching for trouble. "What's the emergency?"

Vanessa crossed the room toward him, suddenly fearing she'd made a miscalculation. He didn't seem at all in the mood for a frantic, furtive locker room quickie.

"This," she said, sliding her arms around his neck and kissing him.

Tanner stiffened under her embrace and he did not kiss her back.

Vanessa realized then she'd made a big mistake. He removed her arms from around his shoulders.

"Was that what the stat text was all about? Nothing but a booty call?" He glowered.

Chagrined, she stepped back. Okay, now she knew why she'd never done anything impulsive like this before. It was stupid.

"Dammit, Vanessa," he growled, and the intensity of his anger snapping in his blue eyes took her aback. "I thought something had happened to you."

"I just thought—"

"You didn't think. That's the problem. You scared the hell out of me."

Feeling more hurt than if he'd slapped her, she turned away. Her eyes stung and she blinked hard. Oh please, she was not going to cry just because he'd rejected her. "Sorry, go back to work."

"Vanessa." His voice was now gentler, softer.

"It's all right." She shrugged, still not looking at him. "You're right. My behavior was completely inappropriate and unprofessional."

"No, no. I was too harsh. I just feared something bad had happened to you and my mind wasn't in the same place as yours," Tanner said.

"Clearly."

"Look at me."

She finally dared to look at him. He had a wistful expression on his face that knotted her stomach. What was she doing? What had she been thinking? "You better get back to work," she murmured.

"Vanessa..."

"Yes?"

"What are we doing?"

She shook her head. "If you don't know, I certainly don't."

"Last night—"

She jumped in before he could say the words. "Was a mistake."

"We're co-workers," he said.

"Confidential Rejuvenations is a fishbowl and a hotbed of gossip," Vanessa added, miserably reading his mind. It was only natural that a place that kept so many secrets would harbor speculation and rumors.

"You're a doctor. You don't need anything tarnishing your reputation."

"Yeah." He was so damned right it hurt. She raised her palms. "Please forget it ever happened. I'm going to."

"Are you talking about right now? Or last night?"

"All of it. Right now, last night, Emilio's, everything." She forced a laugh. "Apparently we've both got a lot to sort through."

"I wish things were different."

"Me, too," she said. Then before things got to be more than she could handle, she moved to her locker. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to change for office hours."

He nodded, but she could tell he wanted to say more. "We'll talk. Tonight. After work."

"I don't think that would be such a good idea." She had her head stuck in her locker, and didn't even know he was gone until she heard the door whisper closed. Mortified at what she had done, Vanessa sank back down onto the bench and dropped her head into her hands.

Way to go Rodriquez.

What was the matter with her? Why did she feel so mixed-up? Normally she was self-assured, comfortable in her own skin, but something about Tanner shook her up in a way no one ever had before.

Hurriedly she changed clothes and left the locker room. It was almost lunch, but she didn't feel like eating. Unfortunately she and Elle were supposed to have lunch at the little French sandwich bistro that rented out a space on the ground floor of Confidential Rejuvenations. Since the quickie with Tanner hadn't gone according to plan, she arrived at the restaurant several minutes early.

Maxine Woodbury, the sixty-something emergency room ward clerk motioned her over from a table in the corner. "Yoo-hoo, Vanessa."

Vanessa didn't know the woman well, but she'd been at Confidential Rejuvenations since they'd opened the doors fifteen years ago. Seated beside Maxine was Vanessa's scrub nurse, Chloe Garcia.

She wandered over. "Hello, Maxine, Chloe."

"Elle told me to relay that she'll be along in a bit. She had a meeting run late," Maxine said.

"Thanks for letting me know."

"Why don't you join us until she gets here?" Maxine smiled and pushed out a chair.

The last thing Vanessa wanted to do was make idle chitchat after what had happened—or rather not happened—with Tanner, but she didn't want to hurt Maxine's feelings by sitting at a vacant table all by herself.

"Sure, thanks." Vanessa sat down.

"How was your morning?" Maxine chirped gaily.

"Successful cleft palate repair."

"You did an amazing job," Chloe said. "Vanessa is a fabulous surgeon. You should see her in action, Maxine."

"Thanks." Vanessa nodded at the scrub nurse. Chloe had only been working at Confidential Rejuvenations for a few months. She was right out of nursing school and still learning. She was a sturdily built girl, with lank blond hair, a moon-shaped face and pale skin. She didn't talk much in the OR, but she watched everything. "You're really turning into an excellent scrub nurse."

"You know how to command an operating room," Chloe said. "You take over like it belongs to you."

"Well, I wouldn't say I take over." Vanessa laughed. "But there's a reason surgeons are known for their ego. If we weren't confident in our abilities, we'd have a hard time saving lives."

"No room for self-doubt, huh?"

"Something like that."

"You ever have anything go wrong on a case?" Chloe asked.

"We've all had errors in judgment."

"Anyone ever die because of a mistake you made?" Even though the girl said it lightly, there was a ghoulish quality to her voice that made Vanessa uneasy.

"I've been fortunate. No one's ever died on my table."

"I tried to get into medical school," Chloe said wistfully, her pale blue eyes taking on a truculent expression. "But my grades weren't good enough."

"You could retake some basic courses, try to raise your GPA," Vanessa suggested. It's what she would have done if she hadn't aced her premed courses and the MCAT exam. Once the way had been paved by the tuition gift from her anonymous benefactor, she'd been determined to become a doctor, no matter what. In a field where the majority of student studied diligently, Vanessa had been renowned for her work ethic.

Chloe shrugged. "It's too hard. Takes too much time. I like having a life, you know?"

Honestly, Vanessa didn't know. After her childhood, she hadn't wanted any life except that of being a surgeon and helping people. She'd rarely dated since college. Medical school hadn't left a spare moment for a personal life. She'd had a few sexual relationships with some of her fellow doctors, but those encounters had been about physical release and nothing else.

That was the kind of relationship she had been trying to have with Tanner, but it just wasn't working out the way she planned. After this morning, she'd quickly realized that it was all or nothing with him. She'd either have to be in a real relationship or forget him.

Sadness weighted her bones, sagged her shoulders. She didn't want to forget about him, but neither was she ready to commit to anything. It was too soon. She had too many doubts. She'd never had feelings like this before and she was afraid to trust them.

"Now, Chloe," Maxine said. "It's easier for you. You're young and your father has money. You don't have to live and die for Confidential Rejuvenations the way we do. Right, Dr. Rodriquez?" Maxine reached across the table to pat Vanessa's hand.

The gray-haired ward clerk's comment startled Vanessa. She made her life sound so...lonely.

But her life wasn't lonely. She had friends and her work was fulfilling. She was so busy she often felt guilty for not spending more time with Fantasia. She had no place in her schedule for loneliness.

Sounds like a rationalization to me.

Before Vanessa could respond, Elle plunked down in the chair beside her. "Sorry I'm late. Have you ordered yet?"

She glanced at her friend. Elle's cheeks were glowing and her eyes were bright. Ever since she hooked up with Dante, Elle looked so vibrant. Is that what love did for you? "Not yet."

"Oh, good," Elle said. "I'm starving. Wanna split the turkey club?"

"Sounds good." Vanessa nodded, but she wasn't listening to Elle. She was thinking about what Maxine had said.

"Nice visiting with you, Dr. R.," Maxine said as she and Chloe stood to go. "See you back in the trenches, Elle. Toodles." Maxine waved as she and Chloe left the restaurant.

Vanessa forced a smile for her friend and asked her how her morning had been, but long after Maxine had gone, she kept turning over in her mind what the ward clerk had said.

Was it true? Did she live and die for Confidential Rejuvenations? The answer, she feared, was a resounding yes.

A GLITCH WITH THE CAMERAS on the second floor of the main hospital corridor took Tanner's mind off Vanessa for fifteen minutes. It was the only time during the entire day he hadn't been thinking about her.

He'd bungled her seduction and he was sorry for hurting her feelings, but dammit, she'd taken him by surprise. He'd been rattled when he had arrived in the locker room, thinking something had happened to her on his watch, only to find her standing in a red bra and panties with a come-hither smile.

Tanner's gut tightened as he recalled the look of embarrassment and hurt on her face when he'd rejected her. What was the matter with him?

It's your job to watch over her. You can't do your job if you're emotionally involved.

Who was he kidding? He was already emotionally involved. Had been from the moment she'd asked him to dance at Emilio's and he'd accepted.

Once the cameras were working again and he'd confirmed it via walkie-talkie with the control center, Tanner made up his mind to try to smooth things over with Vanessa. He left the hospital and walked the short distance across the asphalt to the doctors' offices. He entered the building through the back entrance, not wanting to move among the patients in the waiting room lobby.

The door to her office was closed.

He hesitated, hand poised to knock. What if she was in with a patient? Maybe he should go away and come back later.

Part of him wanted to turn around and leave, but the part of him that faced challenges head-on wasn't going anywhere. He'd come to talk to her and that's what he was going to do. Even if he had to wait.

His mind made up, Tanner knocked.

No answer.

He waited a few seconds then knocked again.

"Hailey, could you give me just a minute?" Vanessa called out. She thought he was the receptionist.

To the casual listener, she might have sounded totally composed. But Tanner was trained to catch the nuances in voices and body language. He heard the high, stringy quality in her tone even though she was trying to cloak it. She was stressed.

Something had upset her.

Without stopping to consider whether his intervention would be welcome or not, Tanner grasped the door knob, turned it and stepped over the threshold.

Vanessa was seated behind the desk he'd rearranged. Her eyes were too bright, her jaw clenched, her color pale.

Immediately he knew that something had happened. He closed the door behind him.

"Tanner." Vanessa's voice cracked sharply as she rose to her feet. "What do you want?"

Hellhounds couldn't have kept him from her. He was across the room in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't be here. Why are you here? Dammit, Tanner, I'm so glad you're here."

"What's wrong?" he repeated, taking her by the elbow and drawing her into his arms. "Did someone hurt you?"

"No," she said. "Not yet."

"You've been threatened."

She nodded. Even in her moment of vulnerability she managed to look cool and controlled. Her hair was twisted up in a sleek hairstyle. Her sweater clung to her, molding her breasts. But for all her sophistication, she was disconcerted. He could feel it running through her body like discharged lightning. She was trembling and that scared him more than anything.

"Who? When?" Tanner gritted his teeth. "I'll kill the bastard."

She drew in a shaky breath and looked at him with a worried gaze that made him want to punch someone hard. "You'll have to figure out who he or she is first."

"What do you mean?"

"I got an e-mail."

"Let me see."

She pulled away from him, sat down in her chair and clicked her computer mouse. Tanner moved to stand behind her.

She called up the e-mail from the trash bin. He noticed the address was a bogus one favored by spammers that made it difficult to trace the source of the e-mail. The subject header read: Dr. Rodriquez, your life is in danger.

Tanner's stomach churned.

Exhaling, Vanessa opened the mail and slumped back in her chair. Instinctively, Tanner's hands massaged her shoulders gently, as he leaned over to read the note.

You think you're so high and mighty. You think you're so untouchable. Well I know the truth. I know who you really are. Watch out, bitch. Your next step could be your last.

Vanessa's shoulders tensed beneath his hands.

"You have no idea who wrote this?"

She hesitated just long enough for Tanner to know she was lying when she said, "No."

He knew she suspected it was Carlo Vega. He suspected it was Vega, but he couldn't tell her any of this—Garcia had sworn him to secrecy. "A disgruntled patient? Jilted ex-boyfriend? Someone from your past?"

She shook her head. "I've never been sued. There's no jilted ex-boyfriend and as far as my past is concerned..."

Was she going to tell him about Vega? Tanner held his breath waiting.

Vanessa didn't finish the sentence. "I don't know who sent it."

"Forward it to my e-mail address," he said. "I'll run a trace and see if I can find the original Internet provider where the e-mail originated."

"You know how to do that?"

"I'm in security."

"I'll take that as a yes." She gave him a weak smile, punched the keyboard and forwarded the e-mail to his address.

"It's probably just some random hoax," he said trying to make her feel better.

"Hopefully," she murmured, but clearly she didn't buy it.

"Or some kid messing around. The new millennium equivalent of a prank phone call."

"It was addressed to me," she said. "That doesn't feel random."

"Think about it for a moment. There's no one you suspect that could have sent you the e-mail?" He paused, giving her time, hoping she'd tell him about Vega. Wishing she trusted him enough to confide in him.

"No one."

Disappointment curled up tight in his chest. She valued her secrets more than her own life. But what did he expect from her? She didn't trust him. That much was clear.

"Don't rush it. Take your time."

"Do you think this could be related to the other weird things that have been happening at Confidential Rejuvenations?" she asked.

"As far as I'm aware, no one else has gotten a threatening e-mail, but maybe they're not taking it seriously, or have deleted it as spam or are simply too afraid to talk about it."

"But it could be connected to whomever is trying to sabotage the hospital's reputation?"

"Anything is possible. I'll check into it."

"Tanner?" Her voice was stronger, clearer.

His eyes met her direct gaze. "Yes?"

"Why did you come to my office?"

His body tensed. Something about the way she was looking at him put him on alert. "To talk to you."

She gripped the armrests of her chair. "What about?"

"Is something else bothering you?"

"You always seem to turn up at just the right time."

"What do you mean?"

"You were at Emilio's when I was looking for someone to kick up my heels with. You appeared at Confidential Rejuvenations and in the condo across from me. Then, immediately after I receive a threatening e-mail, you're here."

"Huh?" Tanner grunted and narrowed his eyes. "You want to do this all over again? Should I get you a scalpel so we can recreate last night?"

Her gasp was audible in the silent room and he knew she was remembering their red-hot tussle on her kitchen floor. Suddenly he felt as breathless as she looked.

"Do you think I sent you that e-mail?" he asked.

She pursed her lips, looked guilty. "No. Not really. But I'm having a hard time understanding how you're always turning up right when I need you most."

"I'm the one who needed you last night when I ripped open my arm," he said. "And I'm not accusing you of anything."

That changed the look on her face. Her eyes softened. "How is the arm?"

"All right. Sore. Nothing a couple of painkillers won't cure. Doesn't hurt nearly as much as your lack of trust in me," he said.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I do sound paranoid."

"The e-mail rattled you," he said, letting her off the hook.

"It did."

Tanner sat down on the corner of her desk, his thigh near the arm of her chair. "Have you ever thought there might be another reason I show up right when you need me."

She tilted her head and smiled. "Other than you being some kind of obsessed stalker?"

He laughed. "Yeah, other than that."

"I'm listening."

"It's a cosmic thing. We're connected and somehow I'm tuned in to your distress," he said.

She paused. "Oh, don't tell me you're one of those."

He leaned in closer. "You're a doctor and you're telling me you don't have faith in a power that's greater than us?"

She blinked. "I don't have much faith in anything except science."

"You're right," he said lightly as if his insides didn't feel as though they'd been run through a trash compactor. "So much for my theory that we're linked on some cosmic level."

Vanessa dropped her gaze, toyed with the handmade beaded necklace on her desk. "So why did you come over here?"

Honestly he didn't even remember, but standing there watching her avoid his eyes reminded him. "I wanted to apologize for this morning."

"Forgotten." She raised her palms. "Seriously, water under the bridge."

"I came to tell you I thought you were right and I was wrong."

"You want to continue our affair?"

"Yeah," he said. "If you're still up for it."

Slowly Vanessa shook her head. "Really, Tanner, I don't think that's a good idea."

She was right. Why then did it feel as if she'd ripped out his heart?

VANESSA WONDERED who the e-mail was from. Not Carlo Vega. He wouldn't bother with taunting e-mails if he was planning on making good on his fourteen-year-old threat. He'd just send someone to dispatch her, tidy as that.

But what if it wasn't Carlo. Who then?

She nibbled her bottom lip and paced her office, hands clasped behind her back. She was acutely aware of her own breathing, of the catch in her throat. Facing the idea that it was someone else was a scary proposition. For fourteen years she'd safely sidestepped it. But it appeared the past wasn't going to stay buried.

Maybe the e-mail did have something to do with what had been happening at Confidential Rejuvenations. Maybe it wasn't personal at all, just some strange prank. No demands had been made of her, only a veiled threat. The intent seemed to be more to unsettle her than anything else. She hoped that was the case since the possibility appealed to her more than reopening the can of worms from her childhood.

A knock at the door made her jump.

Was it Tanner again? Hope clung to her. "Come in."

The door opened to reveal the front desk receptionist, Hailey. She was a pretty young woman with blond hair and a lively disposition. "Hey, Dr. R."

Vanessa forced a smile. "How may I help you, Hailey?"

"Dr. Butler wanted me to give these to you," she said, stepping into the room to hand Vanessa a brightly colored packet with photographs of smiling executives on the front cover. "It's your travel details for the weekend retreat."

Vanessa groaned. She'd forgotten all about the damned corporate retreat. Every year Confidential Rejuvenations selected two-dozen employees to attend the annual symposium that was supposed to engender trust and cooperation among coworkers. So far she'd managed to avoid being selected.

"Maybe it won't be so bad." Hailey winked conspiratorially. "I've heard a lot of interesting hookups happen at these places, if you know what I mean. Last year, my friend Gina went to one and—"

"Thank you, Hailey." Vanessa cut her off before she heard more than she wanted to know about the love life of the adventuresome Gina.

"No problem." Hailey left the room.

Vanessa opened the packet to find her plane ticket to the Bahamas and room reservations, along with a detailed brochure describing the retreat. There were pictures of sandy beaches, palm tress, cloudless skies and interesting looking drinks in coconuts. From the brochure the place looked relaxing.

Hmm, maybe this retreat was just the ticket to get her mind off both Tanner and the disturbing e-mail.

Idly she picked up the beaded necklace, fingered it and then, without knowing why she did it, dropped the talisman into her purse.

Considering how her head was at war with her heart, she could use all the good luck charms she could get.

## 8

THE FIRST THING Tanner did when he got back to his office at Confidential Rejuvenations was call Carlo Vega's parole officer. Tanner mentally kicked himself for not doing it earlier. He'd been so wrapped up in guarding Vanessa that he'd completely overlooked the obvious.

The oversight scared the hell out of him. If he's missed this, what else was he overlooking?

Fifteen minutes later, after a talk with Vega's parole officer, who vouched that the man was in El Paso and in complete compliance with his parole agreement, Tanner allowed himself a deep breath. The fact that the officer had seen Vega that very morning eased Tanner's conscience a little, but he was still worried. Vega could have easily sent the e-mail. Worse, he could hire someone to harm Vanessa. Just because the thug was in El Paso didn't meant she was safe.

He then called Phil, a private investigator friend of his who was also trained in computer forensics, and forwarded him the e-mail Vanessa had received, asking him to see if he could trace where the missive had originated. Tanner also asked his contact to run a detailed background check on Vanessa. He was determined to find out everything he could about her. He would leave no rock unturned. He suspected someone from her past was behind the e-mail, whether it was Vega or someone else.

His protective instincts skyrocketed. He hated not having complete access to Vanessa at all times. Yes, he worked with her and yes, he lived next door to her, but it wasn't enough. He wanted—needed—to be in the same room with her. He was a bodyguard and the only way he could truly keep her safe was to be at her side. That intention in his mind, Tanner picked up the telephone and called Senator Garcia.

It took several minutes for him to get patched through, but at last, Robert came on the line. "What's up, Tanner?"

He told the senator about the ominous e-mail Vanessa had received and finished with, "Robert, I think it's time I told her who I am."

"No, I forbid you to do that."

"Why? What aren't you telling me?"

"It's not something I'm free to discuss with you," Robert said.

"I don't get it. Why hire me if I can't do my job the way it's supposed to be done?"

"I don't want Vanessa knowing she's being guarded, but I do need you to keep an eye on her."

"I checked up on Vega. He's toeing the line."

"Do you think he sent her the e-mail?"

"He could have, but it could be connected with the occurrences going on at Confidential Rejuvenations. That's why I'm so uneasy. That's why I think you should reconsider and let me tell her who I am and why you hired me."

"No!" The senator was so adamant it Tanner was now sure the man was hiding something.

"Then if you won't let me do my job, I want off the case."

"I'm not buying that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you. If you're this concerned about her, you're not just going to walk away from her. You're not built like that, Tanner. How about this," Robert said. "She's going to a corporate retreat in the Bahamas this weekend. What if I send you with her and make sure you're teamed with her during all the training exercises? There are two bedrooms to the bungalows at the resort. I could put you in the same bungalow. How's that?"

"It'll do for the weekend. What about until then?"

"You'll have to be extra vigilant. I'll call Butler and tell him you'll be installing more security cameras in the doctors' offices. That'll give you an excuse to be in the doctors' building more often."

"What about when she's in surgery?"

"You think Vega is going to try to get at her while she's operating?" Robert asked.

"It's where she's most vulnerable," Tanner said. "It's the only place where I can't protect her."

"If you can't get to her in the OR, neither can Vega. No one goes in or out of there if they don't belong."

Robert was right, but Tanner couldn't quell his gut feeling that Vanessa was in imminent danger. He would have his P.I. friend, Phil, do more research on Vega, as well.

"There's only one way you can make me feel much better about this," Tanner said.

"How's that?"

"Put surveillance on Vega."

"Tanner, don't you think I've already done that?"

Relief coursed through his veins. Whatever Robert's real reasons were for protecting Vanessa, the senator had apparently covered all the bases. "I still wish you'd let me tell her you've hired me."

"I can't." Robert sounded resigned.

"When will it be over? How long is this assignment going to last?" Tanner asked, not sure if he could take much more of this.

"As long as it takes," Robert said, and then hung up the phone.

TO VANESSA'S SURPRISE, by Friday morning, she was looking forward to the Caribbean retreat. She had visions of lounging in a macramé hammock strung between two palm trees on the beach, drinking piña coladas, and thinking about anything but work. Julie was taking care of Fantasia, and Vanessa drove to the airport with visions of warm tropical nights dancing in her head.

Her mind stayed mellow until she got in line to board the plane with her fellow workers and spied Tanner in the crowd. The minute she laid eyes on him her body reacted on pure instinct. He was going to the Bahamas with the group? Her palms perspired and her heart thundered. What were the chances that he would have been picked to attend the retreat at the same time as she?

Unnerved she avoided his eye and hurried down the Jet way. Once on the plane, she stowed her carry-on and plopped into her window seat by the window. Two minutes later, Tanner was coming down the aisle toward her.

Please have a seating assignment ahead of me, she prayed. Fishing the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front of her, she pretended to be absorbed in an article on the airline's new route to China.

Luck was against her. Tanner dropped into the seat beside her.

"Hey Doc." He smiled. "I tried waving you down in the terminal, but I guess you didn't see me."

"Must not have."

He buckled his seat belt and leaned over to whisper, "Just to put your mind at ease, it's no coincidence that I'm sitting beside you."

She pulled back and looked at him. "No?"

"When I saw we were on the same flight, I asked the gate agent if we could sit together."

"You did?" In spite of herself Vanessa couldn't help feeling pleased that he'd gone to all that trouble.

"That's not all," he continued. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

"No?"

"I also called the hotel and asked if we could be in the same bungalow. It's got two bedrooms, but we don't have to use both of them."

"You didn't."

"You mad?" His hair fell boyishly over his forehead, doing her in.

She should have been outraged by his high-handed behavior. Two weeks ago she would have been. Now all she could think about was getting to the beach and getting him out of his clothes.

Pathetic.

"You want to watch a movie?" he asked.

"Movie?"

"I brought my DVD player and a selection of DVDs."

Vanessa's breath caught in her throat. "Don't tell me you brought Dark Victory."

"I did," he admitted.

She felt a strange tug inside her. A sensation she couldn't name.

When they were at cruising altitude and the pilot gave the go-ahead to turn on all electronic devices, Tanner got his DVD player from his carry-on and rested it on his thigh between them so they both could see it and handed her a pair of earphones that matched the ones he had.

"All we need is popcorn," she said.

From his luggage, Tanner pulled out a bag of popcorn and grinned at her. "Your wish is my command."

Feeling quite pampered, she dipped her fingers into the popcorn as the movie started.

"So," he whispered, lowering his head so she could hear him. "What do you like so much about this movie?"

Vanessa sighed dreamily. "Bette Davis is so brave. She has it all—wealth, glamour, horses, but she loses it."

"But she's still willing to take a chance on love," Tanner pointed out. "Even knowing she's going to die."

"Yes," she admitted. She glanced over, saw he was watching her and not the movie. The expression on his face was tender, wistful. The odd feeling tugged harder at her stomach, reached higher to squeeze her heart.

"Is it going to bother you watching this?" she asked.

"You mean because of Maria?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"I want to watch it," he said. "I want to watch it with you. Now curl up and enjoy the movie."

So she did. By the time it was over she was sobbing and Tanner was handing her a napkin. She was touched to see his eyes were shiny. The movie had moved him, too.

And the fact that he was moved, moved her.

THE BUNGALOW had room service delivered to the patio on their lanai overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. They were supposed to have gone to orientation in the communal dining room with the other retreat attendees for their evening meal, but Tanner talked Vanessa into playing hooky. She felt very naughty as they watched the room service attendant push his little cart up the walkway to their bungalow.

They sat on the patio, nibbling off each other's plate like longtime lovers. They had grilled halibut with pineapple-mango chutney, coconut shrimp, jerk chicken and rice pilaf and chocolate-chip cheesecake for dessert. To wash it all down, they shared a bottle of sparkling white wine.

Throughout the meal Vanessa found herself casting sidelong glances at Tanner and reconsidering why she'd avoided romance for so long. Sure she'd been in medical school, but there was something to be said for the therapeutic affect of moonbeams and candlelight and the lulling rhythm of the ocean. This was so nice. Maybe there could be more than just sex between them.

And then what? Willingly lay her heart open to the possibility of rejection? She wasn't ready to take that risk.

If not now, though, when? She was thirty-one. Time was running out if she ever wanted to get married and have a family. Did she? Honestly she hadn't had much time to think about it. She bit down on her bottom lip.

"What's eating you?" Tanner asked.

She glanced up, startled. "What makes you say that?"

"I'm beginning to recognize that you nibble your bottom lip when something's bothering you. Are you thinking about that e-mail?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't."

"Do you want to talk about what put that sad look on your face? Too much Dark Victory?"

She forced a smile. "I'm not sad. See?"

"I get it. You don't want to talk. Fair enough." He raised his palms. "I'll let you off the hook."

"Thank you."

"One last bite of dessert?" He held out his fork laden with the chocolate chips, pecans, caramel and cheesecake, tempting her.

She fell for the enticement. God, she was so easy. Vanessa leaned forward and parted her lips.

Tanner slipped the fork between her teeth.

Slowly she closed her mouth around the morsel, all the while holding his sharp-edged gaze. With a calculated, wholly erotic gesture, she eased the cheesecake from the fork and made a soft noise of pleasure. "Mmm."

His eyes turned murky. With desire? she wondered.

He raised his glass. "Here's to world-class cheesecake."

She smiled. "I was thinking more along the lines of beefcake."

"Why, Dr. Rodriquez, I'm shocked," he said, looking anything but shocked. "Treating me as a sex object."

She appreciated the way he was watching her and how his blue eyes communicated more emotion than his words. He was so different from any man she'd ever known.

"Walk on the beach?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I need to." She moaned and rested a hand on her stomach. "I ate way too much, but what if we run into some of the other conference attendees from Confidential Rejuvenations?"

"We wave and say 'nice night.'"

"Yeah, and before we even got back to the States, rumors about us would be rampant."

"And that's so bad?"

No. Yes. She didn't know. Tanner and the feelings he stirred confused her. She wasn't sure what she wanted from him, if anything.

"You're ashamed to be seen with me in public," he accused, and she couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. "I'm just your sex toy."

"Tanner..."

He stood up and held out his arm to her. "Come on, if we see any of our colleagues we'll hide in the bushes."

"We don't have to do anything that drastic." She giggled, deciding he'd been teasing her.

"I suppose we could just stay here and take a dip in our own private hot tub."

"Now you're talking," she said. "Skinny-dipping?"

"Is there any other kind?"

Vanessa grinned at him. "I'll refill our wineglasses if you go get those his and hers bathrobes I spied hanging in the closet. I'll met you alfresco in the hot tub."

"Deal," he said and put his hand in hers.

His body heat seeped through her. Her temperature was rising in anticipation—a dip in the hot tub and she'd be blistering hot for him.

All day long, from the plane ride to the hotel check-in, every time his shoulder brushed hers or she caught a whiff of his decadent cologne she felt a sexual jolt clean through her bones.

Did everyone experience this kind of awareness at least once in their lives? What if, she wondered, as she slipped out of her clothes and into the bubbling waters of the spa tub, once their fling was over, she never felt this way again? The thought made her feel suddenly sad. To spend the rest of her life without this zesty zing of sexual awareness she experienced every time she looked at or touched Tanner.

Get a grip, Vanessa.

Love wasn't about sex, lust or romance. Real love was based on respect, admiration, kindness and trust.

Trust.

There was the real issue. The nitty-gritty. She trusted him with her body but not her heart. How screwed up was that logic? And was there any way to overcome it?

She didn't know. These feelings were all so dangerous and new. Before she had time to follow the thought, he joined her in the hot tub, buck-naked as the day he was born.

"Ah," he said, sliding in deep and leaning his head against the redwood decking. "This feels like sin."

He was sitting across from her but all she'd have to do to touch him was tip her toe forward in the water.

"This lifestyle could seriously become addicting," Vanessa agreed.

A half grin played across Tanner's face. "I'm all for it. When do we move here? We could get a grass hut on the beach. I'd be a diving instructor and you could sell puca beads."

"Don't tempt me."

He grinned. "As if you could walk away from medicine."

He was right, but she didn't like that he already knew her so well. At least he seemed to know who she was now and had no idea who she'd been.

She should tell him. All of it. Her past. Her fears. The night terrors that still haunted her dreams. The reason she kept the beaded necklace dangling from the desk lamp in her office. Licking her lips, she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Sexual tension simmered between them. He looked at her through blue eyes shining with desire. The last thing she wanted was to see all that sizzling lust replaced with disgust. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and watched him watching her. "Have you ever been in the Bahamas before?"

"Spring break, one year in college. You?"

"Nope." She shook her head. "You're not going to believe this, but I've never been on vacation. A medical conference is the closest I've come."

"No kidding?"

She nodded.

"Now that's just sad."

"What can I say? My job is my life."

"I'm sure that Confidential Rejuvenations appreciates your dedication," Tanner said.

"One would hope so."

"Do you intend on staying there after you finish your residency?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead." She shrugged, wanting to get the discussion off her. "Who went with you when you came to the Bahamas. Your frat brothers?"

"For one, I wasn't in a fraternity. For another, when I came here, I was traveling with my parents and my younger sister."

"You're kidding. Going on spring break with your parents? How mortifying for you."

"Hey," he said. "I was a good kid. I liked spending time with my folks. The trip was a reward for getting straight A's my freshman year."

"So I'm not the only workaholic in the hot tub."

"Guilty as charged."

"At last," she said. "Something in common."

"Of course, coming here with my parents cramped my style. I had to sneak out at night to go cruising for girls."

"Did you find anyone?"

"Kissed a girl on the beach."

"And you said you were a good kid."

"A good kid, yes. A saint, no." He grinned. "My mother caught me sneaking back in, and I confessed the whole thing."

"You could have just lied to her."

Tanner laughed, a hearty deep-chested laugh that rippled over her skin like the evening breeze. "What? And get bumps on my tongue?"

"Excuse me?"

"My mother always told me if I lied to her I'd get bumps on my tongue."

"And it worked? You believed her?"

"Yeah."

"Is your mom still alive?"

"Yeah, my dad, too."

She wondered what it was like to be part of a loving family like that. "Where do they live?"

"They retired to Corpus to live closer to my sister, nearer the grandkids," he said.

"Nieces? Nephews?"

"One of each. Brooke is four and Vince just turned two."

She shifted in the churning waters. "You have any other siblings?"

"Nah, just Claire. You?"

She shrugged.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"I have three older stepbrothers, but we were never close. They were almost grown when my stepfather married my mom."

"Your mother is still living?"

"Look," Vanessa said, and pointed at the sky, desperate not to talk about her family. "A falling star."

"Where?"

"You missed it."

"Did you make a wish?" he asked.

"What for?"

"Whenever you see a falling star you're supposed to wish on it and your wish will come true. Didn't anyone ever tell you about that? I think it's even in some Disney song," he said.

"We didn't buy into magical thinking in the barrio," she said. "Life was about survival and not much else. Wishing on stars wasn't even an option. Now, if you want to talk lottery tickets..." She chuckled.

He wasn't smiling. "Your childhood was spent in poverty?"

"I wouldn't say actual poverty. We had food on the table, but my mother and I were on welfare for a time until she married my stepfather. I would have rather stayed in poverty than have her marry him," she whispered, hearing the bitterness in her own voice.

"Why's that?"

"Earl's a redneck bastard." Instantly she wished she'd kept her mouth shut. Vanessa had never talked about the conditions she'd grown up in, and she didn't want to talk about them now. "We were happy until he showed up. After that my mother changed. She became a completely different person."

"Do you still talk to her?"

"No. She chose Earl over having a relationship with me."

Tanner didn't say anything for the longest time, then finally he said, "What happened to your real father?"

She shrugged again, picked up her wineglass and took a long sip before setting it back on the redwood decking. The jets of the hot tub gurgled. In the distance she could hear the tree frogs calling into the night. She didn't want to answer him. While it was an innocent enough question, whenever their conversations crept to her past she felt as if Tanner was on a fishing expedition and she didn't want to be forced into revealing more of herself than she was ready to give.

"Sometimes," he said lightly, "talking to you feels like a tug-of-war. Or a fencing match. I thrust, you parry and in the end there's still a veil of secrets, half truths and deceptions."

He was right. She'd spent her adult life skirting memories of her childhood, most of the time pretending it had never happened, the rest of the time, trying her damnedest to rise above it. "What's the point of talking about it? The past is past."

And yet part of her longed to tell him everything, to let him know who she was inside and out. Vanessa blamed the sexy look in his sky-blue eyes and the dimple in his cheek.

"How will you ever be able to let go of the past if you can't talk about it?" Tanner asked.

"Do you talk about Maria?"

He grunted. "You're too astute for my own good."

"You tell me about Maria, I'll tell you about my childhood." There that ought to shut him up.

He acknowledged her with a slight nod, but she couldn't make out his expression in the dark. He was so good at hiding his thoughts behind that handsome face. The only time she knew he was showing his true self was when they were in bed together. Then she realized she must appear the same way to him. It was a startling realization. No wonder they had sex so much.

"You're on," he said.

"Really?" She hadn't expected that reaction.

"Yes. I'm putting my money where my mouth is. I'll even go first. Ask me whatever questions you want."

She didn't really want to know. Lazily she lifted her hair off her shoulders with a hand. "Where did you meet your wife?"

"My father worked for Maria's father. We'd known each other since we were teenagers, but I was four years older."

"Childhood sweethearts." Vanessa sighed, thinking about how she'd spent her teenage years.

"Not exactly, but when I came home from college and saw Maria all grown-up, well, I stopped looking at her like an annoying little kid. Both our parents were all for the relationship. Being with her felt so familiar, you know. So easy."

She didn't know. Nothing had ever come easily for Vanessa, but she didn't interrupt his narrative to say so. She reached for the wine again. It had grown warm from being so near the heat of the hot tub, but she drank it anyway.

"The deal was, we would wait until she finished college before we got married, but Maria was never much of a student. All she ever wanted was to be a wife and a mother." His voice changed then, grew tight.

"You don't have to go on."

"I want to," he said. "I want you to know who I am. I want you to know what's formed me."

"All right," she whispered. She wanted to know and yet she didn't.

"But Maria never got to be a mom. One night while I was on the road with Governor Perry, Maria went down to the corner convenience store to buy a pint of Cherry Garcia. She loved Ben & Jerry's. She walked in the door and there was a robbery in progress...."

Vanessa reached over to touch Tanner's hand. "It's all right. I'm a doctor. I know the realities of life. You don't have to say any more. I can see this is ripping you up inside. I can imagine what happened."

The truth was that his story was ripping her up inside. It hurt to see him hurting. She'd never intended to make him relive such a painful moment.

"No," he said. "You're right. I haven't completely let go of her memory, and I want to do that. I loved her. She's gone, but I'm still here. I want to move on. I want to be able to love again, but I can't. We can't move forward with our relationship until we trust each other completely."

He was staring at her. She could feel the heat of his gaze. Her heart lurched with hope, too much hope. It scared her to think that he might ever love her as much as he'd loved his wife.

"Vanessa," Tanner whispered low in his throat and crossed the distance of the hot tub to kiss her. He smelled so earthy and sensual. His stubbled jaw brushed against her chin.

"Yes?"

"Would you like the most mind-blowing sex of your life?"

"What kind of question is that?" She laughed. "Of course I would."

"Then I'm going to have to do something to you that will require the utmost trust on your part."

"What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Do you trust me? This is all about trust."

She stared into his eyes. Her heart rate slowed to thick, strong but languid beats that felt amplified in the deep of night. He was offering her the best sex of her life in exchange for her total trust. This wasn't going to be easy for her.

She gulped. "I'll try."

"We'll need a safe word," Tanner said. "You pick it. If at any moment you want out of this, all you have to do is say the word."

She licked her lips. "Fantasia."

"Fantasia?"

"That's it. That's the safe word."

"I thought you didn't believe in Disney magic." He grinned.

"Maybe I'm hoping you'll prove me wrong."

"Fantasia it is," he said.

And the next thing she knew he was wrapping her in a bathrobe, picking her up in his big, strong arms and carrying her into the bungalow.

## 9

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW?

Tanner had opened his big mouth and told Vanessa he could give her the best sex of her life, and now that she was sitting on the bed in their cozy little bungalow and the moment was at hand, he was seriously doubting his ability to pull this off.

What if he failed?

Vanessa's ability to trust the opposite sex lay in his hands and his normal self-confidence deserted him. Especially because that dynamite body of hers, barely hidden beneath the terry-cloth bathrobe, drove him to distraction.

Tanner refused to be like the other men of her acquaintance. He didn't wanted to let her down and he intended on devoting himself to pleasuring her by putting his own needs on hold. That's what she deserved.

Vanessa was exceptional. And he aimed to please.

Just looking at her secretive smile sent searing-hot blood rushing to his groin. Damn. Thanks to her, he was getting five or six hard-ons a day. An astonishing record that rivaled his teenage years.

There was so much he wanted to show her, so much he wanted to learn from her and he wanted the relationship to be more than just sex.

Don't get greedy. Take what she'll give and stop hoping for a miracle.

He had to accept that she might never be willing to give him anything more than her body. And he had to face his own limitations, as well. She was an intelligent, educated doctor; he was nothing more than a bodyguard. She didn't trust easily and he wasn't sure he'd fully recovered from losing Maria, but damn if he didn't want to try to love again.

For tonight, it was enough that she'd agree to let him take the lead. That she'd agreed to try to trust him. It was all he could ask.

Vanessa cleared her throat, and Tanner realized several minutes had passed where he'd done little more than stare at her.

"So." She rubbed her palms together, and that's when he realized she was as nervous as he. "When do we begin this thing?"

New recruits on their first day of battle couldn't have been more unstrung than he was. Tanner took a step toward her, his heart pounding. Damn she was breathtaking. Her golden skin glowed in the muted lamplight, her features arranged in an erotic orchestration of enthusiasm and excitement and need.

Gone was her normally reserved doctor demeanor. A fervent gleam sparkled from her eyes dark as Guinness. This was the same woman who'd picked him up at Emilio's. The wild woman lurking behind her cool facade.

Her lips were tipped up in a wicked grin. She completely bowled him over. Weakened his knees.

You're the man. Take charge of the situation. Do something, Doyle, before she backs out.

But he couldn't help staring at her. "You're so beautiful," he said.

She met his gaze. "Not half-bad yourself."

He stepped toward her, naked as the day he was born, water from the hot tub clinging to his skin. His erection jutted like a ship mast.

Boldly he reached out a hand to her. "Come here."

She giggled. He'd never believed a simple giggle could have such a profound effect on him. His heart squeezed and his balls drew up tight.

Tanner eased down on the bed beside her, hooked a finger under her chin and looked her deeply in the eyes. "Do you trust me?"

He could tell this was difficult for her, letting go of her control, trusting a man she didn't know very well. She was accustomed to being in charge, but that was exactly why it was so important for her to do this.

She nodded, her expression softening. "I'm working on it."

He was surprised by how much she wanted this, wanted him. Enough to go against her instincts. He saw her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat and the intoxicating sight caused him to stiffen harder.

She watched him as he drew the tie from her bathrobe. Her breathing quickened as he slowly ran his hands over the terry-cloth material until he had one end clutched in his fist.

The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. A glimmer of expectation lit her eyes.

She looked from the bathrobe tie to his face and back again. She clenched her jaw. He saw the muscles working beneath her skin.

"You want to know what I'm going to do with this?"

She nodded.

"I'm going to tie you up in knots. The way you've tied me up from the minute I met you."

Vanessa gulped and a tremor passed through her at the wolfish expression in Tanner's smoky blue eyes, at the unmistakable feral intent, but she wasn't scared. Instead, she was extremely turned-on and acutely aware of her body's heated response. The reckless stagger of her pulse. The tingling in her veins and low in her taut belly. The sudden dryness in her palms and equally sudden moistness in her sex.

"Lie back on the bed," he commanded.

Goose bumps raising on her arms, she obeyed.

"Spread-eagle."

No, no, screamed the part of her that had never been this unguarded with a man, but the part of her that longed for something more, something deeper, something truly intimate, argued against her natural fear and resistance.

Take a chance.

Tentatively Vanessa stretched out her arms, spread her legs, offering herself up like a sacrifice to the gods of sex.

He leaned over her, his bare chest bumping into hers as he secured the tie around her wrist. He stepped back, moved across the room. He returned a minute later with two leather belts and his bathrobe tie. Taking his time, he staked her to the bedposts.

Her nipples hardened and her body became damp in instant response to the sexy situation. She was completely at his mercy.

A spark of fear touched her then. Fear and an accompanying thrill that raced her pulse.

Then he opened her robe and eased his big body down on top of her.

Vanessa found herself sliding against him, allowing pleasure to drown out the niggling voice in the back of her mind that kept reminding her she had to stay on guard at all times. She was so tired of being distrustful, of keeping up her armor. It was exhausting and she was weary of the burden. She wanted to trust. Wanted to love.

With his broad hands caressing her body and the smell of him in every breath she took, Vanessa forgot about everything else. The only thought in her head was of Tanner.

He kissed her sweetly, pressing his lips to her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her cheeks and her chin. He nibbled her bottom lip and dragged his palms over her breasts, down her ribs until she trembled with anticipation.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"What for?" she whispered.

"Trusting me. I know it's difficult for you."

His words were so heartfelt she could not answer. Vanessa immersed herself in the feel of his body, all hard muscles and hot skin. He wound his legs around hers and cradled the sides of her face in his palms as he kissed her.

She absorbed his embrace, wanting nothing more than to let this new, tentative hopefulness override everything else. To let magic erase the harshness of reality, to let Tanner carry her away on a sweet dream.

His body anchored her to the bed as if he was savoring the feel of them pressed together. As if he, like her, wanted to capture this moment forever in his memory. He buried his face in her hair and he breathed deeply, inhaling her scent in a simple gesture that stirred the deepest chambers of her heart.

Did he have any idea exactly how much he was dismantling her? How close she was to giving up the fight and just giving in and accepting the feelings surging inside of her?

"I love being with you like this," he said.

"What? Me tied up and helpless?"

"No. You trusting me to make love to you and not hurt you."

A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead, giving him an endearing, vulnerable look that sank her heart. She wanted to erase his pain. Take all that he'd suffered and make everything right again in his world. And most of all, she realized, she wanted him to take away her pain.

The overwhelming urge shocked and surprised her. What was it about Tanner Doyle that made her want to rethink her own life? Remake his?

He caressed her neck, stroking his fingers over the heated pulse throbbing at the base of her throat.

The oaken scent of his woodsy cologne filled her senses. The smell of a handsome man with thick blond hair and challenging blue eyes.

Time hung confused. Minutes were hours; hours minutes. The night spun long as a fairy tale.

Tanner flicked his tongue across the skin beneath her breast. Her chest jerked in. She craved touching him, but her hands were tied. He was in control and she had to accept it.

With his teeth, he nipped a path from her neck across her naked collarbone, sampling the taste of her skin. Vanessa wanted a taste of him. It was tortuous not being able to enjoy his delicious, earthy flavor. Strangely the deprivation aroused her even more.

The humid midnight ocean breeze blowing in through the open window enveloped her like velvet. Vanessa inhaled deeply, savoring the damp feel of it on her bare skin.

He was so different from the other men she'd known. Not smoothly polished like the doctors she'd dated, but not crude and boorish like the men she'd grown up with, either. Tanner was totally masculine with his steely blue eyes, beard stubble and hard muscles, but there was an elegant self-assurance about him, as well. He possessed the confidence of a man who knew his place in the world and assumed his duties with grace and honor and dignity.

The contrast in him piqued her interest. The good boy with the wicked grin that told her he wasn't quite as good as everyone thought. Each layer, every nuance, revealed something new about him every time they hooked up. Was she revealing as much to him?

The thought threw her.

She noticed how his eyes darkened whenever he looked at her, how his penis stiffened against her. She could feel his muscles bunching, his body tensing. Wriggling beneath him, she breathed in his scent, lifted her head and ran her tongue down his breastbone.

He sat up, straddled her, exploring her fully in the lamplight. She was glad he'd taken over, made her play this game of bondage. Even though he was a man in a position of power and authority, Tanner didn't intimidate her.

She tugged on her bindings, trying to get enough slack to touch him.

"No hands, no touching. I'm in control," he said. "You must obey me."

Another thrill shot through her.

"Yes, master," she whispered. She'd never played such a daring game and she loved it even though she had expected not to.

Gliding his hands down her rib cage, he pushed her bathrobe open, exposing her body fully to him. He hissed in his breath as if she'd burned him and then he planted a series of slow kisses around her navel.

Her abdomen contracted. It was her turn to gasp. "You like tormenting me," she accused.

He laughed. "No more than you enjoy tormenting me."

Tanner went back to her throat, surfing the length of her body with his own, pressing her into the plush, soft mattress.

She obeyed his wretched rules even though it was killing her not to run her hands along his muscled chest, not to touch his hard, throbbing shaft.

She wiggled against him, turning his erection into stone, savoring the sound of the deep-seated sigh from his throat.

Ha! He wasn't the only one who knew a few torture techniques.

Suspended over her, his mouth to her flesh, hard chest grazing her nipples, his hand roved down to lightly cup the heat of her sex. Each move he made was calculated to taunt and tease. His erection pressed into her. He kissed and teased and tormented her, bringing her to the brink of climax before backing off.

She cursed him.

He laughed.

"I can't stand it anymore," she whispered. "Please, Tanner, please. I want you inside me."

"Not yet, babe," he said. "Not yet."

"You're driving me crazy."

"That's my intention."

"Keep in mind I give as good as I get. When I get out of these ties..."

"That's precisely what I'm counting on." He winked at her and she felt the thrill of the moment close over her like a velvet glove.

His eyes met hers and the raw, open honesty she saw there tightened her chest. His fingers explored her, gliding over her soft mons to the treasures hidden inside her. "My, my," he said, as he dipped a finger into her slick wetness. "What have we here."

His question sent shivery waves of pure anticipation over her. She let out a shaky breath. What was it that made everything between them seem so significant? Every touch, every look, every word held a deeper meaning.

Vanessa didn't know. She only knew that ever since she met him she couldn't keep her hands off him, no matter the consequences.

His body was exquisite, hard and lean and chiseled. He could have been an art class model. He was the perfect specimen of physical vigor. His legs were long and layered with well-defined muscles. Tanner's hands advanced in ever-widening circles, down her spine to her lower back and then to her buttocks where he teased with firmer caresses.

She felt sexy deep in the most intimate part of her. Sexy and wet and desperate for this man.

His motions changed but never stopped. Short strokes became long strokes and back again; he swept his hand up and down the length of her body until she felt as if she'd turned to liquid.

His hand grazed over her hardened nipple and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from crying out. He leaned in closer, running his tongue over her breast, tugging, licking, suckling until her breathing was nothing but rolling, ragged gasps.

His splayed palm felt different than his fist. He used both to fondle her. First one and then the other.

Round and square, up and down. Opened, closed. Curved, straight. Everywhere his hand touched, she burst into flames.

Down he went, traversing her body. His sizzling hot hands rested at the apex of her thighs. He lowered his head. The tip of his tongue was wet and hot and oh, so fine. And he definitely knew how to use it.

He gently eased back the flesh protecting her womanhood and gingerly caressed the hard, thrusting nub with his tongue.

The sensation was nothing short of electric.

She felt every velvety flick as his tongue fluttered back and forth over her flowering cleft.

Pinned down, she swung her hips as best she could, gyrating against the brush of his mouth, reveling in his sounds of approval.

"Yes, babe, yes," he purred.

He whisked his tongue over her. Back and forth, back and forth until she was aching.

"Now," he said, "I'm going to lick you clean."

The sweet promise in his eyes had her soaking wet before he got to where he was going.

He dipped his head lower. His hair rasped against her belly. He was licking at the high recesses of the inside of her thigh. She was tired of this torment. She wanted to feel his hard, throbbing penis thrusting deep inside her.

She smelled his maleness and his scent spurred her arousal. Her body, which minutes before, had been soft and pliant from the hot tub was now stiff and ready. She was wet, so incredibly wet. She wanted it—the colorful, vibrant fantastic orgasm pushing close to the surface. Vanessa could feel it building, feel herself getting more strung out and desperate.

She tossed her head and arched against his mouth, wanting, no needing more, more. Her nerves were raw, ragged.

His tongue, oh sweet heavens his tongue! She unfurled to him like a rosebud opening to the sun, exalting in the heat, blooming, growing, expanding.

He was too slow. He was taking too long.

This practice was maddening. He was a demon, he was a god. This was incredible. This was hell. This was heaven.

Was it possible to feel so much driving need and not collapse if that need was not met?

And then it was upon her. The hot burst of orgasm, consuming her in wave after undulating wave of pleasure. Vanessa lay shivering, exposed and totally vulnerable.

He raised his head and peered down at her. The look on Tanner's face was one of pure emotion. She couldn't stand it any longer. She simply had to touch him.

"Fantasia," she whimpered. "Fantasia."

As quickly as she asked, Tanner untied her. Once her shackles were loosened, she flung herself into his arms, touching him all over. Desperate to feel him with the planes of her hands, the pads of her fingertips.

"I want you inside me," she whispered, nuzzling her nose against the hollow of his throat.

"Yes, yes," he rasped, and squeezed her in his arms. "You on top. It's your turn to be in control."

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. Her legs were around his waist, her knees pressed into the soft mattress.

She took hold of his erection and with featherlight strokes rubbed her juices across the tip of his penis' velvety head.

Tanner quivered slightly and groaned.

Vanessa hovered there, teasing him with just the opening of her feminine cave. She circled her hips in a rhythmic slide. Tanner reached up to cup her breasts in his palms and a moan escaped from her own lips.

Her hair fell across his hands and he threaded his fingers through the strands, tugging gently and pulled her face down to meet his for a long, lingering kiss.

Tanner raised his buttocks and grasped her around the hips, urging her to take him all the way inside her. She contemplated dragging out the torture the way he had with her, but she was simply too eager for him.

She eased onto his big, hard cock, and this time they groaned in unison. The bedsprings creaked.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment as she moved. Then he propped himself up on his elbows and lifted his head to capture one of her dangling breasts in his mouth. He suckled tenderly on her pert, budded nipple sending lightning bolts of pleasure shooting through her pelvis.

Vanessa let her eyes shutter closed and savored the exquisite tingle.

In hurried movements, Tanner began thrusting up into her while she moved up and down on his slick, hot erection. He was panting heavily. "Oh, yes, babe. That feels so good."

She held her breath, lost in the beauty of the joining of their bodies.

Tanner pumped faster, deeper. Vanessa kept up with him, riding his body, riding the glorious wave of sensation.

When she reached behind her to cup his balls in her hand, he let out a strangled cry so rough she feared she'd hurt him and instantly pulled back.

"No, don't stop. That was beautiful. You're beautiful. Give it to me, babe, give me all you've got. Gotta have you."

He sat up and clasped her to him, moving in a rocking motion as if they were riding in a rocking chair together. It was a very sensuous feeling. Vanessa didn't need any more encouragement than that. It heightened her desire to have him begging for more of her.

"Make love to me, Vanessa," he said, his voice dripping with passion. "I want you, need you."

She quickened her pace, pushing herself down deeper with each of his corresponding thrusts. Tanner surrendered to her completely and in that moment, she knew the man was hers for the taking.

They moved together in primitive abandon, Vanessa making love to him harder and faster.

Still she wanted it to last. In fact, she never wanted it to end. She wished she could capture this moment in a bottle and preserve it for all time.

She slowed her pace, opened her eyes and looked down into Tanner's face that was quickly becoming all too dear to her.

Tanner stared back as if he, too, recognized the significance of this moment, that somehow their relationship had turned a corner. She could not figure out where it was headed, but things were different now.

Unnerved by this realization, Vanessa eased off him. She rolled over beside him, planted her face in the pillow and raised her butt in the air. Daring him, tempting him.

Immediately Tanner understood her meaning. He moved behind her and the vixen pressed her ass against his erection.

He hissed a strangled breath. What an amazing woman!

"Give me all you've got," she said, repeating what he'd told her earlier.

He couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. Tanner wrapped both hands around her waist and entered her deep.

Vanessa's sighs of pleasure spurred him on. She squeezed him with her inner muscles, escalating his own delight.

His thrusts quickened. He was getting close. Oh, so damned close. He stabbed into her deep.

"Tanner," she cried out. "Oh yeah, Tanner."

He plunged into her again, deeper still. She pressed her sweet, womanly ass up against him in a strong counterthrust. The headboard slammed against the wall. Tanner was damned glad they were in a bungalow and not a hotel room with guests right next door.

"Fill me up, big man."

"You want it, you got it." He pounded her hard.

"Give it to me," she moaned, driving him over the edge of sanity.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes, yes."

His thrusts were frenzied. All control shot.

"Make me come!"

He had to last. He had to give her what she needed. Summoning every last shred of willpower he possessed, he slowed his strokes.

She mewled.

"That's right, babe." Sweat popped out his brow. His thigh muscles quivered, but he didn't stop. On and on he went, their mutual pleasure the only thing on his mind.

"I'm coming, Tanner, I'm coming."

The swell burst inside him and he ejaculated at the same time he felt her monumental squeeze of orgasm. His essence shot into her.

Their bodies jerked and shuddered together.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, quivering and breathing hard. He didn't want to pull out. Didn't want their fusion to end.

Vanessa raised up and pressed her back against his chest, reaching her arm around behind her to caress his face, murmuring sweet nothings into the night. Tanner kissed her tenderly on the neck, tasting the salt of her sexually sated skin, while his hand wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

"That," she said, "was amazing."

"You're amazing," he murmured, and collapsed onto the mattress, dragging her with him, pulling her onto his chest. Tanner lay there on the pillows, the air thick with the smell of their lovemaking, listening to the thudding of his heart and thinking how much she meant to him.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt whole again.

"I'm falling in love with you, Vanessa," he whispered into the darkness, but she was already asleep.

## 10

TANNER AWOKE to the sight of Vanessa curled up on the end of the bed with a cup of coffee in her hand, a basket of muffins beside her and the satisfied look of a Cheshire cat on her face. Her hair was wet and combed back off her forehead. She'd showered and smelled of orchid-scented soap. She wore the white terry-cloth bathrobe that accentuated the beauty of her tanned skin.

Stretching, he yawned and propped himself up on the pillows. She extended the coffee mug toward him.

"For me?"

"I didn't know how you liked your coffee. I took you for black."

"Black'll do," he said, realizing just how little they really knew about each other. "But for future reference, I do have a sweet tooth."

"I'll get you some sugar." She moved to stand.

Tanner snaked out his hand and wrapped his fingers around her slender wrist. "Stay. You don't have to wait on me. Black is fine."

She stiffened beneath his touch. "I don't mind."

Gently he took the steaming coffee from her hand. "Where'd the muffins come from?"

"Courtesy of the conference coordinators. It was on the doorstep this morning along with the conference schedule. Our first training exercise starts at nine."

"What time is it now?" he asked, leaning back against the pillow and taking a sip of coffee.

"Eight-fifteen."

"Some night last night, huh?" Once the words were out of his mouth, he cringed. What a cheesy thing to say, but it was easier than the truth.

I think I love you.

She didn't look at him, instead turned her attention to the basket. One minute she'd had that sleepy, morning after glow on her face and the next she was looking away and a strange new awkwardness took a seat in the room with them. Her coolness was as sudden as if the blinds had been snapped up on a bright day. What had he done wrong? What had happened to last night's magic?

"What kind of muffin do you want?" she asked, her voice full of false cheer. "We have blueberry, cherry and chocolate chip."

"You choose." His instincts wanted to tell her he didn't care about any damned muffins. He wanted to know how he'd screwed up, but he didn't tell her this. The hands-off expression in her eyes was as clear as a neon sign. She was withdrawing from him again, having second thoughts. They were back to square one. Discouragement sat on his chest.

Still not meeting his eyes, she extended him a blueberry muffin and then took one for herself.

"Thank you."

A small, tight smile was all he got in the way of a response. She concentrated on peeling the plastic wrapping from her muffin.

She looked nervous, unsettled. He'd thought things had changed for the better between them last night, but she seemed just as aloof as ever. Shutting him out. Shutting him down.

Frustration balled in his chest. What was it going to take to get through to this woman? How could he get her to talk to him? To let him in?

The macho part of him wanted to take her by the arm and demand she talk to him, but he knew that approach would just make her retreat further inside herself. It took a lot of self-restraint, but he resisted the urge to confront her.

He took a bite of muffin, which seemed tasteless. He was too busy remembering what they'd done the night before. He felt as if a door had opened and he'd gotten a glimpse of how wonderful the future could be with her. But this morning, she'd slammed the door closed again.

What had happened to the responsive, uninhibited woman who'd let him tie her to the bed? The woman who had responded so enthusiastically to his lovemaking? The one who had squeezed him tight as they'd ridden the crescendo of their orgasm together?

Aw hell, he was getting hard all over again. If they had time, he'd pull her down on the bed and make love to her all over again. He hardened just thinking about it. Except the expression on her face said that ain't gonna happen. In fact, she was already up off the bed, walking across the room with that intoxicating sway of her hips.

Was she regretting everything they'd done?

The thought knocked his ego down a notch or two. Maybe he'd been deluding himself. Maybe last night hadn't been as great for her as it had been for him. Still, Tanner could have sworn...

She paced, muffin in her hand. She paused to nibble at it but he could see she wasn't really eating. Something else was bothering her.

Hell, he couldn't resist any longer. "Wanna talk about it?" he said as lightly as he could.

She whipped her head around. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever's got you pacing and trying hard to pretend you're interested in that muffin."

She shrugged. "Nothing to talk about."

He blew out his breath. Should he press the issue or give her space? When it came to Vanessa, he didn't know which way to jump.

She tossed the muffin down on the desk in the corner, dusted her fingers and went over to the closet to retrieve her clothes. "We need to get a move on."

He couldn't take her evasiveness any longer. He got out of bed, not even bothering to cloak his nakedness, and stalked over to the closet. "Did I offend you in some way?"

"Huh?" Vanessa shook her head. "No. What made you ask that?"

He swallowed hard, not wanting to ask this next question, but needing to know the answer. "You're not regretting what we did last night, are you?"

For the first time that morning, she looked directly into his eyes. "I'm not sorry it happened, if that's what you're asking."

"Then why won't you talk to me?" He tried to take her hand, but she pulled back.

"Look, Tanner," she said. "I like you. I think you're a great guy...."

"But?" he prompted.

She shook her head. "The sex was great. Better than great. The best I've ever had."

God, his pathetic male ego soared on that comment. "I don't understand? What's the problem?"

"This is getting to be too much. You, me. We don't have anything in common. We come from different worlds. We're not right for each other. Not long-term, so let's not try to make this some kind of relationship, okay? We're just temporary lovers. That's all."

He opened his mouth to argue. She was a doctor and he was a bodyguard. It was stupid to think there could be something more between them. It was stupid to dream.

The thing was, he hadn't expected to feel like this, to fall in love again, to be willing to risk his heart one more time.

Falling in love might be stupid. They might not have anything in common. They truly did come from different worlds. But, dammit, that didn't stop him from wanting her.

Needing her.

She laughed suddenly. Harshly.

"What is it?"

"You know I'm right. You're not even protesting."

"We might come from different worlds," he said. "But that doesn't mean we can't get to know each other and make it work."

"You're not thinking clearly," she said. "I'm the first woman you've slept with since your wife was murdered. What you're feeling for me is just transference."

"Are you trying to tell me what I feel?"

She shook her head. "Get dressed, Doyle. We have a conference to attend." Then she stalked off to the bathroom, leaving him more frustrated than ever.

THEY SPENT THE MORNING playing corporate games designed to build trust and foster a spirit of cooperation among coworkers. The training exercises took place on the beach, which alleviated a lot of the tedium associated with such manufactured teaching modules.

In one of the exercises, they were supposed to go limp and fall backward, trusting their fellow employees to catch them. Vanessa failed spectacularly. No matter how hard she tried not to stiffen up, she couldn't let herself go.

Not even with Tanner.

After that exercise, they were split into teams and had to work together to retrieve coconuts from a palm tree. It wasn't that she couldn't be a team player. She was a surgeon, after all, and depended on her team to get her through each surgery. It was just that she had trouble trusting people outside the clinic. Her team ended up coming in last; Tanner's team won.

Lunch, a lavish buffet of island fruits, cold cuts and a variety of salads, breads and soups, was in an open-air cantina. She took a seat on the picnic bench seating and Tanner plopped down across from her. She was trying her best to distance herself from what had happened last night, but she was doing a lousy job of it. Especially when he was eyeing her the way he was now.

She raised a hand to her hair, brushed her fingers through it. That morning she'd spent too long in the bathroom as an excuse to buy some time, rolling her hair up on hot rollers, turning her normally straight locks into loose curls. She should have just pulled it back into a ponytail and been done with it. She applied makeup, as well, but she was sure the humidity had obliterated it by now.

She wore a blue cotton jersey V-neck shirt, white shorts and for some reason she couldn't explain, she'd put on her old beaded necklace. She didn't even know why she brought it from the office. Maybe, because for the first time in years, she felt like that innocent young girl who'd made the necklace.

Her hand dropped from her hair to the talisman.

Tanner's eyes tracked her gaze. "Who gave you the necklace?"

The man didn't miss a trick. "Trudy Valdez," she replied honestly, and caressed the beads.

The expression on his face changed, went from interested to cagey. "Who was Trudy to you?"

She took a sip of iced tea seasoned with passion fruit. "Someone I knew a long time ago."

"An old friend?'

"Something like that."

"You still keep in contact?"

"Trudy died." That was true enough. When Vanessa Rodriquez was born, Trudy Valdez had been laid to rest.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead filled it with a bite of turkey sandwich.

She nibbled a small slice of watermelon down to the cool, greeny-white rind that smelled like cucumber. She studied Tanner from her peripheral vision, his thick blond hair, his beautiful blue eyes, his all-American face. He caught her sideways glance and smiled. She loved being near him. She felt happy when he was around.

Other people came to sit next to them and the conversation turned to Confidential Rejuvenations, but Vanessa's awareness of Tanner never receded.

After lunch, Jarrod Butler took the podium. He thanked everyone for their efforts that morning, then launched into the afternoon's agenda.

"This next exercise is about trust and the importance of maintaining confidentialities," Butler said. "Your assignment is to pick the person in this room that you trust the most and tell them a personal secret. Something you've never told another soul."

"I don't have any secrets." Maxine Woodbury raised a hand and called out from the front row. "My life is an open book. So if anyone wants to tell me their secrets—"

"Thank you, Maxine," Butler interrupted her. "There's a second part to this. You absolutely cannot breathe a word of this secret to anyone. Ever."

Vanessa rolled her eyes at Tanner. "Maxine hogging the limelight as usual," she muttered.

"Be kind," he whispered. "She's just an old lady who loves attention."

"So you're going to tell her your secret?"

"Hell no." He grinned and a blaze of longing shot straight to her stomach. "She's the biggest gossip at Confidential Rejuvenations."

"You've only been there three weeks and you've already figured her out." Vanessa smiled.

"I am in security." Tanner leaned in closer. "It's my business to get to know people."

She thought about what had happened between them that morning. How she'd been so unnerved by the night before that she'd automatically pulled away from him emotionally. He'd noticed her retreat right away and came after her. He was making it really tough for her to treat their affair as lightly as she wanted to.

All around them the conference attendees were pushing back their chairs, pairing up, retreating to hushed corners to whisper their secrets.

"So," Tanner murmured. "What would you like to confess?"

"Who says I have anything to confess?"

"You can come clean to me. I won't judge you." He locked her in his steely gaze, a quiet knowledge welling up in his eyes as if he was absolutely certain he knew she had secrets.

A mild ocean breeze ruffled the edges of the sage-green plastic tablecloth and the palm fronds on the trees overhead rustled softly, sending a scattering of shadows over them. Inside of her something seethed.

One moment they were gazing at each other and the next a strange new realization came over Vanessa. The thought was as sudden as a thunderclap on a cloudless summer day. There she sat with the dawning, but distressing, theory about the coincidences surrounding the appearance of Tanner Doyle in her life.

He suspected her...of sabotaging the hospital.

It would explain everything. Why he was always hanging around her. How he would suddenly appear when she least expected him. All the air left her body in a heavy whoosh.

Tanner tilted his head. "You okay?"

"Fine," she lied.

Vanessa stared at Tanner.

Tanner stared at Vanessa.

"What are you hiding?" she asked, trying hard to keep the anger, fear and feelings of betrayal out of her voice. She could be wrong. She wanted to be wrong. "Unburden yourself. You can tell me. I won't judge you," she repeated his words. Mocking him.

His eyes never left her face. Did he guess she'd figured him out?

"Tell me your darkest secret," she coaxed, propping her chin in her palms and unblinkingly holding his steady gaze. She'd faced Carlo Vega in a courtroom. She could handle this.

"You first," he said.

"No. I know you're hiding something from me," she said, turning the tables. "There's something you're not telling me and I want to know what it is."

He studied her for a long moment without speaking, and then he said, "Okay. You win."

"I'm listening."

"I've never told this to anyone," he said, and from the expression in his eyes, she believed him. "Remember what happened to Maria?"

Vanessa blinked. This wasn't the secret she was expecting. "You said your wife was murdered in a convenience store robbery while you were out of town."

His jaw hardened.

"Was there something else?" she whispered. She suddenly felt scared. She didn't want to hear this.

He nodded.

"You were cheating on her?" she guessed.

He looked taken aback that she would even suggest such a thing. "No, never. But Maria and I were having problems. I was on the road a lot and she was lonely. She wanted me to get a job where I stayed home, but I loved what I was doing and..." His words broke off.

Vanessa sucked in her breath, felt a visceral punch to her stomach. The calm, cool way he expressed himself completely undid her.

"What was going to happen between you two?"

Tanner frowned. "I'm not sure, but I couldn't help feeling that if I'd done what she wanted, gotten a different job, I could have saved her."

"Oh, Tanner." The backs of her eyelids burned with tears. She pulled back to look at him. His face was closed off, expressionless.

"I never got a chance to fix things between us. We had an argument the last time I saw her. She said I worked too hard, was away too often. I called her selfish."

Vanessa's heart wrenched for him for what he had suffered. "I'm sure she knew how much you loved her. I'm certain you two would have worked things out."

"Yeah," he said. "Like that makes it any better. The last thing I said to her was hurtful. It was my fault she was in that convenience store. If I hadn't been on the road with the governor..."

"You can't blame yourself," she said, but she knew it was his nature. He was a protective guy and he felt he hadn't protected his wife.

"That's when I quit and went into building security. Stupid, really. Now I have regular hours and I don't travel anymore and there's no one to come home to."

"Tanner." Vanessa shook her head. "I don't know what to say."

He shrugged as if he were pushing away emotions. "Tell me your darkest secret. I know you have them. Tell me. Trust me." He placed his hand over hers.

He did suspect her of sabotaging Confidential Rejuvenations. How could he believe she'd do such a thing? He talked of trust, yet how could he expect her to trust him when he did not trust her? Talk about hypocritical.

Vanessa pulled away her hand. "I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work."

"What?" Anger tinged his voice. "You'll share your body with me, no problem, but you won't share your secrets?"

"I don't have to do this." She got up, pushed back her chair and headed for the exit. She felt rather than saw heads turning as she fled.

"Vanessa, wait," Tanner called.

She ran from the cantina, rushed for the beach. She heard his running footsteps behind her. Her heart pounded with emotion. Hope, longing, fear, anger, betrayal, self-doubt, guilt—all of it, years of it—pushing up from the bottom of her lonely, aching soul, spilling the bitter taste of regret and loss into her mouth.

Tanner caught her just as she reached the beach, his hand locking around her elbow. He spun her around to face him. She swatted at him, but he pulled her to him, hugging her. "It's okay. It's all right. You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to tell me."

He held her tight. Dammit, she just melted into him. He felt so good, so solid, so trustworthy.

Overhead the call of circling seagulls reminded her of where she was. She pulled away from him, tearing herself from his body heat, wondering what was going on inside his head. "Why don't you just come clean and tell me the truth about what you're up to? Admit the truth."

He tilted his head and his shoulders tensed. He looked guilty. She was right. She was his prime suspect.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You think I'm the one sabotaging the hospital," she accused. "That's why you're sticking to me like glue."

His laugh took her by surprise. "That's what you believe?"

She sank her hands on her hips. "It would explain a lot. Why you keep showing up all the time."

"I'm trying to get close to you because I like you, dammit. I want to be around you. Is that so hard to believe?"

Yes, truthfully it was. No man had ever made such an effort to get to know her and she didn't know how to deal with the attention.

"What happened to you, Vanessa?" he asked. "What's made you so distrustful of people?"

"Life happened, okay?"

He took her hand in his. It felt warm and soothing. "Why are you so afraid of letting someone in?"

"Don't you get it?" Vanessa murmured. "I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed and I'm afraid that if you knew the truth about me you wouldn't want me."

He took her chin in his fingers, forced her to look at him. "That could never happen."

"You don't know the things I've done," she said.

"I'm a pretty understanding guy. What do I have to do to prove I'm trustworthy? Hunt up my old Eagle Scout good conduct medal?"

That made her smile. "Look, I'm just not ready. Okay? I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

"We can't have a relationship without trust."

"I know. I'm not sure I'm capable of having a lasting relationship."

"Have you ever tried?"

She shook her head.

"Do you want to try with me?"

"Honestly, I don't know."

He reached out to trace her cheekbone with his finger. "It means giving up your secrets."

"I know."

"And trusting me not to hurt you."

She tucked her bottom lip up between her teeth. "It's a monumental step for me."

"It's okay, I'll let you have your secrets for now. I can wait for you, Vanessa," Tanner said. "Because you're worth waiting for."

TANNER DIDN'T SIT beside her on the flight home, and Vanessa didn't know what to make of that. One part of her was relieved that he'd kept his distance, another part of her felt strangely bereft.

The fact that Maxine Woodbury ended up in the seat beside her added to the discomfort of the flight home. She had to listen to the woman's take on everyone at the hospital, including her opinion of Vanessa's scrub nurse, Chloe.

"Sweet girl, sweet girl," Maxine said. "Did you know Chloe's adopted?"

"I didn't," Vanessa said, feigning interest.

"Yep. She's got issues over it, too. She thinks Senator Garcia and his wife don't really love her because she's not their biological child."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I never hear you talk about your family, Vanessa." Maxine smiled like a chirpy little bird.

"That's because I don't have one."

"Really?" Maxine arched an eyebrow. "No one? Not even a distant cousin or an aunt or something?"

She thought of her mother and Earl. "No one I want to keep in contact with."

Maxine clicked her tongue. "Such a shame. Family is so important. Did you know I have seven grandchildren?" And then she was off on her grandchildren, pulling pictures out of her wallet and telling Vanessa everything about her family life.

By the time they touched down in Austin, Vanessa was ready to get home. She gathered her luggage at the carousel and headed for the parking garage.

"Hey, wait for me."

She looked up to see Tanner coming up behind her. She had to admit, she was relieved to see him.

"I'll follow you home. See, aren't you glad, I moved in?" He bent to pick up her suitcase.

She had to admit it felt nice knowing she wasn't alone. The headlights of his Jeep, shone in her back window as they drove toward home. When they reached the condos, he parked in his driveway and came over to help her unpack her car.

He walked up the sidewalk with her. She paused at the door, house keys in hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She wondered if he was going to kiss her, afraid that he was. She was still so mixed-up she knew if he did she would ask him in. "I've got it from here."

"You sure?"

She nodded.

"I'm just next door—" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder "—if you need anything."

"I'll holler if I do."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He lingered on the front porch, the lamplight casting him in an orange glow that made her think of Halloween. His eyes were on her lips, and then he turned and walked away into the darkness, leaving Vanessa feeling as if she'd just lost her very best friend in the world.

## 11

HIS FRONT DOOR had barely snapped closed behind him when Tanner heard Vanessa scream.

It took only a split second for the sound to register in his brain, but it meant that was one second too long. Vanessa was in trouble. Chills shot down his spine. Tanner spun on his heels, ripped open the door and bounded back across the small, neatly trimmed lawn from where he had just come.

His heart hammered as he blasted up her front stoop. He cursed himself out loud. He should never have let her go in there alone after dark, after returning from a long weekend trip. He'd been too damned concerned about giving her space. Letting her come to him on her own terms. He'd forgotten his true mission, and if she'd been hurt he would never forgive himself.

"Vanessa," he yelled, barreling through her front door. Instinct had him reaching for his holster, but he didn't have his gun on him. It was in the drawer beside his bed. He cursed himself again.

He halted when he saw her, standing in the middle of the living room. She stood staring at the walls graffitied with the words GET OUT OF TOWN OR DIE BITCH in what appeared to be blood.

The place had been ransacked. Furniture tossed. Couch pillows sliced opened. Potted plants overturned. Her cat's litter box upended in the middle of the floor. Draperies torn from curtain rods. He could feel the blind anger and bitter frustration in the vandalism. This was a disorganized offender.

In an instant he was beside her, pulling her against his chest, holding her tight while she trembled in his arms.

"Wh...wh...what...wh...who?" she stammered.

"Shh." Tanner cradled Vanessa's face against him, shielding her eyes as he reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out his cell phone and punched in 9-1-1 with one hand.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" asked the operator.

"There's been a break-in," he said, and gave the dispatcher the details and Vanessa's address.

Twenty minutes later the place was alive with cops and a forensic team. Vanessa was seated at a chair in the kitchen, and Tanner stood beside her, his hands on her shoulders as she answered the lead investigator's questions.

"You live here alone?" asked the officer who'd identified himself as Detective Malcolm.

"Yes."

"You know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?"

It was on the tip of Tanner's tongue to tell the detective about Carlo Vega. He bit down just in time to keep from blurting the information. Vanessa didn't know he knew about Vega.

She cleared her throat. "Fourteen years ago I witnessed a crime and the perpetrator was sent to prison. At the trial, after he was found guilty of manslaughter, he vowed to kill me when he got out. He was released from prison a few weeks ago."

"That right?" The officer glanced at Tanner as if he wanted him to confirm her story.

"He doesn't know. He's just my neighbor. He heard me scream and came running." Vanessa said.

The cop looked unconvinced. "This ex-con, what's his name?"

"Carlo Vega."

"Where's he live?"

"El Paso."

Detective Malcolm made a notation on his steno pad and then scratched his head. "Why would this guy tell you to get out of Austin?"

"I don't know. Maybe it isn't Vega. You asked if anyone might have a grudge against me. That's the only person I can think of."

"Hey, Chief." One of the men cloaked in a blue paper forensics jumpsuit, hair cap, face mask and booties appeared in the doorway. He tugged down the mask. "The blood on the wall isn't blood. It's looks like the stuff they use in movies for blood. I'll know for sure when I get it back to the lab."

"That's a relief." The lead investigator let out a heavy breath. "So we're not looking for a body."

Tanner felt Vanessa's shoulders sag beneath his hands. He could tell she was more relieved than the detective.

"Let me get this straight," Detective Malcolm continued, raising a finger. "You were out of town at a conference and came home to this. Anything else out of the ordinary happen lately?"

"There was the e-mail," Vanessa said. "But that could just be related to what's going on at Confidential Rejuvenations."

"Excuse me? What e-mail? What's going on where?"

She explained about the e-mail she'd received and the odd happenings at the hospital.

"I'll need a copy of that e-mail," he said.

"It's on my work computer, but I'll make sure you get it," she said.

"Also it looks like the perp wore gloves," the forensic agent said. "Only fingerprints on the wall belong to Dr. Rodriquez."

"Thanks, Larry." The lead investigator turned back to her. "I recommend you find somewhere else to stay for the night."

"Yes," Vanessa said. "Thank you for the advice."

Forty-five minutes after they'd arrived, the police officers departed.

Tanner turned to Vanessa. "Get your things," he said, making sure his tone brooked no argument. "You and Fantasia are moving in with me."

TANNER TOOK HER OVER to Julie's to pick up Fantasia and they had to fill Julie in on what had happened. Vanessa had been too rattled to hide her distress. Seeing her cat, knowing what could have happened if the break-in had occurred while Fantasia had been in the house chilled her to the bone. If Carlo Vega was behind the ransacking, she knew exactly what he was capable of. Killing a cat meant nothing to the ruthless man.

It was almost midnight by the time they got back to Tanner's place, and he pulled her into his arms again. She was beginning to treasure and look forward to the warmth of his strong embrace.

When had she started to depend on him? She shouldn't be leaning on him so heavily, but she was finding him so hard to resist.

It was the first time she'd been in his condo. It was sparsely furnished. A couch. A chair. No pictures on the wall. Not too many personal items. She wondered what had happened to the things he'd had when he was married, but she didn't ask. She had a feeling he'd gotten rid of it all in an attempt to rid himself of the pain. Vanessa understood the scorched-earth policy. She also knew how damned lonely it felt.

She dropped her overnight bag on the floor, and spied a framed wedding picture on top of a box. It was Tanner and a beautiful brunette woman. "Maria?"

Tanner nodded.

Vanessa picked up the photograph. "She was beautiful."

"Yeah." His voice was rough.

She set the picture back down. "Is this your keepsake box?"

"Let's not go through that."

She bent to pick up a glistening gold medal that had been underneath the photograph. She didn't know why she was being so nosy. She would have gotten ticked if he'd gone through her things like this. Holding up the medal, she read what it said, then looked at him in surprise. "What do you know? You really do have a good conduct medal. I thought you were joking."

"That's enough making fun of me for one day," he said lightly, taking the medal from her and sticking it into his pocket. He looked embarrassed.

Immediately she felt bad for having snooped through his private things. "I wasn't making fun."

"No?"

"I wish I had a good conduct medal."

"Being good isn't all it's cracked up to be," he said. "People take advantage of that."

"There aren't very many honorable men left in the world, Tanner. Be proud of who you are."

"I haven't been so honorable these past few weeks. Not when it came to you. No good conduct there."

"I beg to differ. From my point of view, you've been very good indeed." She darted a quick glance below his belt.

He laughed then and reached out to stroke a finger along her jaw. "You've been through a lot today. Why don't I draw you a bath?"

Her first instinct was to tell him no, but then the concerned look on his face, the weariness in her body knocked holes in her independence. Besides he'd understood enough to let her go through his belongings. How nice it would be to let him take care of her. Just for a little while.

She nodded and his eyes glistened as if she'd bestowed him with a great gift. The warmth of his smile curled around her and she didn't protest when he took her by the hand and led her into his bathroom.

He turned on the bathwater. "Temperature?"

"I like it hot."

"Should have guessed." He adjusted the faucets, then straightened, turned to her and slowly began unbuttoning her shirt. She didn't resist. He pulled the shirt over her shoulders, dropped it to the floor.

Her nipples beaded in anticipation.

He chuckled and bent to kiss each straining bud before moving on to undo the snap on her jeans. He slid her pants down to her ankles. "Foot up."

She had to put her palm to the top of his head to maintain her balance while she raised her right foot and he slipped off her shoe and then guided off the leg of her jeans. She settled her bare foot back on the cool beige tile floor and then lifted the other foot.

He tested the water with his elbow, the way you test it for a baby to make sure it's not too hot. The gesture was so tender it caught her low in the belly. Here was a man who knew how to take care of people. He was such an unexpected paradox. The burly protector who followed the rules was also a caring nurturer.

"Your bath is ready."

He took her hand while she stepped into the bath and sank down into the sultry water. It was just as she liked it, hot and steamy.

Tanner knelt beside her with a washcloth, dipped it in the water, soaped it up and slowly began to run it over her.

She didn't protest. It wasn't like her to give up control so easily, but he made her feel safe and secure in a way no one ever had.

Just looking at him made her pulse jump. The steam from her bath curled the ends of his blond hair, giving him a boyish appearance that melted her heart. A bead of sweat formed at his throat. Her gaze fixed on that salty drop. She watched it roll down his neck to disappear into his collar.

Man alive, he was gorgeous.

Tanner had stopped rubbing her arm with the washcloth. She met his eyes and saw he was assessing her as intently as she'd been watching him. He sucked in his breath as if she'd stolen his air.

The mood between them was electric, tender and oddly serene. After what had just happened in her condo she shouldn't be feeling serene, but she was.

Because of Tanner.

There was so much affection and familiarity in his eyes that her resistance just collapsed in on itself.

"Your hair's getting wet," he said.

"Will you wash it for me?" she asked, surprising herself.

"Sure." He looked pleased.

She sank down, dropped her head back in the water, soaking her hair while he reached for the bottle of shampoo. It smelled clean and honest, unscented by florals or fruits.

Like Tanner.

She sat back up, her drenched wet hair trailing down her back. His fingers worked the shampoo into her hair with firm but gentle kneading motions. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of his hands.

"I was fifteen when my stepfather tried to molest me," she whispered.

It startled her to hear the words slip from her own lips. She hadn't even known she was going to say them.

Tanner stopped massaging her head, but only for a moment. He didn't comment. He just went back to his task. His silence gave her the courage to continue.

"I told my mother," she said, hearing the emotion rise high in her voice. Even after all this time the memory still had the power to knock her flat. "She accused me of trying to seduce her husband."

The sound of Tanner's indrawn breath filled the small space.

"My own mother. Believing him and not me."

Tanner's hand slipped to her shoulders. He squeezed her lightly. Telling her with his hands what he didn't say with his mouth. It's okay. It's over. The past is gone and I'm here now.

Vanessa closed her eyes, drew her knees to her chest and bowed her head. She was building herself up to tell him her dark, sordid secret. The secret she'd been unable and unwilling to tell him in the Bahamas. But after the shock of tonight's events and the way he'd proven himself to her, she was finally ready.

Tanner's thumbs worked the knots in her shoulders, easing her tension.

"Rather than stay there and be abused, I ran away from home," Vanessa explained. "The only place I could make enough money to live was working at a strip club run by a man named Carlo Vega."

She fell silent, waiting to see how he would react to this bombshell. Would he be disgusted?

"Doing what you had to do to survive," he murmured.

She swallowed past the painful memory. He didn't seem to be judging her. "Yes."

"You were underage. A child."

"Exactly. That's what people like Vega do. Take advantage of innocence. Corrupting lost and lonely kids. I danced there for two years, hoping and dreaming of a better future. I wanted to be a doctor so badly. I was good at my job. I made a lot of money and I saved it and I got my GED. But I saw things no girl should have to see, put up with things no woman should have to put up with. Then one night...one night..." She broke off. She hadn't spoken of that night since the trial.

"You don't have to say anything. It's okay."

"No," she said. "I want to say it. I want to tell you. I want to trust you, Tanner."

"Vanessa," he whispered, wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to her soapy temple.

She felt something crack open inside her. A glacier calving. A fortress collapsing.

"Then one night," she started again, her voice clearer, stronger. "I saw Carlo lose it in the alley behind the club. He was high on drugs and he beat one of his henchmen to death with his bare hands because the guy had shortchanged him on a cocaine deal."

"You don't have to talk about this." Tanner clamped a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You're wrong. I have to talk about this if I want to get past it. I need to tell you. You were right. If I can share my body with you, then I should be able to share my darkest secrets."

"I don't want to put you through that."

Vanessa could feel Tanner's gaze on her face, but she couldn't look at him. She was so ashamed. "I tried to hide behind the Dumpster, but he saw me cowering and came after me."

Tanner fisted his hand around the washcloth. She heard his breathing quicken and grow shallow. It matched her own erratic rhythm.

She bent her head to her knees in the cooling water. She didn't want to cry in front of him, didn't want to be that vulnerable, but it was too late. She flashed back to the most terrifying moment of her life, saw the man bloodied and dying in the alley. Relived the horrifying moment when Vega whirled, his eyes wild, spotting her behind the Dumpster. Grunting and cursing, he'd come after her with his raised, bloody fist. She'd been snatched into the jaws of a nightmare, except it had been all too real.

Remembering that terrifying, life-altering event caused her heart to race and her mouth to grow dry. For fourteen years she'd suppressed the memory, but it had never gone away. It had been festering inside her, eating away at her, keeping her from being the person she was truly meant to be.

"Go ahead and let it out," Tanner said. "You're safe with me."

Safety seemed so remote, especially after what had happened tonight, but he made it sound so possible. She wanted to believe he could tame this desperation inside her. That he could soothe her savage longings with his body. That he could traverse the barriers she'd erected for so long. What a relief it would be to let him into her life, into her heart.

"Carlo came at me," she murmured. "I was certain I was dead. He grabbed me around the waist, put his filthy hand over my mouth, and I bit him."

She shuddered, paused.

Tanner didn't press. He let her tell the story the way she needed to tell it.

"I'd taken to carrying a knife, a switchblade, for protection. I tucked it in the go-go boots I wore when I was dancing on stage."

He made a noise low in his throat that sounded like half sympathy for her, half rage at Vega. Why couldn't Tanner have been there for her then? She would have given anything to have a man like him back then.

He's here now.

Tears burned the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away.

"Carlo pulled me from behind the Dumpster, punched me hard. He was swearing and I was screaming, or at least I thought I was screaming. I might not have been because I think his hand was still over my mouth. Somehow I really can't remember this part, but I managed to get hold of the switchblade."

"Vanessa, it's okay, shh, shh." Tanner cradled her head against him, but she just kept talking.

"I fought him off, cut him." She shook her. "That part was a blur, too."

Tanner held her, rocked her in the tepid bathwater.

She stared straight ahead, kept up her narrative. Once the dam had been broken, the river started to flow. "He howled and let go of me. I ran as fast as I could, staggered into the street, screamed for help. He chased after me. People were standing around watching. I remember seeing faces I knew, but no one from the club was going to get involved. They were all on his payroll, or they were customers with too much to lose by getting involved or they were just plain terrified the bastard would do the same thing to them. If a car hadn't stopped on the street..." She let her words trail off again.

Tanner rested his forehead against hers.

"I testified against Carlo even though his goons threatened to kill me. The jury convicted him, and he went away for fourteen years on first-degree manslaughter charges. As they were dragging him out of the courtroom, he vowed to get even with me."

She cleared her throat and stared glassy-eyed at the shiny chrome bathroom faucet fixtures. "The defense brought in my mother and Earl as character witnesses against me. They said I was a liar. A runaway. A thief. My own mother. Luckily the jury believed me and not them."

"That must have been terrifying." Tanner's voice was calm, but loaded with an undercurrent of anger. "I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have protected you."

"The trial wasn't as terrifying as working for Vega. I was glad he wasn't going to be able to hurt anyone else. The media made a big deal of it. I was hailed as a hero, but I just saw myself as a survivor. And then something unbelievably wonderful happened because of everything I'd gone through."

"What was that?"

"An anonymous benefactor came forward. In a news interview I'd said I wanted to be a doctor. The benefactor paid for my way through college and medical school. I was pretty proud, and at first I didn't want to accept the money—I wasn't a charity case. I had proven I could take care of myself. I'd taken down a powerful criminal with my testimony. I could have made it without this person's money. But then I realized it was my one chance to be a doctor, and I wanted that more than anything else on earth. I wanted, needed to help people. So I took the money, I changed my name and buried Trudy Valdez. I was reborn Vanessa Rodriquez and I devoted myself to achieving my goals. I refused to let anything distract me."

"You were dedicated."

"I wasn't going to let Vega steal my soul or ruin my spirit. I was going to triumph and I made it." The tears were back and she couldn't blink them away this time.

Tenderness misted his own eyes. He kissed her lightly on the cheeks, the forehead, her eyelids. "Sweetheart, you are such an amazing woman," Tanner said. "More than I ever guessed."

The tears trickled down her face.

Gently, Tanner drew her up out of the water and turned on the shower. He held her while he rinsed the soap from her hair. He shut off the water and toweled her dry, his hands skimming over her body. When he was finished and her hair was wrapped in a towel, he put his arms around her again.

For fourteen long years she'd hidden her sorry truth from the world. But now she'd let down her guard. She'd trusted him. Tanner could not think of a greater gift.

He had only one regret—that he hadn't known her then. That he hadn't been able to protect her. No one had protected her. Not her mother, not her real father, whoever he was. She'd lost her innocence at such a young age. She'd gone it alone and in an incredible act of bravery, she'd saved herself and countless other women by putting Vega behind bars. But in the process, so much trust and hope had been hammered out of her. Tanner wanted to give those things back to her, but he didn't know how.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Vanessa," he whispered. "Never be ashamed of who you are."

She looked at him, her brown eyes glittering with tears, and then she laughed hoarsely and kissed him. Tanner could see she was frantic with relief. She finally set down her burden.

He stroked her face with his fingers and his lips. Tasting her, feeling her, absorbing her into his system. He picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.

The towel fell from her hair, exposing the wet strands that were now jet-black with dampness. He settled her onto the new mattress he'd bought when he moved in, then removed his own clothes and lay down beside her.

She touched him between his thighs with her fingertips and he hardened instantly.

Breathlessly he planted kisses all over her body and she did the same to him. Gone was all the wildness of their previous mating. This was calm and quiet, steady and secure.

They lay naked together, hands and mouths exploring, learning things about each other they hadn't known before. They were trembling, both of them, caught up in this helpless newness of their fresh knowledge of each other.

At times it was awkward, the blinding intensity of these feelings. They made their way through it together, signaling with touch, whispers and feather-soft caresses. Enrapt in a timeless place as hot and emotional as a restless summer night filled with lightning.

Her deep brown eyes darkened to midnight as his gaze met hers. "I've been waiting for you my entire life," she murmured. "And I never even knew it until now."

No other words could have lifted him higher. Tanner's heart, broken so long, soared on the hope of wholeness and repair. He had suffered; she had suffered. But it was all over now. They merged together in a sweet cocoon of love.

VANESSA FELT like a new person in the same old skin. She woke happy and giddy to be alive and not even the thought of her vandalized condo could shake the joy strumming through her blood.

They spooned together in the pearly soft light of dawn streaming in through his bedroom window. Tanner lay curled against her back, his right arm tucked under her head like a pillow, his left arm thrown across her waist, her fingers laced through his.

He stretched against her and she flexed back. She could feel his erection pressing against her buttocks. His bare chest was hard against her bare back. He inhaled, loosened his fingers from hers, ran his hand along her belly.

The taste of him was in her mouth. The scent of him on her skin.

"I've been lying here listening to you sleep. You have the sweetest snore."

"I don't snore," she denied.

"How do you know?" He chuckled. "You're sleeping when you do it."

"I don't snore."

"It's not a real snore," he said. "Not loud. Just this raspy little sound that lets me know you're breathing."

She rolled against him, into him. "I wish we didn't have to get up. I wish we could stay in bed forever."

"We can't. We have to go to work."

"I know."

He kissed her forehead. "Come on, sleepyhead, I'll make you breakfast."

Tanner grinned at her and her heart filled up with happiness. And as she watched him get up to strut buck-naked across the room she found herself thinking, So this is what it feels like to be in love.

WHEN TANNER GOT TO WORK, he found a message waiting for him on his answering machine from his P.I. friend in El Paso. "Got the lowdown on Vanessa Rodriquez. Call me."

After closing his office door, Tanner called his friend back on his cell phone. "Phil," he said. "Tanner. Whatcha got for me?"

"Something very interesting."

"Yeah?" He tried to sound cool, professional, but his gut squeezed tight.

"For one thing, your lady wasn't always known as Vanessa Rodriquez."

"I know, I just found out she had it legally changed from Trudy Valdez."

"Rats, you take all the fun out of it. I suppose you know about her real father, as well."

Tanner's hand tightened on the phone. "No, who is he?"

"It's a scorcher."

"Someone well-known?"

"He's from your neck of the woods."

"Don't drag this out, Phil. We're not playing poker. Gimme what you've got," Tanner growled.

"You know Senator Garcia?"

"Yes?"

"He's her daddy."

The information turned his head around and he eased down into his chair. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

It made perfect sense. No wonder Robert was so concerned about Vanessa's well-being. He was her biological father.

"Where'd you find this information?" Tanner asked, the implications bouncing around in his brain. How was he going to break the news to Vanessa?

"It wasn't easy. Her birth certificate listed her father as unknown, so I went over to the barrio where she was born. Had a visit with some of her mother's relatives. Most of them wouldn't talk to me, but there was a chatty old cousin who remembered Robert when he lived in the neighborhood and dated Vanessa's mother."

"Wow. That's a bombshell. Are you absolutely positive?"

"Only a paternity test will tell that story," Phil said. "But that's not the biggest shocker."

Tanner drummed his pen against the desk. "What else could there be?"

"That threatening e-mail sent to your lady doctor?"

"Yeah?"

"Hold on to your hat."

"You want me to come through this phone and choke the info out of you?" Tanner growled.

Phil laughed. "I love getting you riled. I figure this Vanessa means something to you on a personal level."

"How do you know?"

"It's in your voice, man," he said. "Plus you've never threatened to choke me before."

"What about the e-mail?" Tanner asked, barely able to keep his patience. "Where did it come from?"

"Get this. It was sent from a personal computer using an IPS billed to Senator Garcia's home."

"WHAT'S GOT YOU ALL SMILES?" Julie asked Vanessa when she joined her friends for coffee at the kiosk inside Confidential Rejuvenations. "I thought after last night you'd be upset."

"I'm betting it's got something to do with Tanner Doyle," Elle said. "You look exactly the way I felt when I was falling in love with Dante."

"How do you know about Tanner?" Vanessa asked, too excited to deny what she was feeling.

"Please, you were in the Bahamas with Maxine Woodbury. The woman doesn't miss a trick," Elle said.

"The whole hospital is buzzing about you two." Julie grinned. "I'm so happy for you, Nessa."

In the past Vanessa would have told her friends not to jump the gun. That these emotions were too new to poke and prod and analyze. But something had happened to her last night. A line had been crossed, a moment defined, a lifetime of fears vanquished. And it was all Tanner's doing.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm pretty happy for me, too."

Elle placed a hand over hers. "You've waited a long time for a good man. Treasure him."

"I intend to," she said with a fierceness that both startled and delighted her. "Oh, you guys, he's just the best. Strong and kind and understanding. He really gets me, you know? The way you guys do." Tears misted her eyes and a lump blocked her throat as she remembered the previous night.

"I know," Elle said, tears welling in her own eyes. She did know, Vanessa realized. She had Dante.

"Tanner's such a loyal man. I love how he backs me up, no matter what. He's always on my side. He's hardworking and capable and highly principled. But he doesn't judge me and he makes me feel secure. I've never felt so safe in my entire life."

"I wish I could find a man like that." Julie sighed. "You and Elle are so lucky to have found your soul mates."

"Your turn is coming," Elle told her. "Think about that old song, 'You Can't Hurry Love.' It's too true. Hang on. He'll show up one day."

"I hope it's before I'm eighty-five," Julie muttered.

Elle shot Vanessa a look. "She doesn't understand how it's all worth the wait."

Vanessa smiled. It was as if she and Elle belonged to a special sisterhood for women who'd found their true loves. A sisterhood she'd never believed would be open to her.

"Have you told him that you love him?" Elle asked.

She shook her head. "I'm working up to it. One step at a time."

"Has Tanner told you that he loves you yet?" Julie asked.

"Not in so many words. But he's shown me time after time," Vanessa said. "For instance, he was so wonderful last night. He stayed right beside me the entire time I was giving my statement to the cops. Then he insisted I come home with him and this morning, he cooked me breakfast and then he called a cleaning crew to come in and clean up the mess at my house. He takes care of me and I never thought I'd be able to trust someone to do that."

Julie sighed wistfully.

"So, do the cops have any idea who vandalized your condo?" Elle took a sip of her coffee.

"They believe it might have something to do with the sabotage here at Confidential Rejuvenations."

Julie cringed. "It's awful that whoever it is might be branching out to employees' private homes."

"Tanner's intensified the security around here so tightly the perpetrator might have moved on to easier pickings." Vanessa dipped a biscotti into her coffee.

"I still don't understand what the saboteur has against Confidential Rejuvenations." Elle looked forlorn. "We do such good things here."

"It's hard to understand the human psyche," Vanessa said. "Let's just hope that having Tanner as head of our security starts a whole new chapter for the hospital."

"And for you," Elle added.

"We're so happy for you, Nessa, truly," Julie said.

"Thanks," Vanessa said. "I'm happy for me, too."

It was in the moment with her friends, she just knew. Tanner was the man she'd been waiting all her life to find. The kind of man she'd feared never existed. And she wasn't about to let him go. The very next time she saw him, she was going to just come right out and say it. Those three little words she'd never uttered to a man in her entire life.

I love you.

## 12

"I'M LEAVING the hospital grounds," Tanner told Charlie Martin. "I'm putting you in charge until I return. You can reach me on my cell if anything comes up. Keep an extra close eye on Dr. Rodriquez."

"Got it," Charlie said.

Tanner was reluctant to leave Vanessa unguarded, but he had to confront Robert in person. This wasn't the kind of conversation you had over the telephone. Besides, he had to see the senator's face when he told him that he knew about his relationship to Vanessa and that he had proof the threatening e-mail had originated from the senator's home.

All he could think of was that somehow Robert's wife, Amanda, had found out Vanessa was his biological daughter and wasn't happy to hear of her husband's past. But the image of a petty, bitter woman who would send such an e-mail didn't jive with what Tanner knew of Amanda Garcia. He'd always found her kind and considerate. She served on numerous charities and she'd checked up on him often after Maria had died.

Could Robert have sent the e-mail? That made no sense. Why would he send a threatening message to the child he'd anonymously put through medical school? The same child he'd hired Tanner to protect?

He was determined to find answers.

Vanessa was busy with her patients in the office that morning and the cameras in the doctors' building were all working. Tanner had checked them twice to make sure. He'd also checked all the other cameras in the hospital. She was as safe as she could possibly be without being joined to his hip.

Tanner left the hospital and drove to Robert's office near the state house only to discover the senator wasn't there. His secretary told him Robert had mentioned he was going to be working from home that afternoon.

It took Tanner almost half an hour to maneuver through the traffic near the University of Texas, and by the time he reached Robert's house, his patience was severely frayed.

He drove up the sweeping driveway to the stately colonial-style house in one of Austin's most elite neighborhoods. A gardener was in the yard trimming the privacy hedges. Tanner parked the Jeep, got out and strode to the front door.

The maid answered. "Hello, Mr. Tanner." She grinned broadly at him. "Nice to see you."

"You as well, Yasmine. Is the senator in?"

"No, no." She wiped her hands on her apron. "He was here, but he left a little while ago."

He suppressed his grunt of frustration. It wasn't the maid's fault he'd missed Robert. "Do you know where he was headed?"

"No, sir."

He shifted his weight. "Is Amanda home?"

"She's at the women's shelter on Oakmont Street. She volunteers there on Mondays."

Splaying a palm against the back of his neck, he let out a long-held breath. "No one's home?"

"Miss Chloe just left. She came home from the hospital on her lunch break."

"Is that typical?" he asked.

Yasmine shook her head. "She seemed very upset about something."

Her comment piqued his interest. For the first time he thought about Chloe. Could she be the one who'd sent the e-mail to Vanessa? The young woman was so quiet and un-assuming, it was easy to forget her.

"How long was she here?"

Yasmine shrugged. "Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five."

"Do you know what she was doing?"

"She didn't speak to me."

"Have you noticed anything different about Chloe lately?"

Yasmine shook her head. "I don't want to speak out of turn."

Tanner clamped his eyes on the older woman's. "This is important. Something's come up at Confidential Rejuvenations and I really need to know what Chloe was doing here. You know me, Yasmine. You knew Maria."

"Yes, Mr. Tanner. You and your wife were very good to me. I remember the time you fixed my car when it broke down and how your Maria gave me a pair of shoes once. Almost new, very expensive shoes." A faint smile lifted her lips. "I still wear them to parties."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then listen to me when I tell you it's in Chloe's overall best interest for you to tell me what she did when she came home," Tanner said. "I promise you, it will be all right."

Yasmine considered his statement before she said, "Chloe went to her room and came back with her computer. Not the laptop but the big one. She said it was broken and she was taking it in for repairs."

A chill raised the hairs on his forearm. He didn't for one minute believe Chloe's computer was broken. "Thank you, Yasmine. I appreciate you placing your confidence in me."

"I worry about that girl." Yasmine nibbled on her bottom lip. "She's always been a strange child. No matter what the senator and his wife do for her it seems never to be what she needs. It's as if they can't love her enough."

The maid's words stirred an ominous feeling in Tanner's gut and in that moment, he just knew. Chloe had sent the e-mail to Vanessa. Chloe had vandalized her condo while they were in the Bahamas.

He didn't know if she was involved in the other offenses at Confidential Rejuvenations, but in his bones, he knew that Chloe had discovered Vanessa's true identity.

Now all he needed was proof.

A KNOCK DREW Vanessa's attention to her open office door. She lifted her head, hoping to see Tanner, but instead spied her scrub nurse, Chloe Garcia, standing in the doorway.

"Hi, Chloe." She smiled and waved her in over the threshold.

"Hello, Dr. R."

"What can I do for you?"

Chloe shifted her weight. The girl had never been loquacious. She pushed a hank of brindle-colored hair from her full-moon face. "Maxine told me your place got vandalized while you were in the Bahamas."

How had Maxine heard about that already? The only people she'd told were Julie, Elle and Tanner. It troubled her to think one of them spilled the beans.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

What did the woman want? "I appreciate your sympathy."

"I was thinking..." She paused.

"Yes?" Vanessa prompted when Chloe didn't automatically continue.

"Well, if you needed somewhere to stay while your place is getting fixed up, you could stay with me."

"That's a generous offer, Chloe, but I thought you lived with your parents," she said.

"I moved out today."

"Oh."

"So if you need a place to stay—" she nodded "—I'd love the company."

In that moment Chloe looked so lonely that her forlorn expression tugged Vanessa's heart. "That's very kind of you to invite me."

"So you'll move in with me?" The faintest of smiles tipped up the corners of Chloe's lips.

"Thank you, but I already have a place to stay."

"Oh." She ducked her head as if embarrassed. "Okay. Sorry to bother you."

"You didn't bother me."

The woman raised a hand, but kept her head tucked down as she backed out of the office. "I better get back to the hospital."

Vanessa had a sudden thought. If the scrub nurse was this tuned in to hospital gossip, perhaps she had an idea who might be trying to sabotage the hospital. She couldn't help thinking that the sabotage and the threats against her were somehow connected. "Chloe, wait."

Tentatively the woman's head came up. "Yes."

Vanessa motioned her back inside. "Please, close the door so we can speak in private."

Chloe did as she asked.

"You're smart. You keep your ear to the ground. Do you have any idea who's behind the petty thefts and other disturbances at Confidential Rejuvenations?"

Chloe's eyes widened. "No."

"You haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary lately? Anyone acting suspicious or odd?"

"Well, there is one thing."

"Yes?" Vanessa folded her fingers into her palms and sat up straighter.

"It's about Tanner Doyle."

That was the last thing Vanessa expected her to say. "Tanner?"

"They didn't really hire him as head of security."

Vanessa frowned. What was Chloe talking about? "I don't understand."

"I overheard my father talking to Dr. Butler."

"And?"

"He's been hired to watch over you."

"What do you mean?" Vanessa pushed back her chair, got to her feet.

"The head of security job is just a ruse to cover the fact he's been hired as your bodyguard."

"What?"

"It's true."

"But why?"

Chloe was headed out the door again. "That's all I know. If you want more details, then you're just going to have to ask Tanner."

DISTURBED BY Chloe's statement that Tanner had been hired as her bodyguard, Vanessa had the receptionist, Hailey, reschedule the remainder of her office appointments, then she went in search of Tanner. She was determined to get to the bottom of this because, as crazy as Chloe sounded, there was the ring of truth to her words.

It would explain why Tanner had shown up everywhere she had been since Carlo Vega had been released from prison—Emilio's, the hospital, the condo next door, the Bahamas. It also explained why he'd moved her in with him. Not because he was falling in love with her, as she'd wanted to believe, but because he'd been hired to guard her.

The biggest questions of all were who had hired him and why?

Feeling as if she'd had her guts ripped out and stomped on, she stalked across the asphalt between the doctors' building and Confidential Rejuvenations. She thought briefly about going to Elle and Julie for advice, but honestly, she didn't know who she could trust anymore.

Just then, Tanner's yellow Jeep Cherokee pulled into the parking lot.

Her chest contracted, the sweet soreness between her legs a sorry reminder of how she'd fallen for him, hook, line and sinker.

He got out of his vehicle. "Vanessa," he said, walking toward her, relief etched on his face. "I was coming to look for you."

"What a coincidence," she said coolly. "I was looking for you."

The afternoon sun beat down bright, a stark contrast to her dark mood. Her stomach ached and her lungs felt so tight it hurt to breathe.

Tanner put his hands on her upper arms. "We need to talk."

"Yes."

As he looked at her, hope mingled with the desolation ramming into her heart, twisting up her gut.

Please, she prayed, please let Chloe's gossip be unfounded. She shrugged off his touch and stepped back.

He looked bewildered. "Is something wrong?"

"You tell me."

"I think I know who sent you those e-mails and vandalized your condo, but I can't say. Not until I have proof."

"Why not?" she said, her voice caustic. "Don't you trust me?"

"Something is wrong." Tanner came toward her, closing the gap she'd made between them. "What's happened?"

"You want to tell me the real reason you're with me? Why you were at Emilio's? Why you're here at Confidential Rejuvenations? Why you moved in next door? Why you're sleeping with me?"

He exhaled, threaded his hand through his hair. "You found out."

She sank her hands on her hips. "Just who in the hell are you, Tanner Doyle?"

Tanner shifted his weight. He knew he was going to have deal with this sometime, he'd just hoped to postpone it until after he'd confronted Robert.

Vanessa wasn't letting him off the hook. Her eyes flashed hotly, her expression was livid. He suddenly feared she wasn't going to forgive him for his deception. "It was never my intention to lie to you."

She went perfectly still. "What was your intention?"

"To guard you with my life."

Vanessa drilled a hole straight through him with her scowl. He felt bare, exposed to the bone. "Because you were hired to do so."

"Yes," he admitted.

"Were you hired to sleep with me, as well?"

He reached out, aching to touch her, but she jerked back before his fingers could graze her arm. "I crossed the line. I let my feelings for you interfere with my job. It was wrong. I broke all the rules."

She looked as if he'd just slapped her across the face. "I trusted you," she whispered. "I trusted you and you lied to me."

His eyes burned. He knew he'd let her down. "I promised my employer that I wouldn't reveal my real purpose for being around you."

"Who hired you?"

"I can't tell you the person's name. It would violate my contract."

"And screwing me didn't?" Her voice grew hard.

He clenched his jaw. He deserved that.

Vanessa clamped her lips together and didn't speak another word. He could see the hurt in her eyes, in the proud set to her shoulders. He had betrayed her. When he found himself crossing the line, he should have told her the truth. He should have told her from the very beginning. He should have quit the job. Now it was too late.

She wouldn't even look at him. She turned, heading to the doctors' offices with jerky movements.

He followed her. "Talk to me, Vanessa."

"I have nothing to say to you if you're not willing to tell me who hired you."

Tanner grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. "I can't, dammit."

"It was Carlo Vega, wasn't it? He wanted you to keep tabs on me."

"No! How could you even think I would work for a man like Vega?"

"Because," Vanessa said, wrenching her arm from his grasp, "I don't even know who the hell you are."

He didn't understand why she was so angry. Yes, he'd kept the truth from her, but it was a requirement of his job. He'd never meant to hurt her, and he wasn't going to let her walk away without knowing how he felt.

"I love you, Vanessa."

"That's pretty low of you to throw that out there now," she said.

"I love you, dammit. I don't want to lose you. Let's talk this thing through."

"How do you expect me to trust you now?"

She was killing him inside, shredding him up like a wood chipper. "You've gotta believe in me."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just can't."

Tanner watched her go, his heart ripping into two pieces. He'd hoped telling her he loved her would change her mind. It hadn't. In fact, it had seemed to agitate her all the more.

There was only one way he knew to make things right. Find Robert Garcia and force the man to tell Vanessa that he was her biological father. He whirled around, headed back to his Jeep, fishing for his cell phone with one hand, then punching in Robert's number with his thumb.

His mind was in such turmoil he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. His guard was down, his pulse pounding so hard he could scarcely hear. He put the phone to his ear. It rang, and rang, then finally went to Robert's voice mail.

"This is Tanner. It's extremely urgent," he said. "We have to talk. Call me as soon as you get this message." He hung up, stuck the phone in his pocket, then moved to open the door of his Jeep.

"Hello, Tanner."

He looked up, saw Chloe step from the shadows of the forest surrounding the hospital grounds. She had an odd smile on her face. "Chloe," he said, "What do you want?"

And that's when he saw the gun.

VANESSA FLED back to her office to lick her wounds. As quickly as it had washed over her, the anger vanished.

She thought of Tanner. How wretched he'd looked standing in the parking lot, telling her he loved her.

How she wanted to believe him.

You did the right thing, she tried to convince herself. How could they have a relationship if she couldn't trust him?

He was only doing what he'd been told, whispered the voice in the back of her mind. Following orders. Trying to do the right thing. Trying to keep you safe.

She shook her head. It wasn't that he hadn't told her he'd been hired as her bodyguard that bothered her. It was that she'd trusted him and he had lied to her about everything. She'd been falling in love with him and now she had no way of knowing if those feelings were real. Those emotions were based on who she thought Tanner was.

That's a cop-out. You're just scared of taking a chance on love. Tanner is a damn good man and you know it.

In fact, he was unlike any man she'd ever met.

He was honest. He'd just been put in a position where he had to choose loyalty over honesty. It must have been very difficult for him to keep the truth from her considering his high standards. He was dependable and practical and down-to-earth. He was strong and protective and tender. The kind of man she'd always needed and had never been able to find.

She thought of all they'd shared. Of the way they'd given their bodies to each other. Tanner had accepted her for who she was. He never judged her for the tough decisions she'd made in her life. He had understood in a way she'd never thought anyone could. He'd been there for her when she needed him most, never mind that he'd been hired to guard her. He'd gone above and beyond the call of duty.

Vanessa had told him they were through just because his loyalty wouldn't allow him to betray a confidence. Didn't that prove right there he was a trustworthy guy?

She'd been looking at things the wrong way, assuming everyone was as devious and underhanded as the people she'd grown up around. She'd done him an injustice.

She thought about last night. How she'd broken down and finally confessed her past. She thought about how tender he'd been with her. How kind and forgiving. How his lovemaking had been so gentle, so different than what they'd shared before.

Her chest ached and her groin tightened with need. Her body didn't seem to realize that she would never make love to Tanner again. Haphazard mental pictures of him zipped through her mind—Tanner dancing with her at Emilio's. Tanner wrestling her to the ground when she'd tried to attack him with the scalpel. Tanner standing beside her as she'd been interviewed by the cops. Tanner lovingly shampooing her hair.

Each snapshot nibbled at her desire, mocked her foolishness. It was as if her whole life was on video, a heartrending rerun of how she'd ruined things.

She knew why she'd overreacted to the news that Tanner had deceived her. Why she'd felt so betrayed. Why she'd always had a tough time trusting others. It was because she'd been deceiving herself about what she wanted and needed from life. She'd projected her fears onto Tanner.

Was she going to let him slip through her fingers because he'd been put in a no-win situation? Could she let go of her suspicious nature and just trust her instincts? Just trust that he did love her and wanted only what was best for her?

Such a tempting dream. How she wanted it.

Go find him, hear him out. It's worth a chance. He's worth the risk.

She got up, rushed from her office, hurried back outside in search of Tanner. She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted his Jeep in the parking lot. He was still here.

In fact, he was sitting in the front seat.

"Oh, Tanner," she whispered. "I'm so very sorry."

She hurried across the asphalt, bent on begging him for his forgiveness.

When she got closer, she saw that he was in the front seat. Slumped over. She put a hand on the door, wrenched it open. "Tanner, I—"

The sight of his blood seeping from the gaping wound in his side and oozing down the seat tore the rest of the words from her throat.

## 13

THE PAIN FROM THE BULLET lodged in his gut was unlike anything Tanner had ever experienced. He felt his own blood, thick and sticky, oozing out of him. But even the teeth-jarring, bone-stabbing ache was nothing compared to the utter terror he felt at knowing he was quickly slipping toward unconsciousness, leaving Vanessa unprotected against Chloe's insanity.

He was vaguely aware of Vanessa opening the door of his Jeep, calling his name and pressing her smooth, cool fingertips to the thready pulse barely beating at his throat. He heard her screaming for a gurney, smelled her womanly scent.

Arms went around him, easing him from the vehicle. The sunlight rapidly faded and he felt himself falling fast down a darkened tunnel.

No. He couldn't go down that tunnel. He had to get back. Had to save Vanessa from Chloe.

He wanted to speak, but his mouth was dry. So damned dry. He tried to lick his lips but he couldn't find his tongue. Where was his tongue?

"GSW to the abdomen," Vanessa told someone he couldn't see. Tanner heard the squeak of wheels, felt his body being lifted.

Dammit, no. He had to get up.

With a tremendous effort of will, he struggled to sit up, jacking himself forward on his elbows. His head spun and fresh pain shot through his body. He snorted in air, clenched his teeth.

"Tanner, no. Lie back, be still," Vanessa commanded.

So strong. His woman.

No, not his woman. She'd broken up with him.

He'd screwed it all up. Made a huge mess of things when all he'd wanted to do was protect her. Love her.

And he'd gone and gotten himself shot, leaving her vulnerable, open to attack.

Her hand was on his shoulder, pressing him down against the gurney. He felt someone secure him with straps. He didn't like that. He tried to fight back, tried to make a fist with his hands.

"Tanner, can you hear me?" Vanessa rasped.

He nodded, or tried to nod. He didn't know if he was successful or not.

"You're losing a lot of blood fast."

He felt his life force ebb, his vision was almost gone. All he could see was a blur of human forms gathered around him, hustling him into the hospital, into the operating room.

The pungent odor of anesthesia curled in his nostrils. The room was icy. So cold. He shivered violently and tried again to sit up.

"Tanner," Vanessa said sharply. "Lie still. For once in your damned life, give up control. You don't always have to be the strong one. Please, just let us save your life."

The operating room lights were hot and bright, but Tanner's vision remained weak. He blinked, trying hard to see her dear face one last time. He didn't want to leave the world without looking into her eyes.

She came into focus, leaning over him, her eyes dark with concern.

"I love you," he whispered, finding his voice at last.

"I love you, too." Her smile wavered. "Don't you dare leave me."

He fumbled his hand into his pocket, found the good conduct medal he'd stuffed into it the night before. He pulled it out and pressed it into her hand.

"Trust me," he croaked. His voice was fading fast and he wasn't sure she heard him.

The surgical staff gathered around him, stripping off his clothes, starting an IV in his forearm.

"They're going to prep you now, Tanner," she said. "Dr. Covey will be doing the surgery, but I'm going to scrub in and be right there with you throughout the entire thing."

Then looming behind Vanessa, he saw Chloe, the scrub nurse, lurking, waiting.

"Chloe..." He tried to grab for Vanessa's arm, but his hand simply quivered against the gurney.

"Yes," Vanessa said. "Chloe will be scrubbing in on your surgery."

"Chloe's the one," he whispered. "She did—"

But that was as far as he got. Tanner's consciousness winked out.

CHLOE'S THE ONE.

Tanner's last words circled Vanessa's head as she stood in the scrub room, roughly buffing her hands with a plastic bristle scrub brush and a yellowish-brown solution of Prepodyne. Chloe stood at the sink beside her, intent on her own scrub. Dr. Covey was at the sink next to Chloe.

Chloe's the one.

What had Tanner meant by that? Had he been suggesting that Chloe shot him? But why? Vanessa cast a glance at the scrub nurse who raised her head and stared at her above her blue surgical mask with wide, disarming eyes.

Chloe's the one.

Had the scrub nurse heard what Tanner had said?

"Do you think you can save Tanner, Dr. Covey?" Chloe asked. "He's shot up pretty bad."

"You're damned right we're going to save him," Dr. Covey said.

Was she jumping to conclusions? Should Vanessa suggest to Dr. Covey that Chloe be taken off the scrub team?

But there was no time for someone else to scrub in. Tanner's life was slipping away with every passing second. Why would Chloe shoot Tanner? It made no sense.

Maybe she's the one who's been sabotaging the hospital and he found out about it.

Still, shooting someone over a few misdemeanor offenses was illogical. Tanner's good conduct medal weighted Vanessa's pocket. It was a symbol of trust. When he'd given it to her, had he been trying to tell her to trust him? Trust him about Chloe? But what about Chloe?

Vanessa's head throbbed. What to do?

Chloe had already finished her scrub and with raised arms, she stepped into the OR to let the circulating nurse gown her up.

Tanner had been drugged and in pain. He had no idea what he was saying. She might have even misunderstood him. One thing was for sure, they had no time to dither. Vanessa stepped away from the automatic sink and it cut off. She held her arms up and away from her body and followed Chloe into the operating room to allow Lisa to gown and glove her.

Everything went smoothly for the first thirty minutes. Vanessa watched as Dr. Covey went in, found the bullet and stopped the bleeding. Chloe worked the sterile field across from him, handing him whatever instruments he needed before he even had to ask. They worked as a well-oiled machine, and Vanessa began to feel sheepish for believing Tanner had been trying to finger Chloe as his attacker.

And then, as Dr. Covey was getting ready to close up, the steady blipping noise from the computerized module monitoring Tanner's heartbeat sped up.

"He's in V-tach," Dr. Brad Mertz said from the head of the table, indicating Tanner's heart had started beating at a deadly fast and erratic pace.

Vanessa jerked her gaze from the surgery site to the monitor. Her own heartbeat quickened. Immediately she shifted her gaze to Chloe, who was holding an empty syringe poised above the rubber injection stopper in Tanner's IV. A single drop of fluid glistened on the tip of the needle.

"What did you give him?" Vanessa demanded, rage seizing her. It was all she could do to keep from moving across the operating table after her.

Chloe's eyes smiled at her over the top of her mask. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"You're the one who shot him," Vanessa accused, a thousand knives of guilt stabbing into her. She should never have let the bitch into the OR.

Chloe made a noise of satisfaction.

Vanessa came at her then, whipping around the operating table. But by the time she got to her, Chloe had dropped the syringe and picked up a scalpel. She waved it at Vanessa. "Stay back or I'll cut his lifelines."

From the corner of her eye, Vanessa saw the circulating nurse edging for the emergency panic button.

"Don't do it, Lisa," Chloe said, "Sit down on the floor right now, or I'll kill Tanner."

Lisa obediently plunked down on the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" Vanessa cried, completely nonplussed. She was trying to keep one eye on Chloe and one eye on the monitor. Dr. Covey and the anesthesiologist stood stunned, apparently not quite knowing what to do, watching it all play out.

"He loves you more," Chloe shouted.

"What are you talking about? How can he love you, Chloe? Tanner doesn't even know you."

"Not him." Chloe snorted and waved the scalpel at Tanner's inert body with an impatient hand. "Daddy."

Vanessa was confused. What was the nutty scrub nurse talking about? "Daddy?"

"He loves you more."

"I don't have a father."

Chloe suddenly looked confused and sucked in air so forcefully her mask stuck to her mouth. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" Vanessa heard her own voice fly high and reedy from her throat.

"My adopted father is your biological dad."

"What?" She couldn't process this information. "What are you babbling about?"

"He paid your way through medical school. But he told me I wasn't smart enough. That I had to settle for being a nurse." Chloe's face twisted with rage. "He loves you more because you're his real daughter."

Vanessa's knees went weak. Was it true? Was Senator Garcia her anonymous benefactor? Her biological father? "But why are you doing this to Tanner?"

"He found out about me." Chloe's laugh was harsh. "He knew I sent you the e-mail. Vandalized your condo."

"You've been sabotaging the hospital, as well, haven't you? Doing it as a way to get back at your father."

She shook her head. "That wasn't me. You're the one I want to get rid of. You're the one I want to hurt. That's why I'm going to kill Tanner. I know you're in love with him. How does it feel knowing you're about to lose the man you love?"

"Chloe, stop this. Just tell me what you put in Tanner's IV. This can all be fixed." It seemed like hours had passed but it was barely a minute.

"He's in V-fib!" Brad cried out. "We've gotta do something now!"

Tanner was going to die if she didn't so something. Instinct took over, and Vanessa turned back to the operating table. "Charge the defibrillator. Three hundred joules." She turned her head to look at Chloe. "What did you give him?"

"Potassium chloride," Chloe crowed triumphantly.

Dear God, Chloe had induced a heart attack in Tanner. They had to shock him now or he would die. She reached for the defibrillator positioned at the head of the operating table beside the anesthesiologist's cart.

Chloe went to cut through the ventilator tubing with the scalpel at the same time Lisa jumped up off the floor and hit the panic button.

"Oh no, you don't," Vanessa said. Then without hesitation, she slapped the defibrillator pads against Chloe's chest and discharged the electricity into her body.

"Holy shit," Brad said as Chloe fell stiff-legged to the floor.

Vanessa knew she'd stopped Chloe's heart with the electrical jolt, but she'd done what she had to do. Dr. Covey had started CPR on Tanner and he shouted at her, "Recharge the paddles!"

She did as he directed and seconds later, after the defibrillator had recharged, she shocked Tanner back to life.

"Normal sinus rhythm," Brad confirmed while Dr. Covey and Lisa rushed to start CPR on Chloe, but Vanessa had eyes only for Tanner.

VANESSA PACED the waiting room outside the postanesthesia care unit. She would have remained inside, but the nurses had thrown her out, saying she was making them nervous. She thought about pulling rank, but realized they were right. She just needed to get out of the way and let them do their jobs.

"Vanessa?"

Hands clasped behind her back, she paused in midstride at the sound of the masculine voice calling her name. Slowly she glanced up to see Senator Garcia standing in the doorway.

He looked haggard, as if he'd just battled through twelve levels of hell and back. Tentatively he entered the room as if he expected Vanessa to hurl something at him.

A wash of emotions splashed over her—anger, fear, regret, sadness, guilt and strangely, oddly, joy.

"Senator Garcia," she said.

He scrubbed a hand down his weary face darkened with beard stubble. "I was hoping you might call me Robert."

She'd seen the senator many times at hospital functions. He'd been associated with the hospital in one capacity or another since it had opened its doors fifteen years earlier. She's seen him attending board meetings when he was still a board member, back before he'd been elected senator.

Thinking back on it, she remembered him looking at her with wistful eyes. A lump formed in her throat and she was having trouble drawing in air.

"May I..." He hesitated.

"Sit down," she invited, surprised by her desire to welcome him, to make this easier for him.

He sat on the plush leather love seat. She perched on the edge of the Queen Anne chair across from it. They looked at each other, father and daughter who'd never really known each other, both terrified to make the first move.

He cleared his throat. "How's Tanner?"

"He's going to make it."

"It was my gun she used...." He ran out of words again. Shook his head.

"How's Chloe?" she made herself ask.

"In lockdown in the psychiatric ward."

"She needs help."

"I know. We've tried for years. She's been on and off different medications. Amanda and I loved her the very best we could, but no matter what we do, she can't seem to get over the fact that her biological parents abandoned her."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For you, for your wife, for Chloe. It's sad all around."

"You've nothing to be sorry for. This whole thing is my fault."

They lapsed into silence again. The senator looked dazed. Vanessa felt lost.

"Are you really my father?" she dared.

His eyes, wide and haunted, met hers. "Yes."

"How?"

He took a deep breath. "I used to live across the street from your mother. We were just kids. She was seventeen, I was eighteen and I had a baseball scholarship to UT. I was getting out of the barrio. We were never serious, just kids fooling around."

"And you had a baby."

"Yes." Robert Garcia's eyes glistened. "But I never knew about you. Your mother never told me. I don't know why. Maybe she was afraid I would take you away from her. Maybe she wanted you all to herself. Maybe she just wanted to hurt me by keeping you out of my life. The first time I knew you existed was when the Carlo Vega trial hit the news."

He paused, swallowed.

It was tough on him, and Vanessa wasn't inclined to make it any easier. She said nothing, just waited for him to continue. His face was twisted into an expression of despair. "The minute I saw your picture on television I knew you were mine. You look just like my mother—tall and beautiful and defiant. You were still calling yourself Trudy Valdez back then, going by your mother's maiden name. I hired someone to research your background and then I knew for sure you were mine. It killed me when I found out all that you'd been through."

She dropped her hands into her lap. "You were my anonymous benefactor. You paid for my medical training."

"Yes."

"You didn't come forward. You didn't reveal yourself as my father." This was the part that hurt the most. She could have had him in her life for the past fourteen years.

"Politics. I was terrified it would wreck my career, and I didn't know how it would affect Amanda. And Chloe, she was only seven at the time. I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't forgive myself."

"It's okay," she said, realizing that it was. "I managed. I survived and you did give me the ability to achieve my greatest dream of becoming a doctor."

"I am so proud of you. I was in the audience that day, when you got your diploma from medical school."

"Really?" For some reason, that got her right in the gut.

"You succeeded in spite of where you came from. I heard about how your mother turned her back on you at the trial. I can guess what you had to do to survive and I am so ashamed I wasn't there for you when you needed me most."

"It's all over now."

He sat up straight, looked her clearly in the eyes for the first time. "I do have some news."

"Oh?"

"I hired someone to keep a watch on Vega. I was terrified he was going to come after you when he was out of prison. This morning I learned he violated his parole—bought a handgun. My guy turned him in to his parole officer and he's going back to prison. That should take some of the worry off your shoulders."

"Thank you for telling me and thank you for hiring Tanner to watch over me. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Robert smiled. "I didn't hire him just to watch over you."

"No?"

"I must confess to a bit of matchmaking. His late wife Maria was my sister's daughter. Maria's murder tore Tanner apart. I loved my niece, and Tanner is such a good man. He deserves a second chance with someone who will love him and be loyal to him. You're loyal Vanessa, but you were afraid to let anyone get close to you. I understand why you were that way, but I didn't want you to lead half a life because your childhood had been so bad. When I heard Vega was getting out of prison, I knew Tanner was the one I had to hire as your bodyguard. I said a prayer every night that you two wounded souls would find your way to each other," he said.

Vanessa smiled back. "I told Tanner I didn't believe in coincidences."

Robert Garcia—the man who'd been secretly looking after her all these years—reached out to her. "I want to know you. Let me be the father I've never been able to be to you until now."

Then Vanessa, who'd spent her life being guarded and leery of others, put her hand in his. They sat there in the waiting room as the sunlight faded. Neither moved to get up to turn on the light. Slowly, tentatively, they began to talk, feeling their way toward a new relationship.

And in the talking, they both found forgiveness.

TANNER FOUGHT BACK from the darkness with one thing on his mind—get to Vanessa. Protect Vanessa. Save Vanessa.

"Dr. Rodriquez, he's awake."

He didn't know who spoke. His eyelids didn't seem to want to cooperate and open up, but he knew immediately whose hand squeezed his.

Vanessa. She was all right. Relief passed through him in a shudder.

"Tanner," she whispered, and he managed to pry his eyes open.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "You look gorgeous."

"And you look like warmed-over mud."

"Is that your expert medical opinion?"

She smiled even as her eyes misted with tears. She reached up to push a lock of hair from his forehead. "I thought I'd lost you."

"You forgive me?" he said, "For keeping the truth from you?"

"Water under the bridge."

"Chloe?" he asked.

Vanessa drew in her breath. "She's in lockup on the psych ward."

He could taste the acridness of regret and guilt. "I failed you. I didn't protect you."

She reached over to smooth out his bedsheets with the palm of her hand. "You were the one Chloe tried to kill. She wanted to hurt you in order to hurt me. To get even with me for what she perceived as me stealing our father's love away from her."

"You know about the senator?"

Vanessa nodded. "He's been here. We've talked. He told me everything."

"How do you feel about him?"

"It's weird, finding out I have a father after all this time. It'll take some getting used to, but I've forgiven him and he's working on forgiving himself. I don't know how things are going to go with him and his wife, but that's something they'll have to work out themselves. Oh and guess what?"

"Don't keep me in suspense."

"Turns out Robert was playing matchmaker with us. He thought if he put us together, we'd figure out we were perfect for each other."

"The senator is a wise man."

"Wise or rash, one of the two."

"Did Chloe admit to trying to sabotage Confidential Rejuvenations reputation? Why did she do that?"

Vanessa shook her head. "Chloe didn't do it. In fact, she adamantly denied being involved in the incidents."

"And you believe her?"

"She finally told the truth about everything else. Why lie about that?"

He grunted. "So much for my prime suspect."

"I guess the saboteur is still out there, but catching him or her is going to have to wait. You've got a long road to recovery ahead of you."

He winced. "Don't remind me."

"By the way, you're going to need someone to take care of you while you recuperate."

He quirked a lopsided grin. "You offering?"

"I am. You're coming home with me whenever they release you."

"Now that's a lifestyle I could get into."

"Oh, I have some other news," she said, and told him about Vega being arrested for violating his parole. "He's going back to prison for a long time."

"That should be a big relief."

"It is, but you know, I've decided I'm not going to be scared anymore. Not of Vega, not of my past, not of love."

"That's good to hear," he said. "Especially since I'm madly in love with you, Dr. Rodriquez."

"I love you, too, Tanner Doyle, and I don't throw those words around easily," she said.

"Really? Because I've always had a fantasy about making love to a naughty doctor in a hospital bed," he teased.

"Are you nuts? You've just been through surgery."

"But you know what they say about sexual healing." He winked.

"It's the best kind," they finished in unison and grinned at each other.

## Epilogue

FOUR WEEKS LATER, with Tanner well on the mend, he and Vanessa decided to bury the past. They bought a metal lockbox and each picked the things they were ready to let go of. He chose the good conduct medal and his wedding picture. Beside his items, Vanessa added the handbeaded necklace she and her mother had made during their last good time together before her mother had married Earl, the newspaper clippings of the Vega trial and the switchblade knife she'd kept all this time.

They wrapped the box with duct tape and put it away in the attic.

"Goodbye," Vanessa whispered.

Tanner wrapped his arm around her waist and they came back down the stairs together, feeling lighter than they'd felt in years.

He pulled her to his chest. "You know it's been four weeks since we made love."

"That shouldn't be so tough for you to handle. You went four years without sex."

"But that..." he said, dipping his head and leaning in for a kiss, "was before you."

"So?" She giggled against his lips hovering above hers.

"So you turned me into a sex maniac. Four weeks without the feel of my body in yours is driving me insane. Come on, Doc, give me the green light."

His warm, wet mouth felt like home. Later she would give in, take him by the hand and lead him to their bedroom, but for now, she just wanted to savor his kiss. It was like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. A sweet comfort she felt to the very marrow of her bones.

Tanner pulled away to press his lips to her forehead. "Ever since that night you picked me up at Emilio's I've been head over heels for you. Even when we were so busy trying not to fall in love with each other, deep down, I knew you were the one who could breathe new life into me."

Vanessa wrapped her arms around his neck and looked him in the eyes. "No regrets?"

"With you? Only that I didn't tell you sooner that I was your bodyguard."

"If you had, I'd have you booted out of Confidential Rejuvenations."

"You would have," he said. "Cracking the code to your heart wasn't so easy. I had to take a bullet to get you to admit you loved me."

He was right. She had been stubborn and scared and suspicious, but she was a changed woman now. Through knowing Tanner she was able to face her past and let it go. She'd been able to accept and forgive her father, and most of all, she'd been able to learn how to trust.

"I just realized something," she said.

"Oh?"

"We haven't consummated our relationship since we confessed to being crazy about each other."

"I like where your thoughts are headed," he growled. "What have you got in mind?"

"A secret seduction, babe. It's what got us here in the first place."

Then she took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. And wildly, happily, they made love as if it was their very first time.

SO TANNER DOYLE and Vanessa Rodriquez thought they had their happy ending. Fools. While their lives might be rosy, the lives of their contemporaries at Confidential Rejuvenations were about to get much, much worse.

Fools.

They had no idea there was a mole among them. Someone they trusted and believed in was about to pull the rug out from under their feet.

And Chloe was just the tip of the iceberg. She'd been so easy to manipulate, the stupid cow.

What luck to have discovered Dr. Rodriquez was Senator Garcia's biological daughter. Chloe's emotional fragility had been an added bonus.

First Mark Lawson. Then Chloe Garcia. The media would have a field day. At this rate, the minor thefts, petty vandalism and the other little acts of sabotage could stop altogether. The staff of Confidential Rejuvenations and the dark secrets they kept were already bringing about their own downfall.

Gleefully, the saboteur laughed. Hey now, we're just getting this party started.

They had to be punished. Every last one of them.

And the next lamb to the slaughter was Julie DeMarco.

The stupid romantic woman thought no one knew about her secret affair. She hid and connived and deceived, and one way or another, she was going to be held accountable.

## The Hell-Raiser

## By Rhonda Nelson

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

## 1

NICE ASS, Mick Chivers thought, staring at one of the multiple pictures he'd been given of his target. His reaction was hardly appropriate given the circumstances—first assignment, new job at Ranger Security, chance to start over, yada yada yada—but he'd never given a second thought to propriety before and wasn't about to start now. He absently rubbed his temple and slouched lower in his chair, seemingly unconcerned, confident and unaware of the four pairs of eyes currently trained on him. He smothered a snort.

As if.

But Sarah Jane Walker did have a nice ass. Even in this out-of-focus sorry excuse for a photograph. Who'd taken it? he wondered, irritated. A monkey? Granted, Mick was only a hobby photographer, but he knew his way around a camera well enough to do better. His moody gaze slid back to her face. She had a nice mouth, too. And that hair. Long, thick and wavy, falling well below the back of her bra, a pretty dark blond with caramel highlights. He almost smiled.

And he had to admit, the tool belt was a nice touch.

"An architectural salvage expert, eh?" he asked no one in particular. "What exactly is it that she does?"

Though he didn't look up, Mick could feel Brian Payne's intense blue gaze. Good construction prevented the noisy downtown Atlanta sounds from seeping into the room, but Mick imagined he heard the occasional honk of a horn.

The other three men in the lounge area of their office had taken chairs around a big coffee table laden with a variety of snacks. Jamie Flanagan nursed a high-energy drink. Guy McCann idly flipped through a sports magazine. Hands dangling between his knees, Lucas "Huck" Finn—Mick's good friend, former unit mate and no small reason he'd been offered this job after his hasty exit from the military—leaned forward and studied him closely, those keen gray eyes probing for answers Mick was disinclined to give.

What was there to say, really, other than he'd screwed up and nearly cost another soldier his life?

It was Payne who finally answered. "In a nutshell, she goes into old houses—usually ones that are slated for demolition—and saves everything of value. Mantels, crown molding, built-ins, stained glass, doors. Those sorts of things." He leaned against the back of Flanagan's chair. "Interesting work for a woman, but our research says she's very good at what she does. Her father was in the construction business. Apparently, she apprenticed under him."

So she learned her trade from her father, Mick thought. How novel. The only thing he'd ever learned from his old man was how to leave. His mother, too, for that matter. He'd certainly gotten used to watching their taillights disappear every time they dropped him off at Mars Hill Academy, a rigorous old military school located in the beautiful hills of North Carolina. Far enough from their eastern Kentucky home to put distance between them, but drivable in the event of an emergency. Or so he'd overheard his mother say once to a friend.

Deemed "a problem child" at an early age, Mick had been shipped off to military school after the sixth grade—it probably would have been sooner if his parents could have found a facility to accept him—and had only been allowed home over the Christmas holidays and summer break.

And since he'd spent the latter with his paternal grandfather, Charlie—usually repairing the barn or building a new addition onto the old house—instead of his parents, Mick could honestly say that he'd typically spent two weeks out of the year at what other people actually called "home." He inwardly shuddered at those awkward holiday memories. The forced smiles, the fake happiness, when it was all too plain they couldn't wait to send him back, to be rid of him, as though his being born and screwing up their lives had been his fault. Mick passed a hand over his face and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.

It was no damned wonder he hated Christmas.

Water under the bridge, he told himself, releasing a shallow breath. Hell, they'd actually done him a favor. Despite the somewhat harsh and überstructured format—and the occasional thrashing for mischief—he'd thrived at military school. He'd learned to love his country, to revere the men who'd founded it and, more importantly, to honor the soldiers who'd died for it by becoming a U.S. Army Ranger and taking up their cause. He'd learned that honor was rewarded, deceit punished, that hard work tested the measure of a man and boundaries were meant to be pushed. Another half smile flirted with his lips. Actually, if you asked any of his former instructors, they'd probably say he'd learned that lesson best of all. He hadn't been nicknamed The Hell-raiser for nothing.

One of these days you're going to go too far, Chivers.

Regret and disgrace formed an enormous ball in his gut. The one-of-these-days warning had come true recently, much to his shame and horror, and was the main reason he'd left the military. A vision of Carson Wells's agonized face rose in Mick's mind's eye, tormenting him with an image he'd never forget. If that bullet had been an inch higher and to the left, it would've surely killed him. Too close, Mick thought, because as predicted, he'd gone too far.

He'd made the call and the mistake.

Never again.

Fortunately—or at least that's what he was telling himself—Colonel Carl Garrett had referred him to Ranger Security. Landing a job with the elite agency of former Rangers—men from his background—was a coup, one he was certain he would celebrate when he was less inclined to hate himself. At the moment, it was all he could do to sit here and pretend he wasn't losing his mind right along with his life and career. That he wasn't the eternal screwup his father had always claimed.

Furthermore, he honestly didn't have any idea why they'd hired him. He'd made a monumental error. He'd almost cost another soldier his life because of his reckless judgment. How could they possibly think he deserved this job? Could he do it? Certainly. But he imagined the only reason he'd scored the hire was because Huck had gone to bat for him. And at the moment, that little bit of knowledge was the only thing that would ensure that he did a good job.

He'd be damned before he let another friend down.

Speaking of friends, he should really call Levi, Mick thought, ashamed that he'd avoided contact with his unit mate. Mick had met both Lucas Finn and Levi McPherson during Jump School. Somewhere between the grueling training and commiserating beers, the three had become especially close friends. Having been in an all-guy environment for most of his life, one that by its very nature fostered a unique blend of competition and camaraderie, Mick had made some great buddies over the years. But the dynamic among the three of them had always been more like that of brothers.

Other than his grandfather, they were the closest thing to a family he'd ever had.

When things had gone south recently, it was Huck who'd helped him find a job, but Levi had had his back, as well. He'd actually been a member of the team on that ill-fated mission, and Mick was having a harder time facing him. Hell, even talking to him. Levi had personally witnessed his mistake, and knowing that made it too damned hard for Mick to look him in the eye. In short, he was ashamed, and until he figured out how to cope with the screwup, he was better off avoiding his friend. Cowardly? No doubt. But necessary to his questionable sanity at the moment.

Rather than linger on things he couldn't change, Mick exhaled a short sigh and mentally reviewed the mess of his first case. And it was a convoluted quagmire of personal crap he'd just as soon stay out of. Unfortunately, staying out of it wasn't in his new job description.

"So let me get this straight. We've been hired by Chastity Walker—"

"Sarah Jane's stepmother," McCann interjected.

"Who is also Sarah Jane's age and most hated enemy," Flanagan added with a wry look.

"—to catch Sarah Jane trying to steal some of her deceased father's possessions."

"Possessions that Sarah Jane claims are part of her inheritance," Payne added.

Mick frowned. "There's no will?"

Payne shrugged. "Not according to Chastity, and with the absence of a will, everything goes to the next of kin. As the wife, that's her."

"What about according to Sarah Jane?" Mick asked, smelling a rat. Something about this didn't feel right. Why would Chastity go to the trouble of hiring their services for something so small? So petty? He knew women could be like that, of course, and it certainly didn't seem like there was any love lost between these two, but...He was picking up a weird vibe on this one.

"Sarah Jane insists there was a will, but neither Chastity nor the attorney who supposedly drafted it has produced it." Payne grimaced. "Like I said, I'm not sure about this one, and we won't be a party to anything illegal. Right now, we have the facts according to our client. If she's lying, then naturally that will change things, and you can respond however you see fit." He paused. "As it stands, we know that Sarah Jane, in particular, is after a pipe that belonged to her father, and her mother's antique wedding dress." Payne shrugged, looking uncomfortably skeptical. "Chastity will not give up the pipe and insists that she donated the dress to a local historical society after it had been part of an exhibit."

Mick shot him a questioning glance. "And you believe her?"

"Not particularly. Right now though, operating on what we know from our client, our job is to keep an eye on Sarah Jane. If she does anything illegal, document the evidence and turn it over to Chastity so that she can do with it what she will."

Flanagan snorted. "Hell, Payne, she's already had Sarah Jane arrested once for assault and battery. You know what she's going to do with it."

Mick felt his lips twitch, and he flipped to the back of the file, where Sarah Jane's mutinous mug shot stared up at him. She had wide, compelling, pale brown eyes—the shade of his favorite toffee candy, Mick thought—which were ringed in a darker hue, making them all the more interesting. A single green leaf had gotten tangled up in those long tresses and a smudge of dirt shadowed one rather plump cheek. Her chin was tilted up in a defiant little angle, seemingly daring the person behind the camera to say a word. The fight might have been broken up, but it hadn't yet left her—every line of her body seemed tensed and ready for action. Mick recognized that look, that particular brand of energy. God knows he'd felt it often enough, more so than was prudent. It was no small part of the reason his nickname had actually fit.

It was also the reason one hell-raiser typically recognized another. And Sarah Jane Walker looked like she didn't need a stick to stir shit with the best of them. Unbelievably, a current of heat snaked through Mick's groin, and his palms tingled, itching to wipe that curiously sexy bit of dirt from her cheek. Slip the pad of his thumb over that ripe bottom lip.

Aw, hell. This can't be good.

McCann chuckled. "According to the police report I read, Sarah Jane mopped the deck with her," he said. "It's no wonder Chastity is out for blood."

"From the looks of things, the woman has got her home and her inheritance. Shouldn't that be enough?" Mick asked, secretly pleased that Sarah Jane had gotten the better of his temporary employer. Why? Who knew? Because she was hot? Possibly. Because it sounded as if Sarah Jane was the underdog here? That, too. Not that he should care, because it wasn't his problem and he had enough of his own to deal with. Still, he'd always been a sucker for both, and when he factored in the tool belt and hellcat attitude...Well, he couldn't deny it made her all the more appealing.

He had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't supposed to find his target appealing. Some of that keen Ranger training rearing its head, Mick thought, stifling the ridiculous urge to laugh.

"I know that it's a bit dodgy," Payne admitted. "This isn't a typical kind of case for us, so use discretion, Mick. If, in your observations, you discover that your mission conflicts with justice, then act accordingly."

Mick nodded, then looked down at the folder in his hand, flipping back to the front page. Where was he headed again? Monarch Grove, Georgia. Population 2,478. He smothered another laugh. It was a damned good thing they'd developed a decent cover for him, because blending into a town that small sure as hell wouldn't be easy.

"So I'm with Designing Weekly, an architectural magazine based out of Atlanta?"

"Right. You're the photographer and you've been sent ahead to shoot the spread." Flanagan slid several issues as well as a couple of books on architecture across the coffee table. "You're new, which explains your lack of bylines or photo credits. We've contacted her and set everything up. You'll be able to follow her around without any problem, which will enable you to learn her routine." He shrugged. "Naturally, we expect her to make her move at night, provided she's going to. So you'll want to pay particular attention to her then."

"There aren't any motels in Monarch Grove, so we've booked you into a B and B near the town square," Payne added. "Luckily, it's only a couple of blocks from Sarah Jane's place and it seems to be the morning hot spot for breakfast."

Mick felt a sardonic smile slide over his lips. "It sounds very Norman Rockwell."

"And just think," McCann said, grinning broadly.

"You'll be there during the Fried Pie Festival."

Flanagan sighed contentedly. "Apple is a personal favorite of mine. Be sure and bring back a few, would you?"

Mick stared. It took a moment for him to realize Flanagan was serious. "Sure," he said, for lack of anything better.

"You've got two weeks," Payne told him, bringing a brisk end to the briefing. "Call if you run into any trouble."

And just like that, Mick was dismissed. No "do you think you can handle it?" No second-guessing him. No peering over his shoulder despite the major screwup he'd recently committed.

Just genuine trust in his abilities.

He knew a single second of joy before the inevitable dread settled over his shoulders. He sure as hell hoped their confidence wasn't misplaced.

Particularly Huck's.

TROUBLED, HUCK WATCHED his friend gather the file and paraphernalia for his new mission and, trademark confidence in place, calmly walk from the room.

Payne paused a moment, then looked at Huck and quirked a brow. "Garrett recommended him and Levi McPherson made a personal appeal on his behalf for this job. But you've worked with him. What's your read?"

"He's hurting," Huck said, unsurprised that Levi, too, had spoken up for their friend. "His confidence is shot. He's ashamed of his mistake, of what it could have potentially cost another soldier." He shook his head, wishing he could do something to rattle his old unit mate back into action. Huck had thought the Ranger Security position would make Mick realize that he was still worthy, that while he was no longer a Ranger in Uncle Sam's Army, he could still use those skills. Still share the mentality and camaraderie with men from his background. It had certainly done wonders for Huck after his accident.

McCann's usually jovial gaze turned serious. "We've all been there and survived the worst."

Danny Levison's death, Huck knew. The group had shared their story with him shortly after he'd come on board. Danny had been more than their unit mate, he'd been one of their best friends. And each one of them, in some way, had felt responsible for his death.

Flanagan swallowed. "Mick'll come around," he said. "It's just going to take a little time."

Payne's cool blue eyes found Huck's. "Is he up to this? I'm not asking if he's capable—I know that, otherwise we wouldn't have hired him. But is he emotionally ready for work?"

Though he admittedly had his doubts when it came to his friend's state of mind, Huck merely smiled and said the one thing he knew they'd all understand. "He's a soldier, Payne. He'll be fine."

Frankly, if you asked Huck, getting his daredevil, hell-raising friend right back into the action was the best possible treatment for what ailed him. His lips quirked. And sending him to Podunk, Georgia, to tail a hot little she-devil sounded even better. Sarah Jane Walker certainly looked like she'd give Mick a run for his money.

And knowing his friend, the chase would be just what the doctor ordered.

## 2

"SLIMY BASTARD," Sarah Jane Walker muttered under her breath as she exited the attorney's office. She should have known that as long as Chastity was balling her late father's legal counsel, Sarah Jane wasn't going to get anything out of him. She inwardly snorted. Like most men who came into close proximity with Chastity's enormous breasts, Cecil Simmons was thinking with a part of his anatomy that didn't house a brain. She grimaced.

And she'd begun to think the part on his shoulders didn't have much of a brain, either.

Having spotted her, Mason Webster, her devoted assistant, straightened away from her aging work truck. "Well?" he asked. "How did it go?"

With an exasperated huff and a few irritated epithets, Sarah Jane opened the door and slid behind the wheel. She grabbed a ponytail holder from the gearshift—one of many—and pulled her hair up. Ahh. Much better. Damn this August heat. Fall wouldn't make an appearance until late October, and this was the time of year she began to really long for it.

"The same way it went last time and the time before that. Horribly." She cranked the ignition, then backed away from the curb and headed toward the Milton Plantation, another old beauty sadly destined for demolition. Sure, the floor was falling in and it was a structural nightmare, but the place was still worth saving. Or at least it was to her. Unfortunately, she couldn't afford to keep it from being torn down, but if she could save a few pieces—a mantel here, a door there, a bit of molding—then she'd at least feel a little better about it. All of its history wouldn't be lost.

"He still can't find the will?" Mason said, outrage lining his peach-fuzzed, freckled face. The boy was determined to grow a beard, though why he'd ever want one was a mystery to Sarah Jane. Particularly in this heat, she thought, turning the air-conditioning up another notch. "You know he's lying, don't you?" Mason continued. "I don't know why you won't let me help you. I could beat the whereabouts of your father's will out of him, I know I could." His fuzzy chin jutted out belligerently.

Sarah Jane stifled the grin that immediately rose to her lips. Frankly, she thought she had a better chance of taking on Cecil Simmons in a fight than Mason did. Her gaze slid to her one and only employee.

Short, thick through the middle, with scrawny arms and even scrawnier legs, plus thin and wispy strawberry-blond hair, Mason put her in mind of a poorly proportioned scarecrow. It was really a pity that a person's outside didn't always match was what inside because, if that were the case, Mason would be a brilliant hottie with a loyal heart. She inwardly smiled. He was certainly devoted to her, and she could thank a single act of kindness and her hot temper for that.

Being different anywhere was difficult, but being different in a little town like Monarch Grove, Georgia, really took courage. Unlike most of the kids his age, Mason wasn't into sports, pop culture and trendy music. At nineteen, he was a Trekkie with an ear for jazz, and preferred reading sci-fi novels to playing video games.

On the night she'd come to his rescue, he'd been showing his newest eBay find, a vintage Borg talking head lunch box, to a couple of equally unique friends at Mabel's Diner, when a group of so-called cool kids snatched the lunch box out of Mason's hands and proceeded to play keep-away with it. Sarah Jane had stepped in, reclaimed the object, then roundly reamed out the pranksters.

Mason had shown up at her workshop behind her house the next day and he'd been with her ever since. He'd redesigned her Web site, installed better business software and updated her computer, organized her office and her time and generally kept her on task. She didn't know what she'd do once he finished college and moved on, but she supposed she'd just have to cross that bridge when she came to it. But she couldn't let him fight her battles for her.

Besides, if she was going to drag anyone into this mess, it would be her long-time best friend, Tina Martinese. The two of them had been buddies since birth. Born a couple of days apart to families who were very close, she and Tina had literally grown up together. Tina's parents had recently bought an RV and were touring the country, one national park at a time. Though she wasn't a sister by blood, Tina was definitely the sister of Sarah Jane's heart.

Petite and curvy, with dark hair and pretty hazel eyes, Tina was fearless, fierce and funny, and could cook like nobody's business. She was also carrying a torch for one of their local boys in blue, Chase Collins. Unfortunately, Chase's fear of commitment was almost as legendary as Tina's lasagna. Speaking of which, Sarah Jane would be enjoying that particular delicacy this evening. But she couldn't think about that right now.

She had a more pressing matter to attend to.

Like getting her inheritance back from her money-grubbing slut of a stepmother—Chastity Pigg...Walker. Sarah Jane grimaced with distaste. It still killed her that she shared the same last name with her most hated enemy, one who, gallingly, was her own age. Wasn't it bad enough that she'd unwittingly shared a high-school boyfriend and later, her own father, with her nemesis?

For reasons Sarah Jane had never been able to comprehend, Chastity had always had it in for her. In grade school, she'd tormented Sarah Jane about her fat cheeks, her affinity for dirt—she'd never minded if her pants had grass stains—and her penchant for playing tag with the boys as opposed to primping on the playground with the girls.

In high school, Chastity had taken a different tack—she'd made it a point to steal any boy Sarah Jane had ever liked. In most cases, it had been more annoying than hurtful, but senior year, when Chastity had made a move on Luke Anderson—her first real love—and Luke had succumbed, that had stung. Sarah Jane had written him off, of course, because if Luke hadn't had the brains and wherewithal to stay out of the back of his truck with a sleazy tramp like Chastity, then he sure as hell didn't deserve her. And he was an idiot, to boot.

Turned out her father had been an idiot, as well.

An image of his dear face rose in her mind's eye and a hard lump formed in her throat. God, how she missed him. Missed both of her parents, but the unexpected death of her father had hit her harder. For years after her mom had died—damned breast cancer—George, better known as "Tough" Walker, had remained single. He'd insisted that her mother had been the only woman for him. They'd been well matched, had shared the same interests and were utterly devoted to one another.

To say that Sarah Jane went into shock when her father had started dating Chastity would be an understatement of epic proportions.

Though she'd voiced a bit of displeasure, Sarah Jane had eventually bitten her tongue and opted to give her father the benefit of the doubt, remembering years of sound decisions and good judgment, of bear hugs and pancake breakfasts. She'd been certain that he'd come to his senses, realize Chastity was a soul-sucking, brainless, manipulative bitch with questionable morals and, in short order, cut her loose.

Instead, to her shock, shame, embarrassment and horror, he'd done the unthinkable—he'd married her.

And while Sarah Jane hated Chastity with every fiber of her being, she'd loved her father more. He'd seemed happier than he'd been in years and, though she was relatively certain she could have put a stop to it, how selfish could she be? Her dad had assured her that the house—the one that she, her mother and father had painstakingly restored—would still be hers to do with what she wished. She could live in it herself, or sell it and take the proceeds to buy another. He'd also promised her she'd get a few other items he knew her mother would have wanted her to have.

Frankly, the idea of Chastity living in the very house that her parents had shared made Sarah Jane's flesh crawl. But the idea that the woman was actually trying to keep it...that set her blood on fire.

She'd seen her father's will. She knew what she was supposed to inherit—in addition to the house, there'd been a sizable savings account, part of which had been proceeds from her mother's estate.

The first month or so after the funeral, Sarah Jane had been too grief stricken to press Chastity about the will. Though she'd hated her—she had gotten the impression that the woman had genuinely cared for her father—Sarah Jane hadn't wanted to be cruel. Kicking her butt to the curb had seemed particularly harsh. But when one month turned to four and her dear stepmother decided to buy a new Hummer, then had gotten a tummy tuck, Sarah Jane decided that the time for being nice was over.

She'd asked for her father's pipe. Chastity had told her it was simply too dear and she just couldn't bring herself to part with it.

She'd asked for her mother's wedding dress—which had originally belonged to her grandmother. Chastity said she'd cleaned out the attic and was certain the gown had gone into the trash. It hadn't, Sarah Jane learned later, when she'd seen it on display at a local historical fair. At that point, she'd decided that merely asking for things wasn't going to work—it was time to take them.

And that's when she'd discovered her father's will had vanished. He'd always kept important papers in the filing cabinet in his study, but when she looked, the entire file was gone. And not only had the document vanished from the house, it had disappeared from the attorney's office, as well. Coincidence?

She thought not.

Sarah Jane had accepted that, in all likelihood, Chastity had done away with the copy locked in her father's filing cabinet in his study. But she was holding out hope that Cecil had sense enough not to destroy the original. She suspected he'd locate the will when he and Chastity finished their "business," but she didn't have any idea how long that was going to take. And meanwhile, Chastity was running through her inheritance as if it were water.

Since beating the hell out of her stepmother—an altercation that had occurred shortly after Sarah Jane discovered her mother's wedding gown at the annual historical fair—hadn't produced the desired results, she had decided it was time to take a different tack.

She was going to steal them.

Actually, steal wasn't exactly the right word. Stealing implied that the stuff had never been hers to start with, but that wasn't the case. Sarah Jane liked the word rescue better. She was going to rescue her things—via a little breaking and entering, because her stepmonster had changed the locks. Then she planned on slipping into Cecil's office and doing a thorough search for her father's so-called misplaced will. She felt a determined smile slide over her lips.

Clearly the lawyer hadn't looked hard enough.

Frustrated, Sarah Jane aimed the truck down the long gravel drive. The Milton Plantation rose up like a tired but beautiful old belle. It was a shame there was no way to save it.

"Looks like he's here already," Mason remarked.

"Who? Oh," Sarah Jane said, spying an olive-green SUV parked near the side of the old house. "The Designing Weekly guy." A flush of pleasure washed through her. Talk about a bright spot in an otherwise dismal last few months.

Sarah Jane had always been a fan of the magazine. A regular subscriber, she pored over her copy every week, appreciating the articles pertaining to restoration, specifically. The fact that the editors wanted to do a feature on her and her business was a particular coup. Granted, she had a pretty sizable clientele in the greater Atlanta area, but Designing Weekly had distribution all over the United States. She and Mason fully expected business to boom after the article ran—they'd been getting the Web site and inventory ready in preparation for the event.

The presumed windfall couldn't come at a better time. Business was good—she wasn't behind on her bills or anything like that—but her truck had more than 200,000 miles on the engine, her tools were showing wear and she didn't expect her air-conditioning unit to make it though this abysmal, wretched, miserable summer. In short, she had a lot of big expenses looming. Knowing the money would soon be there to cover them took an enormous weight off her shoulders.

Furthermore, money aside, restoration was her passion. Anything that furthered her cause, made home builders more aware of other options and saved bits and pieces of brilliant architecture was a coup.

Sarah Jane pulled up alongside the SUV, waved and smiled at the man seated behind the wheel. Due to the tinted glass, she couldn't get a good look at him. "What's his name again?" she asked Mason from the side of her mouth, thankful he stayed on top of things like that.

"Mick Chivers. He's a photographer and he'll be in town for the next two weeks. Through next Friday."

She knew that. At first, she'd thought it was a bit odd for the magazine to send a photographer out to follow her around for two weeks, without the actual writer, who'd arrive a few weeks later. But since she wasn't in the magazine business, this could be the norm for all she knew. Actually, it would work out quite well. It would take her approximately two weeks to finish the job, salvaging everything she could find from this old house. He could see the project through from start to finish and document it, frame by frame, for the piece.

"He's staying at Clara's," Mason said, gathering his Star Trek thermos, snack bag and MP3 player.

Sarah Jane chuckled and collected her gear, as well. "Where else is there to stay in Monarch Grove?"

The lone B and B was the only game in town for occasional travelers, and did most of its business during the upcoming Fried Pie Festival. Thanks to Tina, it was also the best place to have breakfast. Or any other meal for that matter, in Sarah Jane's opinion, though Mabel's Diner was a close second.

Naturally, she would never say that in Clara's presence—there was a certain rivalry between the two older women. Mabel and Clara were both members of the Monarch Grove Community Theater and were constantly vying for the same parts. When Mabel took the lead roll as the Unsinkable Molly Brown in the last production, Clara had actually put on black, mourning the part. Since then, the food war, which had been intense to start with, had increasingly escalated. If Clara was serving chocolate pie for dessert, then Mabel would invariably offer chocolate chocolate pie. The only people who seemed to benefit were the actual patrons, because the food was always fabulous.

"Think we ought to warn him?" Mason asked.

Sarah Jane grinned. "About what? Clara's ever-changing hair color, her penchant for show tunes or Byron?"

"All of the above," Mason said, affecting a shudder.

"But particularly Byron. Mick's a guy, Sarah Jane. Someone should say something."

"Nah. He'll find out soon enough on his own." Sarah Jane felt her lips twitch. No doubt Mick Chivers would be hearing Clara's warbly, off-pitch rendition of "Give My Regards to Broadway" this evening. The poor man. As for Byron, the B and B's resident ghost, how exactly did one warn a person about a homosexual spook?

Pasting a smile onto her face, she opened the door and stepped out of her truck. The hot August sun beat down on her head, the humid air instantly bathed her skin in sticky heat and, though she wore a pair of pricey sunglasses, she found herself squinting. Dimly she heard the click of another door, the resounding ding-ding-ding issuing from his SUV. She heard the crunch of gravel beneath a booted foot, then he emerged from behind the open door, and suddenly that persistent dinging took on another meaning completely.

Her breath—what little of it the stifling temperature hadn't robbed from her lungs—caught in her throat. A single strip of gooseflesh raced down her spine, then up again and settled at the back of her neck, making her scalp tingle. Her palms dampened, her mouth went dry and a buzz of sexual adrenaline ran through her body, igniting her nipples, and concentrated in a tornado of swirling sensation directly below her naval.

Sarah Jane was twenty-eight years old, had been sexually active for eight of those years and had never—never—set eyes on a man and literally quivered so hard she felt her insides vibrate.

Unaccustomed to not being completely in control of her reactions, she told herself that her quickie breakfast didn't agree with her, that she was probably getting sick.

Yeah, that had to be it. Really.

Furthermore, Mick Chivers didn't look like any photographer she'd ever seen—he seemed too big, too vibrant for such a patient occupation. Though he was roughly a car length from where her feet were rooted to the driveway, and he hadn't so much as moved once he'd seen her, she could feel the restlessness, the sheer energy, rolling off of him in waves. She could sense it in every line of his six-and-a-half-foot-plus, magnificently proportioned body. She even fancied she could see it swirling around him.

Danger, wickedness, irreverence.

Instinct told her that if she played chicken with this guy, she'd definitely lose. The devil in her instantly recognized the devil in him, and the knowledge equally terrified and thrilled her. He had that fearlessness, that reckless edge that was both compelling and sexy. He put her in mind of a wild mustang—proud and untamable, but beautiful and...lonely? she thought, struck with the curious but unmistakable temptation to comfort him. From what?

Who knew? But she couldn't deny the feeling, the intrinsic knowledge that this guy was an island unto himself.

And at the moment, he liked it that way.

A cool khaki linen shirt stretched over a pair of mouthwateringly wide shoulders, and the short sleeves revealed arms that were muscled and well honed. He might spend a little time in the gym, but for whatever reason, Sarah Jane got the impression that hard work had put the majority of those muscles into place rather than a daily exercise regimen.

Brown hair the shade of melting chocolate lay in messy, irreverent waves on top of his head, and a jaw, chiseled as though straight from the hand of Michelangelo, rounded out a face that was too masculine to be called pretty, but was gorgeous all the same. Wide, firm, full lips casually drifted into a smile, one that held just the slightest hint of wicked arrogance, causing a deep dimple to emerge in the smooth hollow of his right cheek. A tremble eddied through Sarah Jane's midsection and she longed to see his eyes, which, like hers, were hidden behind a pair of dark shades.

He strode around the hood of his car, camera bag over his shoulder, and extended his hand. Huge, callused, with blunt-tipped fingers and masculine veins. In a word, wonderful. Strong. Sensual. You could tell a lot about people by their hands, Sarah Jane thought dimly, as she slipped her palm against his. Another little shock of sensation bolted through her and she smiled, deciding to pretend it didn't happen. What the hell? It had worked for Scarlett O'Hara, hadn't it?

"Mick Chivers," he said, his voice a raspy baritone that sizzled along her nerve endings and induced the irrational urge to weep. Or worse, giggle. Was it too much to hope that he'd sound like Mickey Mouse sucking helium?

Evidently.

No! No! No! Not him! Not now! She didn't have time for sex, much less an inconvenient sexual attraction.

"I'm Sarah Jane Walker," she finally managed to say, her own voice a thready whisper she barely recognized. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mason's amiable face take on an odd look. No doubt he was wondering what the hell had happened to his employer. "It's, er...a pleasure to meet you."

She'd never thought about those particular words before, but the mundane greeting suddenly took on a whole new meaning. She resisted the urge to jerk her hand back and bite her fist. In this case, pleasure and torture took on a synonymous translation—she could honestly say the pleasure of being near him was torturing her.

Furthermore, those lips of his looked even better up close. His top one, in particular, was rather overfull, and when he smiled, a bit off center. There was something equally sexy and endearing about that little imperfection.

And he was going to be with her for the next two weeks. Second beyond second, minute by minute, hour after hour. She felt a trickle of sweat slide between her breasts and, because she'd somehow managed to lose her mind in the past minute, imagined it was his tongue.

Jeez, God, and she'd thought it was hot before.

## 3

THE FUZZY, OUT-OF-FOCUS pictures and the mug shot hadn't done this woman justice, Mick thought as he stared down into Sarah Jane's intriguing face. And the small, but curiously firm, hand presently shaking his had an even more interesting effect on the rest of his body—it immediately went into a full-throttle burn that had nothing to do with the blazing temperatures.

This was internal.

Not good, he noted, once again using those keen Ranger skills to deduce the obvious. A stream of blistering epithets raced through his mind, thanks to the environment and the unfortunate instant attraction currently blowing the top off his personal thermometer.

She was his target, for chrissakes. Off-limits. Out of bounds.

Naturally, that made her all the more appealing to him.

"Welcome to Monarch Grove," Sarah Jane murmured. She had a nice voice, Mick decided. The perfect combination of throaty and feminine, and he instinctively knew she'd have a great laugh. Anyone who smiled so openly certainly wouldn't try to repress a hearty chuckle. She was refreshing, he decided. The women he occasionally dated—and that was a very loose term, because his career hadn't left much time for traditional dating—tended to have more...affected charms.

There was absolutely nothing affected about the woman standing in front of him.

If she wore any makeup at all, she'd applied it with a very light hand. Dressed in a pale pink T-shirt screen-printed with her operation's name, Reclaiming the Past, an Architectural Salvage Company, and a pair of white denim shorts, her thick caramel-streaked hair pulled into a ponytail, Sarah Jane simultaneously epitomized sexy, fresh-scrubbed and ready to work. Impressed, he stared down into her smiling face and wished he could see her eyes.

The sunglasses, he decided moodily, were an attractive nuisance.

"No trouble finding the place, I see," another voice interjected.

Mick reluctantly tore his gaze away from Sarah Jane and directed his attention to the young man standing beside her.

Ah, her protector, he thought, noting the territorial stance the young guy had taken next to his employer. Mick would have expected Sarah's second in command to be both older and a bit more physically capable of actually helping her. Not to say this guy couldn't...but he didn't look like he did a whole lot of heavy lifting.

"Not at all," he replied easily. "You must be Mason. Great directions."

Seeming to relax a bit, Mason smiled. "When did you get into town?"

"Just now, actually," Mick told him. "I thought I'd check into the bed-and-breakfast later this afternoon, after we finish up for the day."

"You've already made reservations though, right?" Sarah Jane asked, a furrow of concern emerging between her delicate brows. He was suddenly hit with the almost irrepressible urge to trace that gentle slope with his tongue.

"Before I left Atlanta, yes," he said, struggling to focus. He hadn't personally booked the room, of course; Payne had taken care of that. So Mick knew he had a place to stay.

"Oh, good," she said, seemingly relieved. "Ordinarily there's always a room available at Clara's, but during the Fried Pie Festival space is at a premium."

He grinned. Ah, yes. The annual Fried Pie Festival. Monarch Grove's dubious claim to fame. "I saw the banners," he said. All five thousand of them, he added silently.

As though she was reading his mind, a wry smile tugged at the corner of her distractingly ripe mouth. "You know us Southerners. We take our pie seriously."

"And if it's fried, all the better," Mason added. He nodded toward his boss and grinned, rocking back on his heels. "Sarah Jane has taken the grand prize with her blackberry fried pies for the past three years. She's the one to beat."

Impressed, Mick darted his gaze back to her once more. "Blackberry, eh?" The fruit suited her, he decided. Protected by thorny branches, but the reward was tart and sweet. He imagined her savoring a big juicy berry, and felt his dick twitch in his jeans. Damn. "I'll have to be sure and try one."

"I'm sure you'll get your fill of pie while you're here," she said dryly, then released a breath and glanced toward the house. "I suppose we should get started." She hesitated, shooting Mick a look of uncertainty. "I'm, uh...not exactly sure how this is supposed to work. Did you want to get any pictures of us, or of the house as it stands, before we get started? Or are you just going to snap photos as we work? This is all quite new to me."

To Mick, too, but now that she mentioned it, he supposed he would need to take several photos of her individually for the supposed "spread." A perk, he decided, wishing he'd been acting more like a professional photographer instead of standing here gawking at her. Losing focus two minutes into his first assignment for Ranger Security sure as hell wasn't good. The memory of Huck's concerned gaze rose like Lazarus from the dead in his mind's eye, making his face heat with shame.

Mick withdrew his camera from the bag and adjusted a couple of settings. "Actually, it would be great if I could get a few shots of you now."

Sarah Jane nodded. "Sure. Where do you want us?"

Mick paused to peruse the grounds, and for the first time, really looked at the old house and surrounding area. The Milton Plantation was a sad old belle who, past her prime and beyond usefulness, appeared to have been abandoned by her owners. The lawn had long ago surrendered the fight to creeping crabgrass and tall weeds. Ragweed and Queen Anne's lace, their noble heads bobbing in the slight breeze, dotted the neglected landscape. A half-dozen live oaks, Spanish moss dripping from their limbs, provided shade beneath their leafy, gnarled branches. A single rosebush, decked out in dozens of fist-size, pale pink blooms, defiantly clung to the side of the house near the corner of the porch and curled around the rotten, gap-toothed railing.

Fancy fretwork sagged like spent, dirty lace from the eaves of the enormous two-story structure, and pretty spindles—the few that remained around the upper porch—listed slightly to the right. But despite the broken windowpanes and peeling paint, it was easy to see the old house had been a showplace during her heyday.

An unexpected pang of...something hit him—regret maybe?—while he stared at the exterior. Though he hadn't touched a hammer since the last time he'd visited his grandfather—almost a year ago, he realized, startled by how much time had gotten away from him—he suddenly had the lunatic urge to start in on repairs. Replace the rotten wood, level up the foundation, strip away the blistered paint and apply a glossy new coat of antique white. It could be beautiful again, Mick thought, as a corrected mental image of the old home surfaced in his mind.

A carpenter by trade, Charlie Chivers certainly hadn't let those summers Mick had spent with him go to waste. While no one would ever mistake Mick for a master carpenter, he knew his way around a toolbox, and had always taken great pride in helping his grandfather with his work.

Frankly, he'd always looked forward to those summers, learning better ways to repair and build. At the end of the day, he'd never failed to be pleasantly exhausted and proud of what he'd accomplished. Though he could say the same for every successful mission he'd made for Uncle Sam, Mick had to admit the levels of satisfaction had been...different. One hadn't been any better than the other, but they certainly hadn't been the same.

Funny. Until now he'd forgotten about how much he'd enjoyed the weight of a hammer in his hand, the weariness in his muscles at the end of the day.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Sarah Jane asked, as though reading his thoughts.

Mick felt a sigh slip past his lips. "Yeah," he said slowly. "A total waste. What happened?"

"The usual. Lack of finances." She shrugged. "One drought too many. The family ultimately scattered, each pursuing their own dreams." She gestured to the land surrounding the house. "It takes more than a few folks to run a farm this size. People have smaller families now, so there's less help and less money. Eventually the bank foreclosed and Ervin Manus bought the place at auction on the courthouse steps for less than the cost of a new car." The note of bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. "The house is scheduled for demolition in a couple of weeks. He's putting in a dirt bike track out here. Says the landscape is perfect."

Damn, Mick thought. He'd been wrong. It was more than a waste—it was criminal.

"It took a lot of fast-talking to get him to agree to let me salvage the place first," she continued. Her lips twisted into a forced smile. "He didn't want me messing up his 'dozer schedule.'"

Mick inclined his head. "Ah, well. You wouldn't want to get between a man and a bulldozer, that's for sure."

"Ervin's a cretin," Mason remarked in disgust. For some reason the boy put Mick in mind of an overweight Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. "But you can bet that will never happen again. We put every bank and all of the corresponding county clerk's offices in a hundred mile radius on notice."

"I would have bought it myself had I known," Sarah Jane explained at Mick's puzzled look.

Surprised, he arched a brow. "For yourself?"

Though she didn't sigh, Mick watched her shoulders droop a bit. Sarah Jane looked up at the house, her unreadable gaze still hidden behind those damned sunglasses. She finally turned to him and, shrugging slightly, smiled. He felt the impact of that casual grin resonate oddly through him. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. I just hate to see it destroyed. Renovated, this house and property would make a lovely home for a family." She kicked at an errant rock at her feet. "Knowing that it's going to be razed to the ground and a dirt track put in its place, frankly, makes me sick to my stomach."

Him, too, and he shouldn't give a damn. About the house, or about how losing it made her feel. He wasn't here to care. Until he learned otherwise, he was here to do a job for Chastity Walker, and nothing more. He was here because he'd almost gotten a man killed, because Huck had taken pity on him and gotten him a damned job Mick wasn't sure he even wanted, one he knew he didn't deserve.

He was here because his life was in shambles and he couldn't afford another screwup.

Mick took a couple of steps, lifted his camera and pulled Sarah Jane's intriguingly beautiful profile into focus, framing the first shot of his target.

She was that, dammit, and nothing more. He'd do well to keep that in focus.

SARAH JANE SNEAKED through the back door into Clara's kitchen just as Tina was smacking Chase's hand away from a take-out container. "That's not for you," she admonished.

Tall, blond and gorgeous, with a dimpled cheek and baby-blue eyes, Chase smiled, looking wounded, and shot Tina one of those slaying glances that never failed to make her friend melt. "What? You didn't save me a plate?" He lowered his voice an octave. "You know I love your lasagna."

"Yeah, well, so do I," Sarah Jane said, before her friend could swoon. She wearily dropped her purse onto the worn butcher-block counter and took a seat at the little antique table reserved for back-door guests. "Back off, buddy. You should have called her." It was a jibe with double meaning and, judging by the uncomfortable look on Chase's face, he knew it.

Tina blinked, seeming to come out of a trance. She huffed an exasperated breath and jerked her head toward the table. "Sit down," she said, predictably relenting. "I'll share mine with you." She shot him a look. "But you can pour your own tea."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Chase's mouth. "You're a hard woman, Tina," he said, sauntering over to the pitcher on the counter.

Tina heaved a put-upon sigh. "Shut up or I'll change my mind."

Doubtful, they all knew, but it was fun watching the exchange. Tina had been in love with Chase for as long as Sarah Jane could remember. And Chase, while notoriously set on remaining single, couldn't seem to make up his mind who to spend time with, Tina or Laura Irving, one of Chastity's best friends, who had a similar set of big breasts and the same questionable morals. Laura delighted in keeping Chase on the line, and would occasionally reel him in just for the sport of it.

More than anything, it bothered Sarah Jane to see her friend continue to hold out hope for a relationship she wasn't all too sure would ever materialize beyond what it was—flirtatious banter punctuated with the occasional night of hot sex. In her opinion, it was time for Chase to fish or cut bait. In fact, if he didn't do one or the other in the near future, she'd more than likely tell him so.

Sarah Jane was sweet like that.

Tina retrieved another plate from the cupboard, along with some silverware and, though a faint smile curved her mouth and a blush of pleasure tinged her cheeks, grudgingly set them before Chase.

Sarah Jane repressed a grin and helped herself to a steaming square of lasagna. A groan of pure pleasure escaped as she tasted the creamy ricotta and marinara mixture.

Chase quirked an evil brow. "So that's what does it for you, eh?"

She rolled her eyes, enjoying her dinner. "Shut up," she said. "Honestly, is sex the only thing you men ever think about?"

He took a sip of tea, then leaned back and scratched his chest. Probably because scratching his balls would have been rude, Sarah Jane thought, suppressing a laugh.

"Nope. We think about football, too."

Ignoring Chase, Tina turned to her, and Sarah Jane knew before she even opened her mouth what was coming. "Speaking of doing it for you, I saw your photographer come in this afternoon."

The "ooh-la-la" wasn't spoken, but it was implied enough to cause Chase's gaze to sharpen. His fork stalled halfway to his mouth. "Photographer? What photographer?"

Heat scorched Sarah Jane's ears and thighs simultaneously at the mere thought of Mick Chivers. Of those mouthwatering shoulders and that intensely carnal mouth, specifically.

Rather than admit that she'd been in a state of bone-melting arousal all day, she told herself the one-hundred-degree-plus heat must have made her entire system malfunction. This low hum in her belly and persistent tingle between her legs was the result of dehydration, extreme heat and the general lack of sex in her life. She was having such a strong reaction to Mick because he was new, interesting and—because she hadn't been able to resist a little prying—single.

All those factors combined had tangled around her woefully deprived libido, taken one look at Mick and gone haywire.

Logically, she knew all of this.

But attraction was rarely logical, and Sarah Jane knew no matter how many times she tried to convince herself—or how many excuses she made for her bitch-in-heat behavior—the outcome would be the same.

Simply put, she was in lust.

To the nth degree.

She glumly cleared her throat. "Oh? He's settled in, then?"

Tina snorted. "The man doesn't look like he ever 'settles,' but if you mean 'Has he checked into a room,' then the answer is yes." She shot Sarah Jane a reproachful look. "Why didn't you tell me he was gorgeous when you called?"

Chase scowled. "Gorgeous?"

Tina ignored him. "Do we need to go over the Need to Know rules again?"

Sarah Jane chuckled. She and Tina had started a list of Need to Know rules in high school, and the list had been growing ever since. So far they included, but weren't limited to the following:

  * 1) All Gossip (Juicy or Otherwise)
  * 2) Any Sighting of a Good-looking Boy
  * 3) Cheating Boyfriends
  * 4) Foreign Objects Stuck in Teeth
  * 5) Any Clothing That Makes the Wearer Look Fat
  * 6) Things That Make You Say "Hmm" (ordinarily covered by Rule #1)
  * 7) Life-altering Decisions or Events
  * 8) Sex (Having It or the Lack Thereof)

Ideally, two more rules would crop up, thus giving them the Ten Commandments of their friendship, but so far the eight they currently had in place covered everything.

Sarah Jane smiled. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't think about it." She braced herself, ready for the bolt of lightning that should have struck her for that whopping lie.

"Didn't think about him being gorgeous, or didn't think about telling me?"

"Again with the gorgeous." Chase chuckled darkly and hacked off another chunk of pasta. "Beating that horse to death, aren't you, Tina?"

She glared at him. "I thought you were hungry."

"I am."

"Then eat and let us talk, for pity's sake." She huffed another breath, then met Sarah Jane's gaze once more. "So?" she prodded, back to the interrogation at hand. "What did you think of him?"

Sarah Jane felt her face flame, which seemed appropriate considering Mick had unwittingly set the rest of her body on fire. "I thought he was gorgeous," she admitted with a sigh and felt a slow telling smile slide over her lips. And I thought I wanted to suck him up like a Slurpee, personally investigate every inch of his spectacular body, sink my teeth into that marvelous ass and feel that wicked, supremely carnal mouth of his kissing the small of my back...and other places. A chill ran through her, but did nothing to cool her down. Just the contrary, in fact.

And those were the least depraved things that had gone through her head today while she covertly studied her on-site photographer. Good Lord, just watching the man move made her want to whimper.

And Tina was right—Mick Chivers didn't look like he ever settled down. Though Sarah Jane had noticed it the minute he got out of his car, the impression had been repeatedly confirmed throughout the day. He never stopped moving.

Ever.

He was adjusting settings on his camera, inspecting the house, jiggling his leg. Being still seemed completely out of his area of expertise, and though he'd thought tearing down a house to build a dirt track was a shame, he'd later mentioned he wouldn't mind doing a little racing. That comment had led to several, in which he'd revealed that he loved skydiving, had dabbled in mountain climbing and basically enjoyed any sport that might result in death or bloodshed.

Because she was insane, Sarah Jane had found this fearlessness intensely sexy.

Tina let out a little squeal of delight and smacked her hand against the table. "OhmyGod! You want him. Oh, sweetie, I'm so happy for you! It's been such a long time since you—"

"Tina!" Mortified, she jerked her head in Chase's direction. "Do you mind?" Honestly, Monarch Grove was a small town—certainly too small and domestic for someone like her new photographer, she thought glumly—so her lack of a sex life was pretty much common knowledge. Still...

Chase grinned, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't mind in the least. You ask me, this shit is fascinating. You're blushing, Sarah Jane," he said, seemingly amazed, his blue eyes twinkling with undisguised interest. "I don't think I've ever seen you do that."

That's because she ordinarily didn't blush. It was completely out of character for her. Much like this otherworldly attraction to Mick she had going on. Had she ever lusted? Certainly. But not to this degree. With a single half smile, this guy had managed to make her simultaneously jittery and muddled, hot and achy, wet and on fire.

"You're interrupting again," Tina said, exasperated.

"Either be quiet or go home," she snapped, using her Italian "Obedience or Death" tone. She gestured to Sarah Jane and dragged her chair closer. "Can't you see we're trying to talk?"

Still smiling, Chase feigned contrition and didn't say anything else.

"So?" Tina prodded.

Sarah Jane shrugged. "So...what?" And that was it in a nutshell. "He's the photographer for the piece Designing Weekly is doing on my company, and we both know I need the business too much to muck it up by—" she paused, unable to come up with the proper description for what she'd like to do with Mick Chivers "—you know," she said, gesturing wearily.

"Screwing around," Chase interjected helpfully.

Mildly annoyed, Sarah Jane propped her chin in her hand and stared at him. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

"Hell, yeah," he readily admitted, a broad grin splitting his face. "The only thing that could make this any better would be a beer and a bowl of popcorn. It's nice to see a woman in lust for a change. You females are always harping about us guys, about us not having any self-control and giving in to our animal urges and all that crap," he said with a derisive grimace. He suddenly brightened. "Seeing the shoe on a smaller foot is a refreshing change. If I see Mr. Gorgeous—" he shot a pointed look at Tina "—I think I'll thank him." Chase stood, then pressed a kiss to her cheek, making her sag in her chair. "Thanks for dinner, Tina," he murmured. "It was wonderful, as always."

Tina waited until he was gone, then sighed. "No promise to call this time," she said, her big eyes haunted with melancholy.

Sarah Jane inwardly winced. She'd noticed. "Sorry, Tina. But it's better than having him lie to you, right?"

"I suppose."

"You know what I think," she reminded her gently.

"I do. But finding someone else isn't that easy."

Sarah Jane couldn't imagine loving someone who didn't love you back was any easier, but kept that opinion to herself. Tina had no illusions where Chase and his mysterious feelings were concerned. Frankly, Sarah Jane thought a little friendly competition—he'd certainly been jealous enough over the "gorgeous" comment a few minutes ago—would make the wily boy in blue sit up and take notice. At the moment, he knew Tina adored him and was a sure thing. He wasn't about the change the status quo. A little uncertainty would undoubtedly do him some good.

"So...back to your photographer," Tina said. "Just because he's here on business doesn't really mean he's off-limits, does it?" she asked with skeptical hopefulness. "He's made you blush. You. Ms. Unflappable. Ms. Hard-ass."

"I am not a hard-ass," Sarah Jane retorted automatically, though, to an extent, she imagined it was true. She'd never been one to suffer fools gladly—stupid behavior drove her crazy—and she didn't mince words. She'd never mastered the coy art of guarding her tongue or dancing around an issue. It was a waste of time that, more often than not, resulted in confusion.

At any rate, she imagined the only thing that saved her from being labeled a total bitch was her notoriously soft heart, which she would freely admit to owning. She was a sucker for a sob story, a constant champion of the underdog, and had never met a stray she hadn't kept or, at the very least, found a home for.

Oh, yeah, she thought, remembering the half-dozen furry family members waiting for their kibble, she was a real hard-ass.

As for whether or not Mick was really off-limits, the answer, though difficult to make, was a resounding yes.

She'd been wrestling with that question and her damn attraction to the man all day.

"Don't think I'm not tempted, and don't think my being around him for the next two weeks isn't going to be sheer hell—it is. But he's here in a professional capacity and, bottom line, I need the business and exposure from the article more than I need an orgasm."

Tina grinned. "I think you need the orgasm worse."

"Will your opinion pay my bills?"

"No, but your inheritance would," Tina quipped. "Any luck with Cecil this morning?"

Sarah Jane felt her neck cramp. "None."

Which was all the more reason she needed to forget about the unforgettable sex she might have had with Mick Chivers—everything within her wailed and rebelled at this thought—and concentrate on the issues at hand.

Frankly, getting her hands on that will and seeing this article through were more important than a weeklong fling with the best-looking, sexiest man she'd ever seen. Mick's handsome face—more specifically, that beautiful mouth and what he could no doubt do with it to her—rose in her mind's eye, making her inwardly wince with bone-deep regret.

No doubt the fling would be more satisfying.

But it wouldn't buy her a new truck.

## 4

"SO, HOW'S IT GOING so far?" Huck asked. Evidently, he was the one assigned to check up on him. Or, Mick supposed, Huck could be doing it independently, trying to make sure that he didn't botch his first job. He'd recommended Mick, after all, ergo his credibility was on the line, as well.

Swallowing a sigh, and unable to shake the sensation that he was being watched, Mick closed his bedroom door, locked it and pocketed the key, holding his cell phone to his ear the whole time. He'd also smelled a strange sort of aftershave when he'd awoken this morning—and it hadn't been his. Very weird. "No illegal activity last night," he told Huck.

Under the pretense of "getting a feel for the town" Mick had done an open tail—meaning he'd allowed his quarry to see him, but had kept enough distance between them that she hadn't been aware he'd actually been following her. Furthermore, because the community was so small and everything of interest was centered around the town square or within a couple of blocks, running into her repeatedly hadn't caused any suspicion. In addition, he planned to always keep his camera with him from now on and use it as a prop when necessary.

As for her movements last night, she'd had dinner here with a friend—Tina Martinese, the B and B chef, who'd provided him with some of the best lasagna he'd ever eaten in his life—then drove by Chastity's house, but didn't stop.

Afterward she'd driven past the town limits and, after about ten minutes, turned down a long tree-lined driveway. Mick wouldn't have been able to follow her without it looking odd, so he'd doubled back and waited for her to make the return trip to town. Whoever she'd visited couldn't have asked her to stay, because she'd been back on the road within twenty minutes. After her mysterious stop—one he fully intended to check out later—she'd dropped by the local video store and then gone home.

There she took a damn long time in the shower—long enough to make him want to howl, actually. Then she put on a tiny cotton camisolelike thingie—no bra, of course, because she evidently wanted to kill him—and a pair of boxer shorts, dished up a bowl of ice cream, curled up on her couch with her assorted menagerie of pets and watched a movie.

He'd kept her under surveillance until he was certain—or as certain as he could be—that she was in for the night. He'd finally made it back to the B and B around two-thirty, only to set off some sort of alarm that woke the entire house, including Clara—whose hair, interestingly, had gone from red to blond sometime between supper and his return. She grudgingly gave him the security code to disarm the system, but only after he'd told her that he suffered from insomnia and would more than likely need to take a walk every night.

His cheeks burned as he remembered that humiliation. He was only glad that none of his counterparts had seen or heard it. Badass security specialist at your service, he thought with a sardonic twist of his lips, wondering if he could possibly screw this up any more.

At any rate, he'd gotten very little sleep and had nothing to show for his efforts but a dull headache, a general sense of uneasiness—he could have sworn he'd felt a hand on his thigh this morning when he'd woken up—and an attack of conscience the likes of which he'd never experienced in his misbegotten life.

Mick paused on the landing before going downstairs to breakfast. "I gotta tell you, Huck. I feel like a first-class bastard."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the cover I'm using." He leaned against the wall, checked to make sure he was alone and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Did you know that she's spent the last week busting her ass to get her inventory accounted for and uploaded onto her Web site, so she'll be prepared for the influx of business she's expecting to pick up because of this article? The one that's not going to happen?"

Huck paused, then muttered a curse. "No, I didn't."

"I know that I don't work for her, and I'm not supposed to care, but evidently I'm not as much of a son of a bitch as I'm supposed to be because I think this is pretty damn shitty."

Messing with a person's livelihood was not cool.

Monumental screwup aside, Mick had been more than a spectator for justice. He'd been a contributor. Disarming terrorists, fighting for the greater good, ensuring freedom—those were things he'd always been able to be proud of.

He wasn't proud of this.

There was no greater good, just greater greed on the part of Chastity Walker. Or at least, that's what he suspected at the moment.

"You're right," Huck said. "I'll see if I can do something about it."

"What could you do?"

"Maybe get them to run an article. And if I can't, I'm certain that Payne can." Huck chuckled softly. "He...has a way of getting people to do things us mere mortals can't."

Mick laughed. "That way is called money, my friend." He'd heard rumors of Payne's wealth for years, but could honestly say he'd never fully appreciated the depth of the man's pockets until he'd walked into the sleek Atlanta high-rise that housed Ranger Security, not to mention the additional building next door Payne had acquired and turned into apartments for future Ranger Security operatives. When Mick had stepped into his fully furnished right-down-to-a-stocked-pantry apartment, he'd been forcibly reminded of why Payne's friends had nicknamed him The Specialist.

The man did nothing in half measures.

"I know you don't like the cover, Mick, but we'll make it right. You just do what you're supposed to do and keep snapping pictures. You can give them to the magazine when you're through."

Feeling marginally better about it, Mick released a small breath. "All right." Taking photos of his target certainly wouldn't be a hardship. Sarah Jane wasn't a classic beauty by any stretch of the imagination. Her nose was a little too small, her cheeks too round, but he couldn't deny that he'd been drawn to her from the beginning. It was that fighter's spirit obvious in the stubborn tilt of her chin, that underlying hint of mischief evident in those melting-caramel eyes. In fact, it was those very characteristics that made her all the more compelling. She was sexy and salt-of-the-earth personified, an intriguingly irresistible combination.

"I heard from McPherson last night," Huck said. "He mentioned he'd tried to call you, but hasn't had any luck. Is there any particular reason you're avoiding him?"

Other than the fact that he was a coward who couldn't bear to talk to a friend who'd witnessed the biggest mistake of his life, no, Mick thought, feeling like a bastard. Rather than answer, he evaded the question. "I'll, uh...I'll give him a call." And he would. He just didn't know when.

"Make sure you do, man. He's worried about you."

Mick didn't need the reminder. A fellow adrenaline junkie and prankster, Levi McPherson was a good friend, one who, like Huck, had been there to rally around him when he'd screwed up. He hadn't tried to belittle Mick's regret with the standard it's-not-your-fault platitudes, but had been there to drink, to listen and offer sports-related therapy. The guilt was Mick's cross, not his. Levi didn't deserve the silent treatment Mick had been giving him.

Another screwup, he thought, disgusted with himself.

"And I should warn you," Huck said, thankfully changing the subject. "Chastity has called here several times asking for your cell number. She wants to meet with you to go over the case."

His gut response was a heartfelt hell no, but considering he'd already lost all perspective—provided he'd ever had it to start with—he didn't altogether trust his instincts. "I know that I'm new to this whole security thing, but is that a risk we should take?"

"Not in my opinion, but she's adamant. She's looking for you."

Mick grimaced. "Considering this is the only place to stay in town, I'm definitely easy to find."

Huck's hesitation echoed over the line. "Are you sure you're good with this, Mick? If you aren't, we can pull you out and give it a little more time. None of these guys would blame you. They've—"

Shame burned through Mick. Huck had stuck his neck out for him, had given him a place in the world when his life was in shambles. It still was, for that matter. "I can do it, Huck," he insisted. It was a simple mission. Watch Sarah Jane.

"No one's saying you can't, Mick. Hell, man, you're the best damn soldier I know. Freaking fearless. You're The Hell-raiser," he said with a reminiscent chuckle. Huck sighed, seemingly looking for the right way to tell Mick he was a fuckup. "But I can tell your heart's not in this."

Mick couldn't deny that, so he didn't even try. The only thing his heart had ever truly been in was serving his country, and that life was gone now, lost to him through nobody's fault but his own. A single bad decision that had come within a couple of centimeters of costing another man his life. Risk came with the job, he knew, and the higher up the chain of command you were, the more responsibility you had. In theory, he'd been fine with it. But living with the reality of the mistake had turned out to be more than he could handle. If that made him weak, then he could live with it easier than he could the alternative.

Risking his own life was one thing. Risking someone else's was another thing altogether.

Still, though he admittedly saw more shades of gray than black and white, he couldn't shake the sensation that he was fighting on the wrong side on this one. It didn't matter that Chastity was paying for their services—quite possibly with Sarah Jane's inheritance—it still felt off. And he had every intention of finding out why. If Chastity was using Ranger Security for something other than what she'd claimed when she'd hired them, Mick would find out and adjust his plan accordingly.

And she might not like the result.

While it was true that soldiers were taught to follow orders and respect the chain of command, they were also taught to assess situations, think on their feet and change course should the need arise. Furthermore, concepts like truth and honor and justice weren't just pretty words bandied about by politicians—they were a moral code. When in doubt, do what's right.

Mick assured Huck he would stay on task, thanked him for the heads-up regarding Chastity, then disconnected and finished making his way downstairs.

The heavy scents of bacon and maple syrup flavored the air, making his mouth water in anticipation. When Payne had mentioned that Clara's was the hot spot for breakfast, he hadn't exaggerated. The dining room, a charming space littered with mismatched tables and chairs, fresh-cut flowers and braided rugs, was packed with people. Old farmers sporting overalls and John Deere hats, young professionals, couples and families, a hungry sample of Monarch Grove's population all gathered at the altar of good food.

Wearing a little tiara on her new platinum locks, and bright red lipstick, Clara greeted Mick herself before showing him to a table. "I hope you were able to sleep after your walk," she said, a polite, unintentional reminder that he'd woken them all up. He smiled and resisted the urge to grind his teeth.

"I was, thank you," he answered, settling into a chair.

"Nothing strange happened, I hope? No missing toiletries or flickering lights?"

"Er...no." He was caught off guard by the strange question.

Instead of looking happy, Clara actually seemed disappointed. Her face fell. "Excellent," she murmured distractedly.

Mick decided a subject change was in order. "If breakfast is as good as it smells, then I'm in for a treat."

She brightened. "You definitely are. Tina's a phenomenal cook. She's my little ace in the hole. The B and B has the best food in town, no matter what anyone tells you." She leaned down as though about to share an important secret. "Steer clear of Mabel's Diner," she whispered. "She's had a bit of a bug problem, if you catch my drift."

Mick inclined his head, wondering why Clara sounded slightly gleeful.

The woman straightened once more. "Coffee?"

"Er...black, please."

She nodded briskly and hurried away.

Clara hadn't been gone five seconds before a busty blonde who looked as if she'd colored her extremely tanned face with a paint-by-numbers kit suddenly slid into the chair across from him.

Chastity, no doubt, Mick decided, inwardly recoiling.

While attractive in the literal sense, she had a hard, cunning look about her. Though she wore black, the tight sleeveless shirt and short skirt hardly said "grieving widow." More like "streetwalker," he thought uncharitably.

She and Sarah Jane couldn't have been more different, and if he hadn't trusted this woman's story to begin with, he sure as hell didn't believe it now.

"You must be Mick," she said, smiling. Feminine interest sparkled in eyes surrounded by clumps of mascara-coated lashes.

"I am."

When he didn't say anything else, a momentary look of confusion stole across her overly made-up face.

"So?" she prodded. "How are things going?"

"Fine. When I have something to report, I'll tell you. Wasn't that the agreement?" He purposely kept his tone level, knowing that any interest or even superficial friendliness would only encourage her to stay.

"I'm not sure," she replied slowly. Those shrewd eyes continued to size him up. She hesitated. "Is there a problem, Mr. Chivers?"

Mick swallowed a long-suffering sigh. More problems than he cared to enumerate.

Thankfully, a petite, dark-haired woman—Tina, maybe?—came to his rescue by arriving with his plate. "Good morning," she said, smiling warmly at him. "I'm Tina," she confirmed. She didn't so much as glance at Chastity. "You're the photographer who's working with Sarah Jane, right?"

From the corner of his eye he saw Chastity's lips slide into a smug smile. Though it went against everything inside of him, he managed to nod, silently affirming the lie.

He was so not cut out for this line of work.

Or maybe it was just this case. Either way, he knew he was screwed. And though he'd been in the security field for only a couple of days, that was long enough for Mick to know it wasn't going to satisfy his soul. The job entailed lots of watching and less movement, and other than actually being with Sarah Jane, it was a complete bore.

"We didn't get a chance to meet last night. I've got your to-go order ready in the kitchen, so don't forget to ask for it on your way out."

"I won't, thanks."

Chastity cleared her throat loudly. "Aren't you going to take my order?"

Every muscle in Tina's petite body went rigid and she turned a patently false smile in Chastity's direction. "I'm not a waitress. I'm the cook."

"Nevertheless, you work here and I'm a paying customer. I'd like what he's having."

"Fine," she said, baring her teeth in a frightening smile. "I'll make something special for you."

Only if spit were special, Mick thought, resisting the urge to laugh. Evidently Chastity wasn't as stupid as she looked, because she finally just let out a disgusted breath and told her to forget it.

Victorious, Tina grinned. "Are you sure? I'd be happy to personally take care of your plate. Really," she said through clenched teeth. "I would."

"I said no," Chastity repeated. She gestured impatiently to Mick. "Can't you see you're interrupting our conversation?"

Tina's expression turned shrewd and speculative. "You know each other?"

Dammit to hell, this was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "We just met," Mick said, thankful that he hadn't had to lie again.

Seemingly satisfied, she nodded. "Enjoy your breakfast, Mick." She moved away from the table, giving him a clear view of the door.

He wished she hadn't.

Because Sarah Jane was standing there. An instantaneous frisson of heat stole through his belly and settled in his loins at the mere sight of her.

But it was the sight she was going to get—of him seated with her enemy—that worried him.

A sardonic, knowing smile rolled over her lips, as though she'd hoped he'd have better taste. She gave him a little nod in acknowledgment, then looked away.

Following his gaze, Chastity glanced over her shoulder, saw Sarah Jane, then, smiling maliciously, stood.

"Mission accomplished," she said. "Watch her like a hawk and let me know the minute you catch her breaking into my house. I'm looking forward to sending her back to jail."

"SHE DIDN'T WASTE MUCH time, did she?" Mason muttered under his breath. "I swear I think that woman has got some sort of sonar for when new men arrive in town. It's like a 'fresh meat' alarm goes off and she swoops in, ready for the kill."

Seething, reeling and bitterly disappointed, Sarah Jane nodded to a couple of people as she walked through the dining room, paused to listen to Mae Bell Hodges's latest update on her husband's gout, then continued on to the kitchen, where she and Mason typically ate breakfast with Tina.

Though she knew it was irrational and more than likely simply a product of her sexually deprived, lust-ridden brain, Sarah Jane's internal alarms were ringing so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts.

Something about seeing Mick Chivers with Chastity was...off.

And it was more than the absurd jealousy and illogical anger turning her mind first shades of green, then black. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that she'd actually applied a little makeup this morning, had taken time with her hair and had agonized over which friggin' shorts made her ass look smaller. If Chastity was Mick's type—cheap, easy and stupid—then so be it. Good riddance. She shoved open the kitchen door with a little more force than needed, almost crashing into Clara.

"Sarah Jane," the woman admonished, adjusting the little crown on her newly tinted hair. "That's not how a lady enters a room. This is a bed-and-breakfast, not a roadhouse bar."

"Sorry, Clara." She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, snagged a biscuit from the tray and took an intentional bite to keep from screaming.

Tina sent her a sympathetic smile. "You saw."

"She did," Mason said, because Sarah Jane's mouth was still stuffed with food. He shook his head. "You know, I'm a man and even I don't get it. Yes, the girl has got a nice set of breasts—"

Sarah Jane glared at him.

"She does, S.J. Just stating the facts." He frowned, his peach fuzz bunching around his lips. "But there's nothing else there. She's not ugly, but she's not beautiful, either. She's spent so many hours in the tanning bed—"

"And by the pool she talked my father into putting in," Sarah Jane interjected.

"—she looks like a damn rotisserie chicken. She's dumb as a box of rocks." He shrugged again. "I just don't get it."

Tina set a steaming plate in front of each of them, grabbed one for herself and then joined them at the table. "You're just a man of better taste, Mason," she said. "Unfortunately, a lot of guys don't care whether a woman is smart or not." She shot a look at Sarah Jane. "No offense to your father, but he couldn't have been thinking with his brain when he decided to marry that shallow, mean-spirited slut."

"I know," Sarah Jane admitted, though she believed that her father had come to regret it in the weeks prior to his death. He'd said a few things, but nothing that would have really opened an honest dialogue about the situation. Just enough to leave Sarah Jane with the impression that he hadn't been happy.

And she'd be lying if she hadn't hoped that Mick would have better taste. Honestly, physical attraction aside, she credited him with more character. He hadn't seemed like the type who would be interested in Chastity. Sarah Jane had thought he had more depth. More class. More sense.

Frankly, by yesterday afternoon, she'd thought she'd detected a little interest in her. While he hadn't blatantly flirted, he'd certainly been quick with those slow, melting smiles, and there'd been a hint of interest in those shockingly blue eyes. Honestly, she'd never seen eyes that particular shade before. Intense, clear, bold, the color of an old bottle she'd once found buried in the sand at the beach. And if it was true that the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, then Mick Chivers's soul was a kaleidoscope of recklessness, irreverence, honor, pain and sorrow. How did she know this?

The same way she knew there was more to Chastity and Mick than met the eye: intuition.

True, Chastity had a knack for picking up the scent of any new man, but from the strange look—a combination of irritation and embarrassment—Sarah Jane had glimpsed on Mick's face, something else was in play here.

"If it makes you feel any better, I was in the dining room when she came in. He didn't invite her to sit down. She invited herself," Tina offered.

Typical Chastity. Still...

"I've got a weird vibe about this," Sarah Jane said. She speared a fresh strawberry and considered it thoughtfully.

Tina selected a piece of bacon and snickered. "That feeling is called jealousy, my dear."

Mason's gaze widened. "Jealousy? What do you mean, jealousy?"

Tina merely rolled her eyes. "Mason, you are a sweetheart, but you're blind."

"These are new glasses," he said, offended, straightening a bit in his chair. "It's just taking me a little while to adjust to them."

Sarah Jane and Tina shared a look, then both started giggling.

Used to their silent communication, he quirked his lips. "Want to clue me in on the joke?"

"No," Sarah Jane said. She cleared her throat and glanced at Tina. "It's...more than what you said. This situation just doesn't feel right."

"Sarah Jane, it doesn't feel right because the woman has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. She stole your father, stole your house, stole your inheritance, and now she's put the moves on the first guy who has cranked your tractor in months."

"It's been more like a year or two, thank you," Sarah Jane corrected glumly.

Mason's eyes rounded and he gazed at her in astonishment. "Oh," he said knowingly, shooting her a sheepish smile. "That explains a lot. I thought you were acting a bit funny yesterday. Strange, really. I just thought you were nervous over all those pictures he was taking of you."

That had been a bit nerve-racking. It seemed like every time she'd turned around, Mick had been snapping another photograph. It was also clear that he knew a bit about carpentry and home repair. He'd inspected the house and made a lot of comments regarding the structure and how it could be fixed. At one point, he'd even put his camera down long enough to help her loosen a particularly stubborn bit of molding. She could tell he'd been itching to do more, but she hadn't suggested that he pick up a hammer.

In her line of work—a predominantly male field—Sarah Jane battled against what she'd dubbed the "little woman syndrome." On more than one occasion, she'd dealt with a clod-brained, big-muscled moron who thought she was too weak and too ignorant to do the job, so she'd become a bit sensitive to help from the opposite sex. She glanced at Mason and felt her own lips twitch. He didn't count—she was manlier than he was. At any rate, if she were perfectly honest, she'd let Mick help her because she'd wanted to be closer to him, to watch those muscles bunch and tighten.

And she hadn't been disappointed at all.

The man was, in a word, glorious.

And he'd been sharing breakfast with Chastity.

Sarah Jane didn't care what Tina said, this feeling—this instinct—was more than jealousy. Though she would definitely cop to that. She'd planned on asking Mick to join them for breakfast this morning, so seeing him two feet from her enemy hadn't been pleasant.

"I asked them if they knew each other," Tina told her.

"And he said they'd just met."

Rather than put her at ease, Sarah Jane felt her nape prickle. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because your stepmonster accused me of 'interrupting their conversation.'" She quirked a brow in irritation. "Have I mentioned lately that I loathe her? Because I do. I genuinely can't stand her." Tina took a sip of orange juice and sighed.

"Welcome to the club," Sarah Jane said with a grimace.

"You know what I think you should do?"

Sarah Jane suspected she wasn't going to like Tina's advice. "What?"

"Forget this whole he's-off-limits-because-he's-here-on-business crap and flirt with him. Reel him in." She grinned and her eyes sparkled with evil humor.

"It'll kill her."

Oh, it would, no doubt, Sarah Jane thought, tempted beyond reason. A little quickening thrill made her insides tingle with purpose, and she felt a slow smile slide across her lips as she imagined Chastity's furious face. Sarah Jane paused, remembering all the reasons she shouldn't make a play for Mick, the most important of which was her business. She couldn't discount the fact that pursuing any sort of relationship with him—especially one of the sexual variety—would be risky, even potentially disastrous.

But the idea of letting Chastity win—again—was almost more than Sarah Jane could bear.

It was galling.

It was exasperating.

It was...impossible.

"She's taken everything else from you," Tina said with a shrug, echoing Sarah Jane's own thoughts. "You're a fool if you let her have him, too."

"Sarah Jane's no fool," Mason remarked, outraged on her behalf. He was always coming to her defense, even when he didn't need to.

A beat slid into three, then she looked at Tina and felt a resolute smile curve her lips. "He's right. I'm no fool."

Competitive, maybe. Self-destructive? Possibly.

But not foolish.

## 5

MICK DIDN'T KNOW what kind of greeting to expect from Sarah Jane after she'd seen him with Chastity that morning. A cold shoulder, the silent treatment, a dire warning about the company he was keeping. Those were the scenarios running in his brain as he'd driven out to the Milton Plantation after breakfast.

The one scene he hadn't pictured, however, was the one playing out before him now.

Sarah Jane Walker was flirting with him.

Ordinarily, a beautiful girl making a play for him—particularly this one, who had the singular ability to turn him on simply by breathing—would be a good thing. Hell, an unbelievably freakin' great thing.

He liked women. He loved sex. He was a man, after all, and like most men, he spent the majority of his time thinking about getting laid, getting into trouble and getting a bite to eat. A slow smile drifted over his lips.

And not necessarily in that order. But if they happened in quick succession, then all the better.

At any rate, Mick had decided that Sarah Jane's interest had to be some sort of cosmic revenge for all the hell-raising and womanizing he'd done in the past. Too many pranks, too many one-night stands, too many "too manys." When karma decided to dole out a payback for almost getting Carson Wells killed, Mick had imagined it would be much more heinous than what he was about to go through with Sarah Jane.

Not that it would be a cakewalk, by any stretch of the imagination. He looked at her through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her mouth and felt his blood race to his groin as he snapped yet another picture that would never make it into the magazine spread. In fact, he could safely say that Designing Weekly wouldn't be interested in about ninety percent of the photos he was taking. His lips quirked.

He'd been taking more pictures of her architecture than that of this old house.

But he couldn't seem to help himself. The smooth shape of her jaw, the sensual slope of her neck, even the delicate shell of her ears seemed to be irresistible once he got behind the lens. He'd taken a couple of good shots of her mouth—the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen, period—and longed to capture her eyes, those compelling pools of melting toffee. Gorgeous, warm and expressive. A guy could easily get lost in them, Mick thought broodingly.

When he'd first noticed the change in her, he had chalked it up to wishful thinking. Which was stupid, considering that he couldn't touch her. Given the situation—that he was a paid spy who was technically supposed to be catching her doing something illegal—it was beyond insane to wish that she would flirt with him.

He might be The Hell-raiser, but even he wasn't reckless enough, dishonorable enough, that he would throw sex into this mix. His pranks had always run along the lines of shaving the eyebrows off a drunken friend, putting cling wrap beneath the toilet lid, and the one that had made him infamous at Mars Hill Academy, dismantling a Civil War-era cannon and reassembling it in the headmaster's office. Mick inwardly smiled, remembering. That one had been good, if he did say so himself.

Nevertheless, wanting her to want him was the physical equivalent of hell, because he couldn't have her. While reams of paper could be filled with lists of his shortcomings, a faulty moral compass wasn't one of them. Furthermore, while he knew he was supposed to keep a close eye on Sarah Jane for Ranger Security, he suspected sleeping with her would fall well beyond the bounds of protocol.

Ultimately, Mick had decided that he had to be mistaken. That she couldn't possibly be genuinely interested in him that way. She was merely being friendly. Southerners were notorious for their hospitality, after all. That had to be it, he told himself, hoping that if he repeated it often enough, it would be true.

But then, only moments ago, she'd blown his theory—his admitted self-delusion—all to hell and, as a result, he was teetering on the verge of hysterical laughter, skating the edge of some sort of breakdown.

He'd fought terrorists. He'd survived enemy fire. He'd disabled bombs.

And yet this hardworking, down-to-earth little spitfire had somehow managed to shoot a dart of fear straight into his heart with alarming accuracy. Why?

Who knew? He suspected it had something to do with his inappropriate, unnamed feelings, plus a healthy dose of self-preservation.

Allowing himself to act on this attraction would be wrong on more levels than he could count. Which was a crying shame, because he'd never—never—felt this bone-deep, driving, almost elemental need to put himself inside a woman. On a civilized level, he would imagine it was as advanced as clubbing her over the head, then dragging her away to his cave by her hair. Or peeing around her yard, marking his territory.

"Is something wrong with your sandwich?" Sarah Jane asked.

Mick blinked. "Er, no. It's excellent." And the bite of chicken salad she'd caught from the side of his mouth and fed him with her thumb had tasted even better. He felt his groin tighten, just thinking about it.

Mason set his sandwich down and grimaced uncomfortably. "Nothing's wrong with mine, either, but I can't eat it."

A concerned line emerged between Sarah Jane's brows. "Why not? What's wrong?"

He took a small sip of lemonade from his Star Trek thermos. "I'm feeling a little queasy."

"Do you think it's the heat? Have you gotten too hot?"

Mason slowly shook his head. "I don't think so. It hasn't been as warm today as it was yesterday. Maybe it's just something I ate."

"You've eaten the same things I have and I'm not sick. Come on," Sarah Jane said, standing up from the small folding table they'd set up in the corner of the old dining room. "I'll take you home. You don't need to be here."

"No," Mason protested, shaking his sweaty head.

"I'll be all right. I just need a—"

Sarah Jane reached out and placed her hand on his forehead, then frowned. "You've got a fever. I'm taking you home."

His eyes widened in outrage. "How can you tell I've got a fever? It's almost a hundred degrees in here."

"I can just tell," she said, shoving the rest of her food into a bag, now fully in mother-bear mode. "Come on. Get your things together."

Mason looked as if he would like nothing better than to go home, but firmed his nonexistent chin and prepared another argument. "You don't have time to drive me home, Sarah Jane. This job is taking longer than we thought and time is running out. I'll be fine. I—"

"How about I do it?" Mick offered. "I could give you a ride," he said to Mason.

Sarah Jane's hopeful gaze swung to Mick's, unexpectedly pulling the breath from his lungs. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all." He shrugged, trying hard not to feel like her knight in shining armor. "You need to work. He needs to go home." Furthermore, it would give him some time alone with Sarah Jane—a blessing and a curse—but most importantly, it would give him the opportunity to see if she might open up to him about her father. He needed to know if there really was a will, and he couldn't ask her without tipping his own hand.

"I don't like you being out here by yourself, Sarah Jane. It's dangerous," Mason protested weakly.

Her gaze grew steely and her adorable chin lifted at that stubborn angle Mick had come to recognize. "Mason, we've been over this before. I am perfectly capable of working alone. I did it for years before you came along. I am able, I am responsible and I am careful. I don't need a babysitter. You go home. I'll be fine."

From the beleaguered tone of her voice, Mick guessed this was an argument they'd had many times before. Though she probably wouldn't like to hear it, he actually agreed with Mason. They were in a remote area and a bit of danger was inherent in her profession. She worked with sharp tools, in old dilapidated houses that were almost falling down around her. One misplaced step on a rotten board could result in a broken ankle, or worse. Like it or not, accidents came with the job description, and being here alone wasn't altogether safe. It wouldn't be for anybody, not just her.

"I'll be coming back out," Mick announced. "I need to get a few more pictures."

"Are you sure?" she asked, quirking a brow. "You've taken quite a few today."

So she'd noticed, he thought, wondering if she suspected he'd been taking more photos of her than of their actual progress. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'll need to catalog each phase of the process," he lied, hoping it sounded believable.

Evidently it did, because she nodded. "Okay, then." She smiled gratefully at him. "I really appreciate this. Uh, why don't you let me make it up to you by showing you around our fair city this evening? Give you the grand tour, so to speak."

Even better for the case, Mick thought, though on a personal level, he knew he was beyond screwed.

Because he grimly suspected this was going to be a date.

And while he was new to the security business, he was relatively certain he was not supposed to date his target. But then, the list of things he was not supposed to do or notice was already quite long.

For instance, he was not supposed to notice the fullness of her breasts beneath her cotton T-shirt, the way her shorts rode up on her rear when she bent over, or the delicate tendrils of hair clinging to the back of her neck. He wasn't supposed to want to suck her bottom lip, or taste that little patch of skin behind her ear, or stretch her out on a blanket beneath that huge oak tree in the front lawn. He wasn't supposed to imagine her naked and hot and writhing beneath him. He wasn't supposed to want to fill her belly button with ice cream and lick it up. He wasn't supposed to dream about eating blackberries from between her thighs or suckling her sex until she came.

And he sure as hell wasn't supposed to—and for his own personal sanity didn't need to—agree to go out with her. But that's exactly what he did. It was the only way he was ever going to glean all the facts he needed to move forward on the case. Payne had told him to assess and adjust as necessary.

This was necessary.

"Sure," he told her, mentally cursing himself. "That sounds great."

She smiled at him. "Don't eat," she said. "I'll treat you."

That was exactly what he was afraid of, Mick mused, imagining all the ways he'd love for her to treat him. To a kiss, for starters, he thought, eyeing her unbelievably carnal mouth. Then to bare skin, to pouting nipples and welcoming thighs, to her tongue on his body and her hands wrapped around his dick. To soft sighs and screams of release. To breakfast in bed and a hot, shared shower. Then to more of the same. He released a shuddering breath as the ache in his loins reached maximum capacity, and he shifted, angling for any sort of relief.

It didn't come.

And he grimly suspected the only cure, ironically, meant he would have to.

SARAH JANE LOOKED at the dismal contents of her closet and repressed the growing urge to scream. Evidently bewildered by her uncharacteristic behavior, all three dogs and one of her cats sat at her feet, staring at the collection of denim and T-shirts, as well. She looked down at them, rolled her eyes and grinned, thinking about the picture they all undoubtedly made. "What do you say, guys? You see anything in there that says 'casually sexy'? Hmm?" Her shoulders sagged as she sighed heavily.

Note to self, Sarah Jane thought. The next time you buy clothes, keep a man in mind as opposed to comfort.

Okay, time to get a grip, she decided, selecting yet another pair of denim shorts and a red gingham sleeveless blouse. She wouldn't make the cover of Vogue, but she liked the way both items looked on her, and that was good enough, right? After all, he'd agreed to go out with her when she'd been wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, dripping with sweat and covered in dirt. Despite her appearance, she knew he was attracted to her, and to say that knowledge made her inwardly squirm with joy would be a mild understatement. Sarah Jane gave another little eye roll.

Of course, after the way she'd practically thrown herself at him today, she didn't imagine she'd left him with any choice, she thought, mildly embarrassed at her transparent behavior.

She'd smiled, she'd laughed, she'd purposely stared at his mouth—and not-so-purposely, as well, because she couldn't seem to help herself. She'd brushed up against him. She'd offered him water. She'd caught a little piece of his sandwich from the side of his mouth and fed it to him with her thumb.

She'd made herself clear....

And he'd said yes.

Take that, Chastity, you bleached-blond, thieving bitch, Sarah Jane thought, mentally doing a little hoo-yah dance because she was going to win.

And thoroughly enjoy herself in the process.

Honestly, when his gaze had tangled with hers and his lips had closed around her thumb, gently sucking, she'd felt that little tug all the way down to the heart of her sex. She'd come within a gnat's ass of having an immaculate orgasm, a phenomenon she'd never experienced. In fact, she could honestly say that orgasms had been so few and far between, she was beginning to suspect they were like unicorns and mermaids, the stuff of fairy tales.

But they wouldn't be with him, Sarah Jane thought, releasing a shaky breath.

Mick Chivers had that look. That baby-I-could-rock-your-world-beyond-your-wildest-dreams, turn-you-inside-out-and-back-again, make-you-scream-the-Hallelujah-Chorus-until-your-eyes-roll-back-in-your-head-and-your-bones-melt look. It was in the wicked curve of that slightly crooked smile, written in the sloping sexiness of those heavy-lidded, electric-blue eyes. It was in the way he moved, unhurried yet determined. It was in every hard, perfectly proportioned, muscled inch of his body—sex appeal, satisfaction guaranteed.

No long-term warranty though, she was sure, because he had that look about him, as well. Aside from the fact that Monarch Grove didn't have enough excitement to satisfy Mick's acute sense of adventure—another point that had been hammered home again today when he'd mentioned he'd actually swum with sharks off the coast of Australia—Mick was entirely too restless, unsettled and a bit wild, she thought, once again reminded of a lonely mustang.

Only a woman looking to have her heart trampled would ever dream of trying to put a bit in that mouth, she decided, making a mental note to keep it in mind lest she make the fatal mistake of becoming emotionally attached. This was about physical attraction, about keeping him from Chastity and nothing more. Did Sarah Jane like him? Certainly. Mick was charming, funny and intriguing.

But he was also temporary—and more importantly...damaged.

Every person had a story, she knew, but for whatever reason, she suspected Mick's had recently taken a tragic turn. There were shadows lurking in those beautiful eyes, a guardedness that spoke of untold pain. What had happened to him? she wondered. Heartbreak? She didn't think so. Instinct told her it was more personal than that. Went deeper, further, than he'd ever let anyone plumb.

She shrugged into her top and tugged the hem into place.

Because she had the "fix it" syndrome, she'd like nothing more than to try to help him. Sarah Jane had always been that way. Champion for the underdog, righter of any wrongs within the scope of her power, she hated injustice of any sort. And that was why Chastity keeping her inheritance more than hurt her—it pissed her off to no end. It was the reason Sarah Jane fostered animals, her motivation in always adopting an "angel" from the tree at Christmas, why she made a point to befriend the friendless. She couldn't help herself. Being a "do-gooder" was hardwired into her DNA. Any time she saw a person in need, she had the inherent urge to help.

Mick Chivers needed help, but something told her coming to his aid would be to her own detriment, and any effort would be rebuffed. Better to let him tackle his own demons, she thought, knowing that was the prudent decision, if not the easiest.

A knock at her front door announced his arrival, causing a flock of nerves to wing through her belly. The dogs went wild and rushed to the entrance ahead of her. Sarah Jane checked her reflection once more in her bedroom mirror, deemed herself presentable, then released a pent-up breath and, pushing Perv—her biggest dog, of unknown origins—aside, opened the door.

To her embarrassment but not her surprise, Perv, true to his namesake, immediately went forward and nudged her visitor in the crotch.

Mick grunted, taken aback, then chuckled uncomfortably. "Whoa there, buddy," he said, carefully moving the dog's head from his zipper. "I, uh...I don't know you well enough for that."

Sarah Jane smiled a bit fatalistically. "Mick, this is Perv. You can imagine how he got that name."

Mick continued to pat the dog's head as he glanced up at her. "I don't have to imagine," he said, amusement in his voice. "I've got intimate knowledge."

Grimacing, she opened the door a little wider, welcoming him in. "Move back," she admonished the dogs. "Let the man inside."

His hair was still wet and curling from a recent shower, and as he complied, she breathed in the smell of his aftershave. He earned points with her immediately by bending down and taking time to greet and pet each of her animals. The dogs lapped up the attention, while the cats looked on in curious distain. "You've got a whole little zoo here."

"I know," Sarah Jane said. "But I love them."

He looked up and quirked a brow. "Strays?"

She nodded, once again broadsided by the almost overwhelming urge to slide her fingers over his lips. His mouth was quite honestly one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. "P-perv was abused," she stammered, struggling to focus. "I, um, I volunteer at our local animal shelter on the weekends, just checking in on the animals, and was there when his owners dumped him. He was so bewildered, so pitiful." A droll smile tugged at her lips and she ran her hand over the dog's sleek back. "Despite his lamentable habit of shoving his nose into unsuspecting crotches, he's a sweet, loyal dog." She gestured toward another of her brood. "That's Wink. She's part beagle, part something else."

"Wink?"

"She's got a droopy eye," Sarah Jane explained. "It's part of her charm."

She pointed to the smallest of her canines and sighed. "And that's Spaz."

Upon hearing his name, the little dog started running in circles, leaped up on the couch, raced from end to end, then jumped back down and repeated the process.

Mick chuckled. "No explanation needed on that one, either."

"I've also got three cats—Winken, Blinken and Nod." She gestured to each in turn. "Their favorite pastime is sleeping, so their names fit."

"Quite a group," he said, smiling at her pets. "I've always wanted a dog."

Sarah Jane blinked, surprised. "You've never had one?"

Something dark shifted in his gaze. Then he sent her a sheepish grin that seemed more manufactured than sincere. "I was never home long enough," he said. "I spent most of my life in boarding school, then joined the military right after college." Another shadow clouded his eyes. "And with my current job, I'm gone for days at a stretch. It's not ideal circumstances for a pet." He smiled again, albeit awkwardly. "Maybe later."

Boarding school, then the military? Sarah Jane was a bit shocked and more than curious. She knew that boarding schools were more popular in the Northeast, but Mick definitely had a Southern drawl. Military school then? Had he been a problem child? Her gaze slid over that restless frame, the one that made her knees melt, and instinctively knew her guess could fit. Nevertheless, it seemed a bit harsh.

Though she hadn't given much thought to children—aside from wanting to have them at some point in her future—Sarah Jane couldn't imagine shipping them off, sending them away from home. What sort of parents had he had? she wondered. Robots? She remembered him mentioning that he'd spent summers with his grandfather, a little tidbit he'd shared today when she'd commented on his carpentry knowledge. So...if he'd spent months away at school and summers with his grandfather, just exactly when had he been home?

Nevertheless, the admission about being in the military fit. There was a precision in the way he did things, a confidence in the very way he moved that suggested some sort of specialized training. How long had he been in the service? she wondered. Which branch? And how did one make the leap from soldier to photographer? Though Mick obviously knew his way around a camera and was comfortable behind the lens, she had to admit, given his particularly brand of energy, it didn't seem the type of job a man like him would choose.

Interestingly, the only time he'd seemed to truly settle was this afternoon when she'd finally given in and handed him a hammer. He'd offered to help repeatedly, and between his pacing and snapping pictures, he'd generally been even more of a distraction than usual. But once he'd started helping her, he'd actually calmed down a bit and worked with impressive skill and attention to detail. He had an inherent ability, a respect for the architecture and an artisan's eye. Building a house was easy; saving pieces of one was a lot tougher. But Mick seemed born to this kind of work. She'd been pleasantly surprised, and for one ridiculous moment of wishful thinking, she'd had the strangest feeling that he belonged there with her.

Weird, Sarah Jane thought, refusing to entertain the idea, when she knew it was so far removed from actual possibility it was almost laughable.

It was much like her dream of ever owning Ponder Hill, she mused. That old mansion—now sitting empty, slowly turning to ruin despite her covert efforts to carry out a few repairs, owned by a mad old woman who refused to sell—had been the home she'd longed for since the instant she'd first laid eyes on it, when she was a little girl. Sarah Jane remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Making the long trip up the tree-lined driveway, seeing the gleaming white house on the hill. She'd been with her dad that day, working as his "assistant," though she'd barely been big enough to hand him a hammer, when he'd gone out to make a quick repair to one of the shutters.

Sarah Jane had fallen instantly in love with the house—the fancy windows, particularly a pretty stained-glass piece on the second floor; the sweeping porches; the beautiful courtyard. But more than anything, there was something about the way it had felt. The second her foot had connected with the hardwood in the foyer, she'd felt...home. As though the house had been waiting for her and she'd finally arrived. Even her childhood home on Maple Street—the one where Chastity was currently living—had never felt as right to her as Ponder Hill. Any time her father had been called to do work on the old place, Sarah Jane had tagged along, eager for just a few minutes, however brief, to enjoy the home of her heart. She loved it there and, more than anything, wanted it.

Unfortunately, the current owner didn't possess what one would call a stable mind, and had no intention of selling it, or saving it from disrepair. Though Sarah Jane sneaked out and did what she could to keep it from getting any worse—repaired shingles, made sure the pipes were wrapped in the winter, those sorts of things—the years of neglect were slowly taking their toll. The place desperately needed rescuing.

Much like Mick, she thought, surprised at the strange revelation. He was an enigma, she decided, her gaze lingering on the masculine angle of his jaw, that smooth, perfect cheek. He was a riddle she wanted to solve...then taste.

He looked up at her and his gaze tangled with hers. A little zap of electricity sizzled in her nipples, shot through her belly and rested hotly in her sex. "Shouldn't we get going?"

Releasing a silent breath, Sarah Jane nodded. She made sure the animals were settled, then grabbed her purse and locked up. "Do you mind if I drive?" she asked.

A knowing half smile curled his lips. "Not if you don't mind if I take my camera."

"Not at all," she said. She climbed into her truck and waited for him to join her. "Though I don't know that you'll find anything of interest to photograph."

She heard a telltale click and turned just as Mick was lowering the camera. His voice was low, almost intimate. "I already have."

Impossibly, Sarah Jane felt another blush rise on her cheeks. Two for two, she thought, wondering if she'd ever be the same.

"So...where are we going first?"

She grinned. "First we're going to take a little drive around the town square—" so that, with any luck, Chastity would see them, muah ha ha "—then we'll visit one of Monarch Grove's most interesting citizens, Carl Hirsch, better known more recently as Squatting Buck."

Mick chuckled and shook his head. "Why do I have a feeling this is going to be good?"

"Because it is."

And she hoped it was only going to get better.

## 6

RESISTING THE URGE to gnaw his tongue off after his "never had a pet" slipup, Mick settled into the passenger seat of Sarah Jane's truck and perused her house and front yard. A 1930s bungalow, the old Craftsman-style home sported a cozy porch swing and beautiful leaded glass in the front door. Purple and red petunias, golden marigolds and other flowers he couldn't name poured from eclectic pots and out of neat flower beds. Bird feeders, particularly those for hummingbirds, hung from various tree branches, and water in a little koi pond gurgled happily.

"You've got a nice place," Mick said. "Did you do the renovation yourself?"

She nodded. "My dad helped me. It wasn't in bad shape when I bought it, but it still needed a little TLC." Country music blared from the speakers when she cranked the ignition and, shooting him an adorably sheepish look, she quickly turned the stereo down before backing out of the driveway and making a right toward Main Street. "We, uh, we put in new cabinets, refinished the woodwork and floors, updated the bathrooms. My dad was a perfectionist in every sense of the word when it came to work," she said, laughing softly. "Mediocrity wasn't allowed, so everything was done right."

From all that Mick had seen, it certainly looked that way to him. And she'd obviously inherited the gene, because he hadn't seen a bit of subpar work in her repertoire. She was quick, careful and efficient, and it was painfully obvious that she loved what she did. He envied her that, he admitted, missing that part of his life. Not so much the Ranger days, but simply knowing his purpose. Mick felt like a ship without a rudder, adrift and directionless.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he told her, once again making a mental note to call his grandfather. Frankly, he didn't miss his parents—it was hard to miss people you never actually knew. But Charlie was different. And he wouldn't be around forever.

"Thank you," Sarah Jane murmured. "He was such a force of nature. It's still hard to believe sometimes that he's gone."

"Heart attack, right?" Mick asked, thankful that Mason had brought up the topic yesterday, which explained Mick's knowledge of it and enabled him to essentially avoid another lie.

"Yeah," she confirmed sadly. "One minute he was helping a buddy with a privacy fence, the next..." She shrugged, leaving the worst unspoken. "Anyway, it's been rough. My mom passed away when I was sixteen. Breast cancer," she added. "So being officially orphaned hasn't been easy to adjust to."

Mick had pretty much been in the same boat, so he understood exactly where she was coming from. "What about other family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins?"

"No grandparents. My mother was an only child, so no aunts or uncles on that side. My dad has a sister, but she lives in Little Rock. She came down for the funeral, of course, and I talk to her occasionally, but you know how it is." Sarah Jane released a little sigh. "Life gets in the way and, despite tragedy, it goes on."

So she had no real family to speak of, which explained her desire to hang on to her heritage—her father's pipe, her mother's wedding dress, her old home—not to mention the half-dozen pets that lived with her. She'd made her own furry family of sorts, clung to friendships and was determined to hang on to her past. Mick certainly couldn't fault her for that, once again feeling like a traitor in the friendly camp. He grimaced.

Probably because he was.

She hesitated and a wry smile curled her lips. "I actually have a stepmother, but considering she's stolen my home and inheritance, for obvious reasons, I don't count her." Sarah Jane laughed bitterly.

Mick felt his pulse quicken. At last. Maybe now he'd get some answers. "That's understandable," he said. This acting-and-lying thing was not for him. He hated pretending as if this wasn't old news, that he wasn't already familiar with every sordid detail of her troubles, that he might possibly be there to contribute to them. Though instinct was telling him that wasn't the case. In fact, he grimly suspected Chastity was using Ranger Security to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will, as well as any personal mementos of her parents.

"You met her this morning," Sarah Jane added, her light tone at odds with the white-knuckled grip she had on the steering wheel.

He cleared his throat. "Oh?"

"The woman you were having breakfast with when I came in—Chastity."

Because he knew he was supposed to be surprised that her stepmother was her own age, Mick purposely widened his eyes in what he hoped was an appropriate expression of shock. This blew. Totally blew. "You're kidding! But she's—"

"—a money-hungry slut, I know," Sarah Jane finished.

He smothered a laugh and passed a hand over his face. God, she was wonderful. A beautiful hellion.

"Actually, I was going to say, 'so young.'"

"That, too," she admitted. "We're the same age. Don't ask me what my father was thinking. I don't know." Her voice developed an edge. "I just know that she was never supposed to have the house and things that belonged to my mother."

Pay dirt. Tell me what I'm looking for, Mick thought. Give me a reason to adjust my course. Let me help you. "How do you know that?"

"Because, in what was the only sound decision that came out his lunatic marriage, Dad made out a will. He showed it to me because he didn't want me to worry." Her jaw worked. "But it has conveniently vanished from the filing cabinet where he kept it, as well as the copy at the attorney's office. Did I mention that my stepmonster is sleeping with the attorney?" she asked.

"Damn," Mick muttered, surprised at that last little tidbit. It was all he dared say. Furthermore, he had absolutely no doubt she was telling the truth. As part of his training, he'd taken several courses on body language and deceptive behavior. Sarah Jane's posture, word choice and story were right on target for the truth. He mentally relaxed and decided a new plan of action was in order. One that changed the status quo in Sarah Jane's favor.

"No worries," she replied, shooting him a determined smile. "I'm going to find it."

He knew she'd been planning this, but hearing her say it made him uneasy. While he admired her determination and would undoubtedly take the same approach if he'd been in her shoes, knowing that Chastity had gone so far as to hire them to keep Sarah Jane away made him a bit nervous.

"What are you going to do?"

"Get it back, of course."

"Have you tried going to the police?"

"It's my word against hers," Sarah Jane explained.

"They can't do anything."

"But what about the attorney? Can't he verify that there is a will, even if he can't produce it?"

"He could, but he won't. He says it's been so long, he really can't remember drawing up a will for my father." She snorted. "He's lying, of course, but there's nothing I can do about it."

Maybe not, but he could, Mick thought, surprised at how much he wanted to track down this attorney and loosen a few of his teeth.

"Anyway, you should watch yourself," she said. "If you get tangled up with Chastity, she'll suck the marrow right out of your bones."

Mick chewed the inside of his cheek, enjoying what he could only assume was jealousy on her part. "I'll keep that in mind. But to tell you the truth, she's not my type."

Seemingly pleased, Sarah Jane curved her lips in a smile, and it was utterly ridiculous how happy that little grin made him. It was so wonderful, in fact, that he wanted to do it again and again, wanted to make her laugh so that he could feel the sound resonate throughout his own chest. He was in dangerous waters, he realized, fearing he'd already ventured out over his head.

Though he didn't have any idea what the hell was going on with him—admittedly, his life was an absolute wreck—today, working with Sarah Jane, had been the happiest he'd been in recent memory. It had taken a good bit of convincing on his part to get her to agree to let him help her, but once he had, and they'd actually started working together, it had been the strangest thing.... The rest of the world—the constant need to move, his perpetual adrenaline craving—had simply faded away. Vanished.

Mick couldn't describe what had happened, because he genuinely didn't know. He just sensed that he'd discovered the antidote to his restlessness, the remedy to the you're-a-screwup mantra he'd been living with in one form or another all his life. The noise in his head had stopped, and he'd been content to simply hold a hammer, do the work and be with her. Selfishly, he hoped that whatever had put Mason under the weather would keep him there for a while so that Mick could continue to work with her on his own. Greedy? Yes. But he couldn't help himself.

"All right," Sarah Jane said, drawing his attention back to her. She straightened and cleared her throat.

"Let's begin your official tour. You've seen the town square, of course—the hot spot for all of Monarch Grove's social activities—but there's a little bit of interesting history here I can share." She pointed to the gazebo in the middle of the grassy lawn. "For instance, that pretty piece of architecture was donated to our city by Mr. and Mrs. Homer Jenkins—"

Mick nodded, though he hardly found that "interesting."

"—on the condition that their cremated ashes be placed inside the urn built into the middle of the floor upon their passing."

Mick swiveled to look at her, and felt his eyes widen. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. They've always been at the center of the social scene and don't see any reason that should change after they're—" her lips twitched "—dead."

"That's not interesting, Sarah Jane," Mick said, feeling a laugh bubble up his throat. "That's just plain weird."

"Oh, no," she insisted. "We've got another stop before we get to weird. This is just odd."

"Semantics," he teased, settling more comfortably into his seat. His gaze slid to her once more, to the soft smile playing over her lips and the single strand of long hair curling around her breast. He liked the blouse, Mick thought. Scoop necked, sleeveless. It showcased the barest hint of cleavage and her toned, tanned arms, and put him in mind of Daisy Duke.

Particularly the shorts, he decided, sucking a slow breath through his teeth as his eyes feasted on the stretch of bare leg next to him. He let them roam over her thigh, past her knee, down her shapely calf. And there, right above her ankle, his gaze stopped short, and he felt a smile touch his lips. Well, I'll be damned. She had a tat. A blackberry vine, complete with flowers and berries, twined around her ankle and wound its way over the top of her foot.

Sarah Jane looked up and saw him smiling. "What are you grinning about?" she asked suspiciously.

"Your tattoo. I don't think I've ever seen one quite like that."

"Well, they are supposed to be original to their owners, right?"

"I suppose. Why a blackberry vine?"

She shrugged. "I just like them," she said, though the answer seemed a bit evasive. She swallowed. "My mother always loved them, particularly the wild ones. We used to spend hours in the summer picking berries. She'd make jams and jellies and cobblers." Sarah Jane made a humming noise in her throat, as though remembering the taste. "It's her recipe I enter into the fried-pie contest every year."

Ah, Mick thought, inclining his head. There's the significance. That small wild berry represented happy memories of her mother, ones that, like her life, were short-lived and bittersweet.

"I can't wait to try that pie," he said, surprised to realize just how much he meant it.

She chuckled. "I hope it lives up to the hype. What about you?" she asked. "Have you got a tattoo?"

"I do," he admitted, but didn't elaborate, instinctively knowing it would drive her nuts.

"Well?" she prodded.

Mick shot her a slow smile and had the privilege of watching her breath catch in her throat. "I'll tell you just like I told Perv—I don't know you well enough." He paused and purposely let his gaze drop to her mouth and linger. "Yet."

HER EVIL PLAN WAS WORKING, Sarah Jane thought as she released a shallow, shuddering breath. That "yet" hung like a promise between them, simultaneously raising her heart rate and the temperature inside the cab of her truck.

Mick finally stopped staring at her mouth, which had begun to water, and his blue eyes tangled with hers once more. "So we've seen odd and have one more stop to make before we get to weird. Where are we going now?"

"Back by the B and B," she said. She pulled up to the curb and stared at the old Victorian mansion. "It's got a unique history, as well."

He slid her a suspicious glance. "Unique?"

"Well, it's haunted. I'd say that's pretty damned unique."

Mick swore under his breath. "Are you shittin' me?"

Sarah Jane chuckled at his slightly horrified tone. "No, I'm not. The house was built by Byron Monarch, who founded our little town. Byron was an astute businessman, a butterfly aficionado, due to his last name, which is why there are butterflies worked into the architecture all over town, and—" she sighed heavily "—he was flamingly gay. If Clara, Tina and various other people who have stayed at the B and B are to be believed, old Byron is still there, occasionally copping a feel of unsuspecting male guests."

A choked laugh broke up in Mick's throat. "A gay ghost who sexually harasses the guests?"

Sarah Jane cocked her head and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I'm only repeating what I've heard. I personally have no experience with Byron, but he's legendary in our little town. Clara actually enjoys that he's there, saying it gives the B and B a marketing edge. She's got a whole section of her Web site dedicated to Byron sightings. Has anything out of the ordinary happened to you?" Sarah Jane asked, pushing him a little further.

An odd look passed over his face, then he blinked. "No."

She chewed the inside of her cheek, not at all convinced. "Well, Clara's trying to get one of those paranormal programs to do a documentary on the B and B—she says it'll be good for business. So if you do experience anything odd, be sure and let her know."

He darted her a wry look. "You mean if I feel a cold hand grab my ass, or something like that?"

Sarah Jane grinned. "Exactly. A cold hand on your ass would definitely qualify. Actually, the most common thing that's been reported is a strong scent of aftershave in the air when none has been used."

Mick had that odd look again. "I'll be sure and let her know."

Sarah Jane pulled away from the curb and tooled around town, living up to her role as official tour guide by showcasing more points of interest. "That's Mabel's," she said. "Best place in Monarch Grove to get a true Southern meal, but don't you ever tell Clara I said that. Mabel and Clara have got a food feud going on that makes the Hatfields and McCoys look like amateurs." She chuckled darkly. "And Mabel might be an old-fashioned name, but she's far from ancient. She teaches feng shui and beginning computer classes at the senior center, and holds a black belt in karate." Sarah Jane pointed to a little crooked building across the street. "There's Buck's Barbershop. He's been in business since he was sixteen. He's seventy-five, still has a steady hand and still uses a straightedge razor to complete a shave."

Smiling, Mick nodded. "Sounds like my kind of man."

She felt her lips twitch. "You use a straightedge razor to shave?"

"No," he admitted, pushing a hand through those messy chocolate waves. "I use disposable. But you have to admire a man who still kicks it old school, right?"

"This is a small town, Mick. Old school around here is pretty much the only school."

"I wouldn't say that," he argued. "Clara's got Wi-Fi."

Sarah Jane nodded and chewed the inside of her cheek. "You're right. She does. But only because it's almost impossible for her to keep up with celebrity gossip otherwise."

He quirked a brow. "Clara's addicted to celebrity gossip?"

"And she's been known to surf a little porn."

Mick stared at her incredulously. "You're yanking my chain."

Smiling, Sarah Jane shook her head. "Mason had to fix her computer and found a little girl-on-girl action on there."

His eyes widened farther. "So she's..."

"Either that or she stumbled on it by mistake. She's never married, though—to my knowledge, never even dated—so my bet is on the former."

"Well, I'll be damned," Mick said, turning to watch the passing landscape as they drove out of town. "So much for small towns being boring."

"And you thought all we had to offer was the Fried Pie Festival."

He frowned. "When is that, exactly?"

"It kicks off next Friday afternoon."

"In the town square, right?"

"Right. Booths will be set up on Thursday. It's quite a spectacle, actually."

"How so?"

Sarah Jane merely grinned. "You'll see. Okay," she said. "I've shown you interesting and odd. Are you ready for weird?"

Mick gave his head a small shake, and an endearingly sexy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Something about that half grin more than turned her on—it caused an odd fluttering in her chest. "I don't know," he said. "Am I?"

She gestured past his shoulder. "Look there."

A surprised snicker erupted from his throat. "A teepee? In Georgia?"

"That's not just any teepee," Sarah Jane explained. She turned into the long driveway that led out to Carl's new abode. "It's an authentic, hand-painted teepee, created in the Sioux style." Sarah Jane smiled. "Squatting Buck will be happy to tell you all about it."

"Has he always lived in a teepee?"

"Er, no. That's the funny part. Carl lived in a 1960s brick rancher complete with a deck and carport right up until he made a fateful trip to the Great Smoky Mountains last fall and discovered the Indian portion of his mostly German heritage." She smiled. "He found himself at a First Nations reserve, and he settled in for a while, learning from them. He was even given an Indian name by the elders, although personally, I think they did it as a bit of a joke. Anyway, after a few months, he returned home wearing lots of feathers, bones and turquoise, and decided to 'live off the land, as his ancestors had.'"

Mick grunted, seemingly amazed.

"Unfortunately, his marriage didn't survive the regression. He and Gladys parted ways a few months ago. She kept the house and furnishings and Carl took their generator, all their camping supplies and the truck."

Wearing a bewildered you're-bullshitting-me smile, Mick turned to look at her. "Does Squatting Buck have a job?"

Sarah Jane nodded. "He does. He's the bank manager at our local savings and loan."

Mick snorted. "I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled."

She shifted into Park and grabbed the jar of preserves she'd brought for Carl. "A gift for his time," she explained at Mick's raised brow.

He inclined his head. "One question. Where does he bathe?"

"He works out at the gym every morning and showers there."

Mick passed a hand over his face. "I've heard of going green, but this...this is unbelievable."

"I thought we agreed that it's weird?"

Mick whistled low under his breath when Carl emerged from the teepee wearing only a loincloth. A bone-and-turquoise choker encircled his neck and a feather dangled from a short stubby braid in his ever-lengthening light blond hair. "Oh, yeah, we've definitely arrived at weird."

Sarah Jane slid out of the truck and called a greeting to Carl. "Good evening, Squatting Buck. How're you doing?"

"Blessed with a cool breeze, Warrior Bleeding Heart," Carl replied, wrapping her in a warm, slightly sweaty hug.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, handing him the preserves, "but I brought a friend along with me."

"Certainly not," Carl told her. Morphing smoothly into banker mode, he extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, young man. Any friend of Sarah Jane's is a friend of mine."

"Mick Chivers," he said, shaking Carl's hand. He glanced at the teepee. "This is an interesting setup you've got here."

"Hardly conventional, I know, but intensely freeing. Popular thought is that I'm having a midlife crisis or going a little crazy, but I ignore the gossip. I've got no mortgage, no bills. It's just me and my thoughts, and a better ability to listen to the land."

Sarah Jane wondered how he heard it over the Braves baseball game blaring from the radio inside, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

Carl gestured toward his leather-and-canvas home. "Would you like to see inside? It's quite remarkable, actually."

Mick nodded, seemingly intrigued. "If you're sure it's not an inconvenience."

"Not at all, not at all," Carl told him. "Come on in."

"Warrior Bleeding Heart?" Mick asked under his breath as they ventured inside the teepee.

Dammit, Sarah Jane thought. She'd hoped he'd missed that. "It's not an official Indian name like Carl's—tribal elders bestow those, and it's actually a great honor to be given one," she explained. "But Carl thinks it fits, and I appreciate the sentiment."

His voice dropped low. "Are you a warrior, Sarah Jane?"

She felt a wry smile curl her lips. "I think that's just a nice way of saying I've got a nasty temper."

Mick turned and studied her intently, and the unexpected scrutiny made her queasy. She saw admiration and respect, longing and the briefest shadow of what looked curiously like regret in those twin blue pools. He slid the pad of his thumb along her chin, snatching the breath from her lungs. "Depends on who that temper is directed at and for what reason, doesn't it, Warrior Bleeding Heart?" And with that parting comment, he ducked inside.

For the first time in her life, Sarah Jane wished she had some sort of clairvoyant talent. Because she'd give anything to know just exactly what was going through Mick's mind at that moment.

## 7

"SHOULD I BE OFFENDED that he didn't give me an Indian name?" Mick asked as they pulled out of Carl's driveway.

Though he couldn't argue with the "weird" assessment, he also had to admit he'd come away with a bit of respect for the guy. Carl had voluntarily made a huge change in his life and had fully embraced it, the good and the bad. Mick could honestly say he didn't know anybody who would willingly give up running water—most notably a toilet—electricity and climate control.

In the interest of his health, Carl did have a small dorm-size refrigerator and a hot plate, but most of his meals were cooked outside over an open flame. That part of Squatting Buck's existence really appealed to the lone caveman gene still lurking in Mick's domesticated DNA, but he imagined he'd grow weary of it pretty damn quick. Carl had already survived one winter out here—quite comfortably, he'd said—and seemed to be doing fine during this broiling summer.

"No, you shouldn't be offended. It's not like he tosses names out to every person he meets," she teased.

Mick grinned. "Are you trying to say that Carl thinks you're special?"

Actually, it was painfully obvious that Carl thought a lot of Sarah Jane. He'd asked her about her work and her animals, and made a point to tell her to let him know if she ever needed anything. He'd also mentioned, as covertly as possible, that her stepmother had made a sizable withdrawal for a down payment on a vacation home. The worry that had wrinkled Sarah Jane's brow had been echoed in Mick's chest, but the determined chew-nails-and-spit-bullets look immediately following made him want to chuckle with pride. Why?

Who the hell knew? And at this point he was tired of trying to make sense of his motivation.

Sarah Jane Walker was something else. Her heart, spirit, sense of humor and work ethic were an amazing combination, one he found increasingly hard to resist. Then there was the whole matter of her making him want to back her up against a wall and take her until her eyes rolled back in her head. Then take her again until his did.

This driving need, this utter desperation and increasing lack of control were something so new, so unique and so completely foreign to him. Mick felt himself slowly sinking into a pit of sexual hell where she was his only hope for survival. He couldn't look at her without feeling it, an increasingly insistent pull that affected both his groin and, more disturbingly, a soft spot in his chest.

Frankly, Mick didn't have any idea how much money she stood to inherit, though he probably should make it a point to find out. At any rate, he knew it had to be a pretty hefty nest egg; otherwise, Chastity could hardly afford to pay for their services, nor would she have gone to the trouble to hire Ranger Security to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will. He'd seen the agreement, been told his cut and knew the surveillance didn't come cheap.

Furthermore, if Sarah Jane had a prayer of keeping the remainder for herself or getting any of the other money back, she'd better act fast. Otherwise, he had a sneaking suspicion there wouldn't be anything left. Maybe that had been part of her stepmother's plan, as well, Mick thought, his senses going on point. Maybe Chastity hadn't been happy with her part and had every intention of depleting the accounts before Sarah Jane could find and probate the will.

"Can I help it if I'm special?" Sarah Jane asked, batting her lashes at him playfully, dragging his thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

He grunted, amused. "No more than you can help being full of shit, I guess."

"Hey," she said, feigning outrage. "My Indian name is Warrior Bleeding Heart, not Princess Full of Shit." Her speculative eyes raked over him, sizing him up, and his dick literally stood to attention, as though she'd stroked him with more than her gaze. "You definitely need an Indian name," she said. "And before you leave town, I'm going to come up with one for you."

So long as it wasn't Little Limp Dick, he wouldn't object. He shrugged. "Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I don't mind." He paused. "How did Carl wind up with Squatting Buck? It's a bit..." He struggled to find the right word.

"Ignoble," Sarah Jane suggested.

Mick grinned. "That would be it, yes. I wanted to ask, but wasn't sure if it would be polite. My Indian etiquette is pretty nonexistent."

"I don't think he would have had a problem with it. Carl's last name is Hirsh, which is German for 'buck.' He wanted something that would reflect that heritage, as well."

Mick nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense. But why 'Squatting'? Why not 'Running' or 'Walking' or, hell, even 'Sitting'? Something a bit more dignified. Do bucks even squat?" he wondered aloud, frowning. Honestly, he'd never watched a deer do his business, but couldn't imagine one squatting to get the job done.

Sarah Jane shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I don't know why the tribal elders chose 'Squatting,' but I'm sure it has some sort of significance."

Mick grimaced. "I think I would have asked for another one."

Another strangled laugh emerged from her throat. "I'm not up on Indian etiquette, either, but I don't b-believe that's an o-option."

He paused and turned to look at her. "You're laughing at me."

"Sorry," she said, her voice cracking with suppressed amusement. "I can't seem to help myself." She cleared her throat. "So I take it you don't want the word squatting to be any part of the Indian name I give you?"

His lips twitched and he nodded. "That would be an excellent assumption."

Still smiling, Sarah Jane again made that humming noise in her throat. The late evening sunshine was spreading out in an orange, pink and purple display across the horizon. Rather than using the AC, she'd powered down her window, causing her loose hair to whirl around her face, occasionally clinging to her eyelashes and mouth. She'd abandoned the sunglasses and looked relaxed and content, at peace with her world.

Curiously, though he definitely wasn't at peace with his own world, Mick felt an odd kind of serenity just being with her. He'd noticed it this afternoon, after he'd returned from taking Mason home. There'd been the two of them in that old house, music playing from her portable radio, dust motes dancing through the hot summer air....

Despite her initial protest, he'd set his camera aside and picked up a hammer and, for the first time since the Carson Wells incident, he'd felt more alive—more himself—than he had in months. Whether it was her company or the work or a combination of both, he couldn't be sure.

He just knew that it had felt...right.

Though he hated that Mason was sick, Mick wouldn't mind in the least if the man didn't show up for work tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. He selfishly wanted to explore this newfound well-being, and he could hardly do that if Mason was there.

Furthermore, though it was the height of idiocy, Mick wanted to be alone with Sarah Jane. He wanted the opportunity to get to know her better. And not just in the physical sense, although that was an ever-present urge, chugging through his veins and swirling in his loins. He literally itched to touch her skin, to feel the silken softness of her cheek against the palm of his hand, to taste her mouth and her neck and the delicate tips of her breasts.

Though he would like to blame this supernatural attraction on the fact that she was supposed to be off-limits—and even recognized that it no doubt added to her appeal on his hell-raiser scale—Mick knew there was more to it than that. He was a man, after all, and no stranger to his baser needs. He'd been attracted to lots of women before and, frankly, had had most of them. He'd always been goal oriented, and when he set his mind on something—or someone—he typically developed tunnel vision and single-mindedly worked away until he'd accomplished his objective. That focused tenacity had ultimately been his downfall, Mick thought, swallowing.

At any rate, whatever this was with Sarah Jane—this unshakable, driving, had-to-have-her need—he knew it was more than just regular, old garden-variety lust.

It was more.

It involved curiosity and intrigue and affection and, God help him, feelings.

He couldn't name them, of course, and wouldn't if he could. But he couldn't deny them all the same...which was going to make ignoring them all the more difficult.

Sarah Jane hung a left onto a long, tree-lined drive—the very one he'd watched her disappear down yesterday evening—plunging the truck into cool semidarkness. He peered out the window, but couldn't see anything for all the trees.

He lifted a brow. "Where are we going?"

She smiled. "To my dream house," she said. "I was sick over the fate of the Milton Plantation, but if this one were to go the same way..." Her voice trailed off and she released a small sigh as a break in the trees finally revealed a beautiful old house sitting atop a knoll in the distance.

Mick gave a low whistle, instantly struck by the beauty and setting. "Wow."

And "wow" was an understatement. The two-story house sported large columns and a double verandah, and notably showcased a pretty stained-glass angel in an oval window on the second floor. An occasional black shutter hung next to one of the multipaned windows, giving a hint of what the place might have looked like in its heyday.

Sarah Jane pulled to a stop, turned off the ignition and opened her door. "Come on, we'll have to hurry. The light's fading."

Mick exited the vehicle, as well, and, taking it all in, followed her around to the back, where an unlocked door hung from its hinges. "Are we trespassing?"

She shot him a look over her shoulder and snorted. "As if you'd care if we were...."

Mick smiled, conceding the point.

"Like so many houses of this era, the kitchen was separate, and all that's left of it is the foundation," she said. She carefully opened the door and gingerly stepped inside, then gestured to the windows on her left. "It's shaped like a horseshoe, so all of the rooms open onto the courtyard."

Mick nodded, impressed.

"Were I to renovate this house, this room would have to be the kitchen." She walked into the next one. "And here's the dining room, of course."

"Makes sense." Enchanted, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and strolled along in her wake. The next room was bigger and grander, with a giant fireplace at one end.

"Family room."

Mick looked up. "What are these? Ten-foot ceilings?"

"Twelve." She wandered over to a front window and stared out at the landscape. "There isn't a bad view in the place, Mick. I love this little hill, the trees marching along the driveway. It's peaceful and elegant...and lonely." She looked over at him and smiled a bit uncomfortably. "You think I'm a nut, don't you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Not at all. You've spent so much time working on old places like this, I'd be surprised if you didn't feel some sort of connection."

"It's stronger here," she admitted. "It has been even when I was a kid, coming out here to make the odd repair with my father. I've even done a little research, wondering if perhaps any of my family ever worked here."

Why not lived here? Mick mused. Seemingly following his thought process, Sarah Jane smiled wryly. "My heritage is strictly working class. My ancestors could never have afforded anything like this."

He bit the inside of his cheek. "So have you found anything?"

She shook her head, causing a lock of hair to shift tantalizingly over her breast. "Not yet. But I can't deny the feeling that there's something here." She shrugged. "I'm just going to have to keep looking, I guess."

And she would, Mick knew, because it was important to her. Another admirable trait to add to his growing list of many. Mick wandered into the foyer, keen to inspect the rest of the house before it grew too dark. A beautiful staircase clung to the wall to the left, paused at a large landing, where it made an abrupt turn and continued upward.

Sarah Jane joined him. "Beautiful architecture, isn't it?"

"Amazing," he agreed.

"And just think. All of this was done before the age of the power saw, nail gun and pneumatic tools. By hand. When it took time and attention to detail. No prefab work." Her eyes glittered with a hint of challenge. "Do you want to go upstairs?"

Mick peered into the next room. "What about the rest?"

Sarah Jane carefully put a foot on the first tread. "It's a mirror image of what you just saw. Three more rooms, all open to the courtyard, which would house my pool, of course." She took another step. "Come on. I've done this so many times I know which steps are sound and which ones aren't."

"For your weight," he said. "But what about mine?"

"It'll hold. And it's worth it," she promised. "Just watch where I go and give me a couple steps head start."

If he'd been any other guy, he would have chastised her for taking chances—old house plus rotten wood plus staircase equaled potential disaster. But he wasn't any other guy, he was The Hell-raiser. And she wasn't just any other girl. She was a woman who wasn't afraid of hard work, who wasn't afraid to throw a punch and who wasn't afraid to trespass on private property.

In fact, at the moment, he could honestly believe that she wasn't afraid of anything. Envy and respect grabbed hold of his insides and twisted. Oh, to have that sort of confidence again, Mick thought, following her up the stairs. To have that sort of assurance, that faith in one's ability.

Still, if he had any sense at all, he'd be afraid of her. Because, God help him, Sarah Jane Walker, if she put her mind to it, could undoubtedly bring him to his knees.

And in exchange, he'd bring her to hers, but not in the same sense, unfortunately. Like everything else he'd been involved with in recent memory, he would infect her with his bad mojo and turn her life into a steaming pile that mirrored his own. Honestly, right now his world was so messed up he didn't have any business being anywhere near her. She was perfect—in every way that he could see—and despite the issue with the will and inheritance, she seemed happy. He didn't want to screw that up for her. And becoming emotionally involved would do it faster than Clara's resident ghost could say boo.

Mick needed to alert Huck to the change in status of this case, then get the hell out of here before he did something completely stupid. Like kiss her.

And more.

Having reached the landing, she stood at the window overlooking the vast landscape. Seeing her silhouetted against the sunset, the wistfulness in her eyes and the hint of pleasure in the curve of her mouth, was almost his undoing. He felt that ball of unnamed emotion expand in his chest, almost choking him.

Mick silently released a shaky breath, then sidled in beside her, purposely invading her space because he simply couldn't stay away. Couldn't help himself. She was the only bright spot in his otherwise dismal world, and he was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to a flame. He caught the scent of her perfume—a combination of apples and warmth—and he breathed her in, savoring the smell. "You were right," he murmured.

"I usually am, but about what, specifically?"

A chuckle erupted from his throat and he shook his head. "You don't have a modest bone in your body, do you?"

"I do," she said, turning to look at him. A hint of mischief shone in her eyes, and something else...something less easily defined. "But it's very small."

Unable to help himself, he laughed again. "I meant you were right about the view. It's gorgeous. And I love the stained glass." He paused, moved by the house and its surroundings more than he could have imagined.

A faint grin, rife with a hint of embarrassment, shaped her lips. "That's my wishing angel," she said, pointing to a figure etched in the stained glass. "When I was a little girl, I used to make wishes on it, fancying that she could hear me and would someday honor my requests."

Mick felt his lips twitch. "What did you wish for?"

"Oh, the usual stuff. The occasional good grade, a new bike, for Kirk Cameron to come into town and fall instantly in love with me."

Mick chuckled. "Kirk Cameron?"

"Hey, don't judge," she admonished. "Kirk was hot." She sighed, remembering. "But mostly I just wished I could live here. This is a great house."

It was. The dilapidated Milton Plantation was sad, but seeing this place fall to ruin was far worse. The structure wasn't past the point of no return, but was getting there quickly. "What's the name of this place?" Mick asked. "Who owns it? Why have they let it sink into disrepair?"

"Officially, it's named Ponder Hill." She hesitated, then blew out an uneasy breath. "Unofficially, it's called The Widow-maker."

Mick felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "I think Ponder Hill is more aesthetically pleasing, but for the sake of argument, why is it called The Widow-maker?"

"Because Imogene Childress has buried three husbands who basically worked themselves to death keeping the place up. She has no heirs, is in her nineties and refuses to sell it." Sarah Jane tucked a strand of hair behind the delicate shell of her ear. "She hopes the whole thing falls to rack and ruin so that it doesn't 'claim the life of another good man.'" Sarah Jane delivered the last in a theatrical, quavery voice that would have done Broadway proud.

Mick grunted. "Sounds like Imogene has a flair for the dramatic."

"Whether she does or she doesn't, it's hers, and I haven't been the only one who's tried to persuade her to sell. She absolutely refuses."

"So...what? Did her husbands fall off the roof making repairs? Tumble down the stairs?"

Humor sparkled in Sarah Jane's eyes. "Husband number one had a heart attack at the card table, number two suffered a stroke in his sleep and number three died of cancer." She shrugged helplessly. "Did the house kill them? No. But you'll never convince her of that." Sarah Jane looked at the ever-darkening sky. "We'd better get going. It's getting late."

Though he found himself reluctant to leave, Mick nodded and started back down the stairs.

"Wait," she said. "I should go first."

"Don't worry," he told her. "I know the way back down."

She smiled, considering him. "You're sure? It's a little tricky."

He'd survived military school, some of the most rigorous military training in the world, enemy fire and countless stunts resulting in the occasional broken bone, but never wounded pride. Oh, yeah. He thought he could handle it.

What he couldn't handle, he was beginning to realize, was her.

"SO, HAVE YOU COME UP with it yet?" Mick asked, as Sarah Jane pulled back into her driveway. While Blinken was AWOL, Winken and Nod sat in the front window, and a flutter of curtains told her the dogs were nosing the gauzy fabric aside, evidently recognizing the sound of her truck. A blanket of warmth settled over her as she watched her furry family eagerly, as always, await her return.

But for the first time in her life, Sarah Jane was nervous about coming home. Mick was about to walk her to her door, and the anxiety of whether or not that first kiss—the one she wanted so desperately she'd forgone the onion rings at Mabel's—was going to happen was shredding her nerves like a wood chipper stuck on High.

"Have I come up with what yet?" she asked, trying valiantly to stay tuned to the conversation.

The smile that curved his beautiful lips was so sexy and knowing, her stomach actually gave a little roll. "My Indian name," he reminded her.

That had quickly turned into a running joke, she mused, remembering the "Virile Badass" suggestion he'd tossed out over dinner. Quite frankly, she thought "Virile Badass" suited him perfectly, and the more time she spent with him, the more apt the moniker seemed.

He was certainly both. Still...

"How many times do I have to tell you," she said, "that when I think of one I'll let you know? The name has to be organic, not dragged from the shadow of your enormous ego."

Mick closed the truck door and followed her up onto her porch. Her gurgling koi pond mingled with the other night noises, creating a natural soundtrack to her ever-growing nervousness and off-the-charts attraction. It was insanity to want someone so much. Beyond rational thought.

"Enormous ego?" He scoffed, feigning offense.

"Where on earth did you get the idea that I have an enormous ego?"

Her hands trembling, Sarah Jane fished her house key out of her small purse, but hesitated before slipping it into the lock. She felt a wry smile tilt her lips as she turned to face him, then almost jumped when she realized he was much closer than she'd thought.

She was so definitely getting kissed tonight, she decided, feeling a wicked thrill whip through her midsection. She resisted the urge to do a screaming little happy dance and felt a burst of anticipation coursing through her blood.

"Where would I get the idea that you've got an enormous ego?" Smiling, she chewed the inside of her cheek. "Well, let's review a few of your suggestions tonight, shall we?"

Mick's twinkling blue gaze dropped to her lips, darkened, then found hers once more. "If you insist," he murmured.

Oy. Those blue flame eyes coupled with that sexy, endearing mouth were going to be her downfall.

With any luck, right onto a mattress.

Clearly, she'd lost her mind. Hadn't she decided he was trouble? That he had more issues than she could take on? That he'd never stay here? Didn't she know where all of this would lead?

Yes, she did. The problem was...she didn't care. She just wanted him. Every wonderful, magnificently proportioned inch of him.

"I, uh, I do," Sarah Jane said. "Let's see...We've covered Virile Badass. Then there was Brilliant Badass and Handsome Badass." She cocked her head to the side. "I'm recognizing a theme here. You seem to be obsessed with being a badass."

Mick laughed softly, the sound curiously intimate between them. "I'd hardly want to be a pansy ass, would I?"

An unladylike grunt rose in her throat and she rolled her eyes. "I don't think anyone would ever mistake you for that."

"You, either," he said, in what was possibly the best compliment anyone had ever paid her. Whether he was simply that insightful or her expectations were just too low, who could say? All Sarah Jane knew, as she blushed with pleasure from the inside out, was that Mick Chivers affected her on a level she'd never experienced and instinctively knew would never be duplicated.

Mick's gaze tangled with hers, seemingly drawing her closer. At that very moment she hovered on the edge of an existence that was about to be permanently altered. Life as she knew it was a mere few seconds away from irreparable change.

And for better or worse, she didn't care. She just wanted to taste him. She had to.

He cupped her cheek, the gesture simultaneously sexy and affectionate, pulling a soft sigh from between her lips...

"Sarah Jane," he said huskily, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her own.

"Um-hmm." Talking wasn't an option. She could feel his breath, smell him, even. Dark, dangerous, musky and man all rolled into one drugging aroma that made her lids grow heavy and her sex ache. Her nipples tingled and her knees weakened, making her lean closer to him.

"Can I kiss you?"

His asking was quaint and old-fashioned, and while she would have never associated those qualities with this eternal bad boy, to her surprise, they actually fit, making the moment all the more special.

Touched, she smiled against his lips. "Not if I kiss you first," she whispered, then pushed her hands into his hair and drew him down to her.

Everything inside her simultaneously stilled and erupted at the first brush of his lips across hers. Her skin prickled, her hair stood on end and a wave of gooseflesh engulfed every inch of her body, including parts she hadn't thought could shiver. The anticipation of a first kiss was one of life's great pleasures, one of the few things that could never be duplicated. Scores of odes and sonnets had been written about the phenomenon of that first mating of the mouths, that intimate mimicry of another much anticipated act. Sarah Jane Walker had been the recipient of many first kisses, some of them eager, some of them stolen, some of them to simply end a date.

But absolutely nothing in her experience had ever compared to this first kiss.

It was heartbreakingly perfect, desperate and dangerous, the disease and the cure. It was as though every moment up until this point had simply been a precursor to this event. If her brain had been anything but mush, she would have been absolutely terrified.

As it was...she just wanted more.

Mick's lips were surprisingly soft, but warm and pliant and every bit as magnificent as she'd imagined. A deep groan erupted from his chest as he drew her closer, one strong arm banding around her waist, while his other hand slipped past her jaw, into her hair, cupping her head. Deliberate fingers kneaded her scalp as his tongue slid against hers, a mind-numbingly wonderful combination of sensations that made her stomach flutter and her pulse sing. She sighed in pleasure, in relief because she'd wanted this so desperately. Meanwhile, another sort of urgency had taken hold.

She felt her nipples pebble behind the flimsy fabric of her bra, and a rush of warmth pooled in her core. Her blood surged hotly through her veins, making her feel both anxious and languid at the same time.

Mick suckled her tongue, making her bones melt and her body sag against him. The hard ridge of his arousal nudged impatiently at her belly, causing another wicked thrill to swirl through her middle.

Hot, hard, male.

It had been so long and he was so perfect. She resisted the urge to whimper as she kissed him more deeply, mapping his body with her hands. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, warm and supple. She inhaled his scent as she fed at his mouth, growing more hungry and needy by the second.

Thankfully, Mick was, too.

She could feel the tension hovering within him, could taste it on her tongue, heard it in the soft groans of pleasure bubbling up his throat. His hands slid slowly down her back, as though memorizing every vertebra, then settled warmly over her bottom and squeezed. That small amount of pressure literally made the breath leave her lungs. It was strangely possessive, which should have pissed her off, but instead made her moronic heart skip a beat.

Sarah Jane pressed herself even more tightly against him, determined to eliminate the barest hint of separation. Mick responded by holding her closer, branding her with his masculine frame. He rocked against her belly once more and carefully backed her up against a porch pole, where he nipped at her earlobe and licked a path along her neck, tasting the pulse point and nuzzling her throat. Meanwhile his hands had left her bottom and were making a determined track back up her body, along her hip, up her side. She whimpered aloud this time, longing to feel the weight of her breast in his big, warm palm. To feel his mouth there, licking and tasting and suckling with those talented, sinfully made lips.

Heat rushed to her core and she squirmed desperately against him, aligning herself more firmly against the impossibly large ridge straining the front of his pants. She wiggled closer as his hand finally brushed the underside of her breast, gasping when the slight contact made her skin prickle in anticipation. Higher, she thought, her nipple drawing into a tight bud. Oh, please, just a little—

A police siren, followed by a catcall, abruptly cut through her foggy, lust-ridden thoughts, and she sprang back guiltily.

"It's a good thing you're on your porch, Sarah Jane, or I'd have to take you in for lewd and lascivious behavior," Chase called after he'd pulled up in his squad car.

Mortified, she felt her face flame. "Go away, Chase. Don't you have anything better to do?"

He nodded toward Mick. "Is this Mr. Gorgeous?"

Mick frowned, but humor danced in his heavy-lidded gaze, betraying a hint of masculine pride. "Mr. Gorgeous? Is that my Indian nickname?"

She chuckled. "No. Your Indian name won't have a 'mister' in it." Goofball, she thought, enjoying his pleased smile.

"Chase Collins," Chase called out to Mick. "Old friend of Sarah Jane's." He shook his head regretfully as though she was a poor testament to Southern hospitality. "She seems to have forgotten her manners."

Sarah Jane harrumphed. "My tax dollars at work," she grumbled.

"Mick Chivers, new friend of Sarah Jane's." He shot her a look. "And I hope I'm Mr. Gorgeous."

"You the photographer?" Chase asked conversationally, while Sarah Jane entertained thoughts of throttling him.

Mick nodded and his grin grew wider. "I am."

"Oh. Then you're Mr. Gorgeous." Evidently deciding his work here was done, Chase nodded and, smiling like the evil shit-stirring bastard he was, rode off into the night.

Mick's curiously hesitant gaze found Sarah Jane's and he rubbed the back of his neck. "So...what sort of friend is he, exactly?"

Jealous, was he? she wondered, inwardly blushing with pleasure. "The sort that gets on my nerves." Not the answer he was looking for, she knew, but...

Mick grunted. "That covers a lot of territory."

Sarah Jane decided to take pity on him. "I've known Chase since kindergarten," she said. "Other than a brief 'Do-you-love-me? Check-yes-or-no' flirtation in second grade—where our romance came to a tragic end on the playground after I beat him in the fifty-yard dash—we've been nothing but friends ever since."

Mick chuckled, the deep sound resonating through her. "Couldn't stand losing to a girl, eh?"

She sighed dramatically. "It's been a recurring problem, I'm afraid. I don't like to lose and don't see any point in doing it simply to inflate some boy's pride. Ya'll are the ones with balls," she said, rolling her eyes. "Use them, for pity's sake."

Another chuckle sounded in Mick's throat, quickly morphing into a belly laugh. "Interesting ph-philosophy. And refreshingly blunt. You're something else, Sarah Jane," he said, seemingly impressed. "Truly unique."

Sarah Jane nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "Thank you. I like to think so."

His amused gaze found hers once more and the world again shrank into a more intimate focus. "I've had a good time tonight." His voice was low and sincere, wrapping about her like an embrace. "Thank you for showing me around."

Sarah Jane nodded again, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "You're welcome."

"I should probably get going. I'd hate for you to be arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior on my account."

For the teeniest second, she considered pointing out that she could hardly get arrested for those things if she invited him in, but ultimately decided he was right. Though her body begged to differ, her mind had honed in on some long-forgotten sense of self-preservation, and wasn't yet ready to surrender.

She pursed her lips, playing along. "You're right, of course. I know Tina is growing weary of bailing me out of jail."

He fingered a petunia petal. "Happens that often, does it?"

"Nah," she said. "Just often enough to keep everybody on their toes."

His wicked laugh came again, the one that made her want to crawl inside him and never come out. "I can certainly see where you do that." He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss on her cheek. "Good night, Sarah Jane. I'll see you in the morning."

From inside the house, Sarah Jane heard her phone ring, which thankfully prevented her from standing on her porch and watching him drive away like a love-struck teenager.

As for her really keeping people on their toes, she sincerely doubted it, and couldn't imagine anyone keeping Mick Chivers on his. Utterly laughable.

But she knew that hers had been curled for the better part of the evening.

## 8

MICK WATCHED SARAH JANE dart into the house to catch her ringing phone, and wished like hell he could follow her. Only he wouldn't have let her answer it, instead insisting they take up right where Chase Collins had, quite irritatingly, interrupted.

Which, on the grand scale of Stupid Things He'd Done in His Life, would probably rate right up there at the top, dethroning the headmaster's daughter—on the man's office desk, no less—and sending Carson Wells over that ill-fated ridge when, as team leader, if anyone was going to take that chance, it should have been him. Mick had been certain—or as certain as he could be with the intel he'd been given—that the route was safe.

It hadn't been.

He swallowed.

At any rate, sleeping with Sarah Jane was more than beyond the height of idiocy, it was just plain wrong. He was here under false pretenses, and given what he'd gleaned from her tonight, he knew that he should call Huck to alert him to the change, and move on.

Simply put, he should leave.

As Payne had said, Ranger Security wouldn't be a party to anything illegal. And Chastity Walker using their services under false pretense to keep Sarah Jane from getting her rightful inheritance was definitely breaking some sort of law. He didn't know which one, precisely, but that hardly mattered.

Furthermore, in the event he slept with Sarah Jane and she somehow managed to find out who he really was—what he'd originally come here for—he didn't have a single doubt that she'd once again end up in jail, only it wouldn't be for lewd and lascivious behavior. It'd be for murder, because she'd undoubtedly kill him.

And he would deserve it.

This—being with her, kissing her, God help him, liking her—was all a mistake, but one he didn't know how to correct, and frankly, didn't want to.

Mick slid into his truck, cranked the engine and reluctantly pulled away from the curb. Rather than return to the B and B, he decided to drive around town for a little while. Knowing that a homosexual ghost was probably responsible for the weird hand-on-his-thigh feeling this morning when he'd awoken didn't exactly make him anxious to get back to Clara's, he thought darkly.

The town square was lit with pretty antique lampposts, illuminating older couples holding hands and chatting on park benches, kids playing in the fountain and the occasional Generation Xer walking a dog. Monarch Grove nightlife, Mick thought, feeling a smile steal over his lips.

Funny, he'd always been under the impression that small towns rolled up their sidewalks after dark. But the people of this little burg seemed more interested in talking to each other than watching reality TV. If he didn't know better, Mick would chalk up their habit to having no access to cable, but he knew that wasn't the case. Clara had a top-of-the-line satellite system providing hundreds of channels, some even in foreign languages, which accounted for the occasional Portuguese epithet he heard her mutter under her breath.

At any rate, this town along with its inhabitants—particularly one dark blond hellion with melting-toffee eyes—had turned every preconceived notion he'd had about it on its ear.

Though his grandfather had lived in Minot, Kentucky, most of his life, Mick couldn't help but think the older man would love it here. The last time he'd visited Charlie's old hometown, the place had all but died. The few businesses that hadn't folded when the larger chain stores were built out on the highway had abandoned the old town square and moved into strip malls to survive. Little by little, the new had eroded the old, and very few small businesses had survived the so-called "progress." Amazingly, Monarch Grove seemed to have been able to absorb the new without forgetting the old, a rare balance that took a special brand of people.

Mick snagged his cell phone from the holder at his waist and dialed his grandfather's number, ashamed that it had been more than three months since the last time he'd called. He'd been a wreck then, having just left the military. While he hadn't wanted to share the news with his dad, he couldn't not share the decision with Charlie.

His grandfather answered on the second ring. "Hello."

"Hey, Gramps. How's it going up there?"

"Same as it always is, Micky. Slow as molasses, boring as hell, but a body gets used to it." He paused. "How about you? Working your new job now?"

His body wouldn't get used to it, Mick thought, staring at the bustling activity around the square. His grandfather had always been so active, so full of purpose. "I am," he admitted. "I, er...I don't think it's going to work out," he said, giving voice to the niggling thought. Hell, he'd suspected when he'd taken the job that it wasn't for him, but Huck had been so sure it was the right thing to do. And Levi had seemed almost envious, which had somehow made Mick think that he was missing something they could see. Besides his own judgment had been shot to hell...He'd just said yes, thankful that anyone thought he was worth having.

Unfortunately, Mick wasn't sure what sort of work he was cut out for, but the security specialist field wasn't for him. It didn't fill the void in him—and though it pained him to admit it, even being a Ranger hadn't satisfied him the way he'd thought it would.

If there was any good thing that could come out of his recent screwup, it was the opportunity for him to finally find something he loved. Like Charlie had, Mick thought, envying his grandfather his purpose. Sarah Jane, too.

"Well, you're not a quitter and never have been—"

Though he knew that, hearing his grandfather say it was more important than he would have ever imagined. Mick swallowed tightly.

"—and if you ask me, I think you need to be working with your hands. You're too much like me, Micky. Restless and miserable without a purpose. That's why carpentry always suited me so well. It was my outlet, so to speak. All that energy had to go somewhere, so I figured pouring it into a building was as good as any way to use it. Start with a blueprint, end up with a home, something to be proud of, tangible proof of labor. Then on to the next project." Though Mick couldn't see him, he could imagine his grandfather's shrug, the wisdom in his lined face. "At least, that's what I've always thought."

"I'll think about it, Gramps."

In truth, he had to admit he'd felt more content working with Sarah Jane today than he had in months, possibly longer. Breaking a sweat, feeling the weight of a hammer in his hands...it had all been very therapeutic. He'd completely lost track of time and had thoroughly enjoyed every minute. Of course, that could simply be a result of the company he'd been keeping, and not necessarily the work. Still, he didn't need to get too attached to either. He was at a crossroads at the moment, struggling to find his path, and dragging someone else along on his blind journey was hardly fair.

"Have you talked to your father? Told him about your recent occupational change?" his grandfather asked.

Mick hesitated. "Not yet. I haven't heard from him." And he hadn't called, either. Frankly, though he shouldn't give a damn, knowing the inevitable disappointment he'd hear in his father's voice had prevented Mick from making any effort to contact him. Becoming a Ranger was his only accomplishment that had ever impressed the man.

"Me, either," his grandfather said. "He and your mother must be on another one of their vacations. Probably off riding camels or looking for tigers or something."

Mick chuckled at the distaste in Charlie's voice. "Riding a camel might be fun."

"Men ride horses, boy. Not camels. Where are you, exactly?"

Mick rested his head against the back of his seat and smiled. "I'm in Monarch Grove, Georgia—Home of the Fried Pie Festival."

"You don't say?" Charlie replied, sounding genuinely interested. "I love fried pies. Haven't had a good one in years. Not since your grandmother passed away, anyway. Peach was always my favorite."

Mick felt his lips twitch. "I have it on good authority that blackberry is best."

"Oh, I bet that would be good. A fried-pie festival," he repeated, almost wistfully. "I can't say as I've ever been to one of those."

Mick couldn't say he'd ever heard of one, so his grandfather had him beat. "It starts next Friday afternoon, Gramps. You should come down. There isn't a room to be had in town, but I'll share mine with you." The spontaneous invitation caught him off guard, but it suddenly occurred to Mick just how much he meant it.

"Nah," his grandfather said, albeit reluctantly. "I've got too much air to breathe here. Might mess up the delicate balance of things if I'm not around doing my part."

Mick chuckled, mildly disappointed. "Just thought I'd offer."

"And I appreciate it. I'd love to see you. Speaking of which, when do you reckon you'll be in this neck of the woods? Anytime soon? Should I change the sheets in your room? Dust off the chessboard?"

Another reminiscent smile tugged at the corner of Mick's mouth. How many hours had he logged playing chess with Charlie? Hundreds, possibly thousands. "Soon, Gramps," he said, meaning it. In fact, when this was over, he'd go home. After all, his grandfather's old farmhouse was the closest thing to a home he'd ever known, the location of some of his best childhood memories. Were it not for his grandfather, Mick grimly suspected he wouldn't have had any at all.

Damn selfish parents, he thought. He hadn't been that bad. What had been so wrong with him that they hadn't wanted him? Weren't they supposed to love him unconditionally? Weren't they supposed to have had some sort of sentimental attachment to him? He'd read stories of mothers who performed heroic acts to save their children. His mother would, no doubt, be the exception to the rule.

She'd sure as hell never come to his rescue before. Not once, Mick thought bitterly.

He was an adult, old enough to reason and understand, mature enough to comprehend that he wasn't responsible for their emotional shortcomings. But there'd always been a small part of him that secretly thought if he was so flawed his own parents hadn't been able to invest a little love in him, then why would anyone else bother?

"I hope so, boy," his grandfather said, pulling him back to the conversation. "It's been too long."

Mick silently concurred, then listened to Charlie complain about his neighbor's fence and how he'd had to fix it for him, and how the portion sizes at the diner had gotten downright paltry. How nobody took pride in doing things right anymore, and that was the problem with the whole world, and America in particular. "Spoiled, the lot of them," Charlie muttered. Mick answered where appropriate and provided commentary for the better part of half an hour before he finally ended the call.

Still reluctant to go back to the B and B, he circled the square a couple more times, then parked a few houses down from Sarah Jane's, under the pretense of putting her under his new-and-improved form of surveillance—which involved keeping her out of Chastitiy's house, and thereby out of jail, until he could come up with a better plan—when truth be told, he just wanted to catch a glimpse of her.

Pathetic, Chivers. Utterly pathetic.

And yet he knew it was true. He couldn't deny that he'd been completely enchanted by her from the minute he'd looked at the blurry, out-of-focus picture. Sarah Jane Walker was the real deal. She was honest and forthright, hardworking and funny, loyal and loving. She could kiss like the very devil and would undoubtedly take that same skill and fervor into the bedroom. His dick jerked hard against his zipper, where it no doubt bore a permanent imprint after he'd spent the entire evening with her.

Mick honestly didn't think he'd ever enjoyed a woman's company more, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd never been so affected by a mere kiss. He had always liked the taste of a woman against his tongue, eating those soft inhalations, the slide of feminine lips against his, the suckling of tongues, the mimicry of making love with the mouth. It was erotic and pleasurable, and in many respects, just as enjoyable as sex. Would every man agree with him? No, probably not, he decided, silently chuckling at the thought.

But from the moment he'd stolen his first kiss in second grade, he'd always been a huge fan. In his opinion, a man had a lot riding on that first kiss. If he was sloppy, or too eager or too lazy, he might as well forget making it to the next base. A kiss should enflame, not be a hasty prelude to sex.

And he could honestly say that if enflaming was truly the goal, then he'd definitely succeeded in setting himself on fire.

Simply put, he wanted Sarah Jane.

He wanted to kiss her until she melted, taste the side of her neck, slide his tongue over her nipples and feast between her legs. Then he wanted to settle himself firmly in the womanly cradle of her thighs and plunge into her until they were both begging for release.

Unfortunately, dragging her into the convoluted mess of his life was simply out of the question. Kissing her had been bad enough, a breach of trust. Sleeping with her would leave his conscience in shreds. He had to resist her. For both their sakes, he really needed to do the right thing, although the right thing in his instance felt horribly, horribly wrong.

But there was one thing he could fix, Mick thought, and he had every intention of doing that. Thankfully, Payne had given him the leeway to make his own choices regarding this case, and unbeknownst to Chastity, Mick was switching sides.

He just wasn't going to tell the woman until after he'd found Sarah Jane's father's will.

When had he decided this was the right course of action? Who knew? But it was, all the same. If Chastity was willing to go to the expense of hiring them—with money that wasn't rightfully hers, Mick thought darkly—and hide her husband's will, then she was fully capable of following through with her threat to have Sarah Jane put back in jail.

Not on his watch, he decided.

He opened his cell once more and keyed in Huck's number.

"Finn," his friend answered by way of greeting.

Mick outlined the situation for him, alerting him to the change in facts as he knew them. "She's sleeping with the attorney who Sarah Jane says drafted the will," he said.

"According to the local banker, she's withdrawn a sizable amount of cash for a deposit on a vacation home. She's breezing through the money like it's growing on a damned tree, as though she wants to spend as much of it as she can before the will surfaces. Frankly, I suspect we were hired to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will, not to keep her from stealing things from the house." He snorted. "As far as Chastity's concerned, that's just a little bonus."

Huck swore. "You've got full discretion on this, Mick. If you think it's time to pull the plug, then by all means let's do it. Ranger Security doesn't want any part of this. We'll quietly withdraw."

Mick winced, uncertain how to proceed. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep Chastity in the dark for a little while longer and do some poking around."

Bad metaphor, he thought as a beat slid into three.

"So long as you know what you're doing," Huck said, a hint of warning in his voice.

He didn't, precisely, Mick thought as he snapped the phone shut.

A fateful smile slid over his lips. But when had that ever stopped him?

## 9

"PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell me that Mason has gotten in touch with you," Tina said, her voice a beleaguered combination of worry and dread.

Sarah Jane felt her heart jolt into overdrive. "What? Is he okay? He was sick today and went home, but I didn't think it was anything ser—"

"No, no, no." Tina hurriedly reassured her. "It's not that. He's fine. I mean, he's sick, but not any sicker than he was when you saw him earlier."

Confused, Sarah Jane frowned. "I'm afraid I'm not following. If he's okay, then why has he been trying to get in touch with me?"

Tina released a weary sigh. "Sarah Jane, where is your cell phone?"

She glanced down. "On my coffee table."

"Is there any particular reason you didn't take it with you?"

She felt a smile flirt with her lips. Tina knew she'd gone out with Mick, so that should be obvious. "Because I didn't want to be interrupted."

"When I tell you what I'm about to tell you, you're going to wish you'd been interrupted."

Uneasiness trickled down her neck. "Tell me what?"

"Are you sitting down?"

Oh, hell, she thought, stomach roiling. "Do I need to?"

"Yes. Also remove any sharp objects and promise me that you will not flip out. You have to come up with an appropriate response. No attacking anybody. Promise?"

"If it's bad enough that you think I might attack somebody, then you ought to know I can't make that kind of promise, Tina. Just tell me what it is. You're scaring me."

"There's no need to be scared. You're just going to be mad as hell."

Mad was definitely preferable to scared. She did "mad" quite well, in her opinion. In fact, she was bloody brilliant at it. She sank down onto her couch, but remained on the edge of the seat. "Okay. I'm ready. What's the news?"

"Tucker Mills overheard some interesting gossip today while he was cleaning Chastity's pool. When he stopped by Mason's this afternoon to drop off some chicken soup, he shared it with him."

Tucker was one of Mason's good friends and one of the most active gossips in town. He often passed along little tidbits via her assistant. It was how she'd learned that Chastity had gotten the tummy tuck. Sarah Jane felt her mouth go dry and a horrible feeling settled into her belly. "Go on."

"Seems that Chastity was on her cordless phone, roasting poolside, talking to one of her friends—Laura probably—about how her 'secret weapon' had arrived in town."

She frowned. "Secret weapon?"

"Yep. Her secret weapon is a hired dick who's supposed to catch you trying to break into her house to find your father's will. He's supposed to document the evidence so that she can turn it over to the sheriff's department and have you arrested." Through the phone, Sarah Jane heard her friend's teeth grind. "Again."

It was true, she decided as she shot up from the couch and began to pace. Blood could boil. "That scheming bitch. I'll kill her. I'll pull her hair from its bleached-blond roots. I'll—"

"Sarah Jane, sit back down." Tina hesitated then, implying that the worst hadn't come.

She drew up short and blinked. "How did you know I was standing up?"

"Because I know you," Tina said, exasperated. "Now sit!"

Impatient, Sarah Jane shoved her hair away from her face. "Tina, if I can't throw things or hit somebody, you're going to have to let me pace."

She heard Tina release another sigh, as though she truly dreaded what she had to say. "Her private dick is a photographer, Sarah Jane. Who's posing as an employee from a magazine."

It took precisely three seconds for the relevance of that last sentence to penetrate Sarah Jane's consciousness, and when it did, she wished she'd listened to her friend and sat back down. Because her legs suddenly felt as if they were going to buckle.

"Mick?" she breathed. Surely not. There had to be some sort of mistake.

"She didn't mention him by name, but after seeing them together this morning...I don't know. But I can't think of anyone else it could be, can you?"

Sarah Jane walked over to a chair, nudged Blinken aside and sat down heavily, reeling from the news. Though she desperately wanted to believe otherwise, in her heart she knew her friend was right. She hadn't really questioned the Designing Weekly article. She'd just completed a nice job for an Atlanta-based company prior to that call, and figured word had gotten to an editor at the magazine. But Sarah Jane had thought the photographer arriving on scene before the writer was a bit strange. Then seeing Mick with Chastity this morning...Hadn't she caught a weird vibe then? Hadn't she known something wasn't right?

Instead of listening to her instincts, she'd chalked up the reaction to jealousy—which, gallingly, God help her, was partly true—and had set about claiming him for herself.

Her cheeks blazed right along with her temper and her humiliation reached critical levels when she remembered flirting shamelessly this afternoon, then asking Mick out. Her face suddenly crumpled in horror.

And oh, God, she'd kissed him. She'd been practically sucking his face off and sliding all over him. If it hadn't been for Chase, things could have gone past the point of no return...Her eyes narrowed into angry slits. And he'd known. He'd known, the scum-sucking, sleazy, miserable bastard.

No doubt Chastity did, as well, which made it all the more unbearable. Sarah Jane's eyes suddenly burned. In anger, she told herself. She would not shed a tear over their deception. She would not be the butt of their joke.

Too late, a little voice chided. Too damned late.

She would not mourn the loss of what she'd thought might be the beginning of something special. Just because she'd felt more alive and more relaxed with him than she ever had with anybody else was no reason to cry. Mick Chivers had been part of Chastity's evil plan, a knowing participant. So what if Sarah Jane had felt a spark? A glow of something truly special?

It wouldn't have mattered, anyway; she knew he would never stay here. Hadn't she prepared herself for that? Hadn't she known she needed to guard her heart?

"Say something, Sarah Jane," Tina said.

She jumped, having forgotten the phone was pressed to her ear, then sighed heavily. "I don't know what to say, other than I feel like a total fool."

"How were you to know she'd stoop to something so low?" Tina demanded. "Who could have predicted this? You're not psychic, Sarah Jane. And this...This has all gone too far. I knew she didn't want you to find the will, but going to these lengths to keep you away from it? Either she hates you more than we knew, or your dad put something in that will she doesn't want you to see."

"Probably a combination of both." It really didn't make sense. Yes, Chastity was a mean-spirited slut, but there was something more to this move. The eternal question, of course, was what?

"Forewarned is forearmed, though. You're going to have to be really careful when you break into the house, because we now know you're being watched. The asshole," Tina muttered. "He sure had me fooled. I actually liked him."

She had, too, Sarah Jane thought glumly, her lips still tingling from his kiss.

"Anyway, while Tucker was eavesdropping, he also heard her mention that she was going over to Atlanta for a 'procedure' tomorrow morning and wouldn't be back until next Thursday. Sounds like some substantial—and expensive—work, doesn't it?" Tina said bitingly.

That was just the break she'd been waiting for, Sarah Jane realized, chastising herself for not staying on task. Instead of thinking about Mick's beautiful lips and that hopeful but futile ember of something extraordinary between them, she should have been thinking about getting her inheritance back before it was all gone. The longer Chastity hid the will, the more time she had to deplete Sarah Jane's funds.

She flexed her jaw. She didn't give a damn if Mick was watching her or not—she'd still do what she had to do. And if she had to slug him in the process, then so be it.

"So...what are you going to do about him?" Tina asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to let him know you know who he is, or are you going to blast him into next year?"

For the first time, Sarah Jane felt the ghost of a smile on her lips. "You mean I have to choose one?"

Her friend chuckled. "That's my girl. Seriously, though, what are you going to do?"

"You know, Tina, as much as I would like to play it the smart way, going along with this little farce so that I can keep an eye on him, as well...I just don't think I'm that good an actress." She gave a little groan. "Particularly after tonight."

Her friend winced. "Dammit, I was afraid of that. How far did it go?"

"Just a kiss," she said, downplaying the massive groping session that had rocked her world a few minutes ago. And it had been so much more than a kiss. It had been wonderful, fantastic, moving...unforgettable. She'd seen stars and rainbows behind her eyelids. It was hands down the best kiss she'd ever had. Even knowing what she knew now, God help her, she still longed for another.

"So you're going to send him packing, right?"

"I am."

"Sweetie, I'm sorry." Tina tutted under her breath consolingly. "I know you liked him."

Sarah Jane grimaced as another altogether unpleasant realization surfaced. "I also liked the idea of being featured in Designing Weekly and the cash I was going to pick up, but it turns out that's a figment of my imagination, as well."

"I thought about that," Tina admitted. "It was a terrible thing for them to do."

Sarah Jane paused, gathered her indignation around her and straightened, hoping to dislodge a bit of the hurt. It really was a terrible thing. Wasn't it bad enough that Chastity was running through her inheritance like a redneck with a sudden influx of cash? Now she'd decided to mess with her business, as well? Her very livelihood? And he'd gone along with it? To collect money, indirectly, through her?

Sarah Jane set her jaw so hard she thought she heard her teeth crack.

"Let me know when you figure out what sort of punishment you're planning for Mick, because I might want a p-piece of the a-action for Chase."

The tremble she heard in Tina's voice immediately forced Sarah Jane's brain to switch gears. "What are you talking about? What's happened?"

"Chase has started seeing Laura again."

"Oh, Tina," she said, an apology in her voice. That bastard, she thought. Mick might not be the only person she was going to slug. "You've got to be kidding."

She heard a sob over the phone. "I wish I was. Clara saw them at a movie in Ridgeville last night. You know, Sarah Jane, I just don't get it. If he doesn't want me, why does he string me along?"

Because he's a selfish bastard. "Because he's not certain he doesn't want you. He's just sure that he doesn't want anyone else to have you."

Tina sniffled. "I just wish I knew what to do."

"You know what I think," Sarah Jane gently reminded her. "You break off completely and throw a little competition into the mix. He'll either let you go—and you'll know once and for all how he feels—or he'll come running back. Right now, he's calling the shots, and that suits him just fine. You've got to take charge. You can't keep permitting him to do this to you."

"You know what, Sarah Jane? You're right." She heard Tina blow her nose into a tissue. "I've known you were right all along, I just haven't wanted to execute your advice because it feels like giving up, and giving up is going to break my heart. But guess what? It's already broken. He breaks it every time he pulls something like this. Every time he hooks up with that sleazy vindictive whore. I'm done," she announced with more conviction than Sarah Jane had ever heard before. "I am so not letting him do this to me again."

Sarah Jane inwardly gave a little cheer. Finally. "I promise you won't regret it," she declared.

Tina sniffed again. "I wonder if you'll be saying that when I'm bawling on your shoulder."

"You can bawl on my shoulder anytime and you know it," she said, smiling.

"Men are turds," Tina announced.

"You know why, don't you?"

"No, why?"

Sarah Jane grinned as a vengeful plan, so perfect it might have been delivered from a genuine Revenge Muse, struck her. "Because they're full of shit."

Tina managed a watery chuckle. "There is that."

"Are you busy right now?" Sarah Jane asked in a deceptively light tone. "Got anything planned for the rest of the evening?"

"No," her friend said hesitantly. "Why?"

"Because I have the perfect remedy for their constipation. You game?"

A wicked laugh bubbled over the line. "You bet."

## 10

"GOOD MORNING, MICK," Tina said in a voice that was entirely too chipper for this hour of the day. She stood outside his bedroom door, holding a pretty basket of...something.

"Good morning," he replied groggily, surprised at her visit. He looked back over his shoulder and squinted at the bedside clock, blearily bringing it into focus. It was 5:00 a.m. Five. What the hell?

"I hate to bother you this early—"

Could have fooled him, Mick thought. In fact, she didn't look as if she hated it at all. Her lips were curved into a curiously happy yet strangely...malevolent grin.

"—but I wanted to give you this before I start breakfast this morning. Sarah Jane and I did some baking last night and she wanted you to have these." Tina extended the basket. "Homemade brownies. And she wanted me to let you know that she's had an unexpected call about a Victorian mantel and won't be at the Milton Plantation until around noon. She didn't want you to get out there and have to wait on her," Tina confided, rocking back on her heels. "Mason's still sick."

The rich scent of chocolate filled his nostrils. She'd baked for him? Really? he thought, pleased beyond reason as a sleepy smile slid over his lips. Had any woman ever baked for him? His grandmother had, of course, but no one else that he could recall. Odd that the domestic act should mean so much to him, but he was ridiculously delighted. An image of Sarah Jane clothed in nothing but an apron, with a chocolate-covered spoon in her hand, rose in his mind, making a snake of heat coil in his loins.

"Thanks," Mick said, looking forward to sampling one.

"I'll let you go back to bed," Tina told him. "And just think, now you can sleep in." She winked at him.

An excellent idea, Mick thought drowsily. He nodded his thanks to Tina, scarfed down a brownie, then found his pillow once more. Considering he'd had another late night making sure she didn't do anything that would land her beautiful ass in jail, he could do with a few more winks. He'd actually seen Tina arrive at Sarah Jane's shortly after he'd supposedly left. He'd known they were in the kitchen cooking something up, but he imagined they'd been working on fried-pie recipes. Sarah Jane had mentioned that Tina was going to enter the competition this year, as well.

At any rate, he thought, tucking a blanket more firmly around him, he knew he wasn't ready to leave his bed just yet. And when he awoke several hours later, only the promise of another brownie, followed by another fabulous breakfast—honestly, he'd eaten better in the past two days than he'd done in his entire life—and then seeing Sarah Jane, propelled him from beneath the covers.

Staunchly ignoring the sensation that he was once again being watched, Mick muttered, "Keep your hands to yourself," to the resident ghost, then quickly showered, dressed and made his way downstairs. The dining room was empty, and when he poked his head into the kitchen to inquire about breakfast, he found Tina handing a basket to Chase, the policeman from last night. It was identical to the one Sarah Jane had given him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Mick said. He directed a hopeful smile at Tina. "I'm afraid I slept through breakfast. Would there happen to be anything left?"

Tina cocked her dark head with a regretful expression. "No, sorry."

Chase shot her a strange look. "But I just saw—"

She stomped on his foot, eliciting a surprised grunt from him. "That's for Clara."

Seemingly baffled, Chase winced and darted her an irritated frown. "Oh. Sorry."

"Have a brownie," Tina suggested. "They're excellent. I just gave a basket to Chase."

The cop smiled down at her intimately. "You keep cooking for me like this and I'm going to get fat."

"They're low calorie. All the goodness, none of the guilt."

He grinned at her. "In that case, I'll eat them all."

"That was the point," Tina said.

Feeling a bit like an intruder, Mick bade them goodbye, made the return trek upstairs for his brownies—he could do a lot worse for breakfast, he decided—then, after stopping for a bottle of milk to wash down all the chocolate, made his way out to the Milton Plantation. Granted, Sarah Jane wouldn't be there for a couple of hours, but he knew what needed to be done. He could get a bit of a head start in helping her out, particularly since Mason was still under the weather.

A little envelope on the screen of his cell phone indicated he had a voice mail—he must have missed the call while he was showering—so he quickly dialed in and listened to the message.

"Hey, man. It's Huck. Just got a call from Chastity that she's going to be out of town through next Thursday. I thought that might buy you the time I suspect you were looking for." He chuckled softly.

"Also, the Designing Weekly piece is a go and they've agreed to use your photos. Thought you'd want to know that. They're going to get in touch with Sarah Jane in the next couple of weeks, so that the spread will run in the issue we'd told her. I know you're officially off the case, but keep me in the loop, will you?"

Pleased, Mick snapped the phone shut. Excellent, he thought. On more than one level. Sarah Jane wouldn't lose the business she'd counted on and, with Chastity out of town, he'd have an opportunity to search her house. Things were falling into place nicely, he decided, feeling better about the situation as a whole.

He pulled up to the front of the house and powered down his windows so the interior wouldn't turn into an oven—moot point in hundred-plus-degree heat, he supposed—then grabbed what was left of his brownies and milk and made his way inside.

He picked up a hammer and set to work removing the oak paneling in the dining room, where they'd left off yesterday. It took precision, extreme care and strength, and the idea that he was saving something from certain ruin—something handmade and beautiful that had stood the test of time for more than a hundred years—made his chest swell with a quiet sense of pride.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, ignoring a sudden stomach pain. No doubt he should have foregone a few of the brownies, but in absence of breakfast he'd pretty much decimated the entire basket. He carefully pried a section of panel loose from the wall, growing more confident and more relaxed with each successful piece. Now this was work, Mick decided, the thrill of purpose chugging through his veins.

This he could get used to.

THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN so much easier if he'd had a shirt on, Sarah Jane thought as she silently watched Mick stack the last piece of paneling onto the pile in the corner. Sweat glistened off of muscles she'd touched last night, but hadn't seen, and the sight...oh, the sight of them literally made her mouth water.

And there it was, she thought, spying the tattoo he'd told her he didn't know her well enough to show her...yet. Lord, how she'd looked forward to that. Only she'd imagined it would have come via an act a little more intimate than just watching him work with his shirt off. But there it was, on his shoulder—an eagle. Given the solitary aura that surrounded him, it seemed completely fitting. And damn her traitorous body, sexy as hell.

But then, so was the rest of him.

He was tall and broad, but lean and splendidly proportioned. A mustang, she thought again, wishing that, a) she didn't still want him and b) he hadn't turned out to be a scheming, lying, in-cahoots-with-Chastity bastard. Sarah Jane's chest ached with the weight of the betrayal. However short-lived, it still hurt because, just like Ponder Hill, she'd begun to spin dreams about him. And her irritation returned full force when she realized she was literally subsidizing her own downfall. Her eyes narrowed.

Thanks to him.

She felt a perverse jolt of glee as she watched him wince in pain and rub his belly. Then she allowed him to work a few more minutes—after all, she was paying him, wasn't she?—before revealing her presence.

He'd made remarkable progress in the dining room, having almost finished it, and though it galled her to admit it, she found herself reluctantly impressed. Rather than just rushing in and stripping the room, he'd taken time and almost reverent care with the work, inspecting each board and section for damage or weak spots before beginning the salvage.

Frankly, Mason didn't have the strength or the finesse to do the job, and though she'd let a few younger carpenters help her in the beginning, they'd always been too eager and had done more damage than good.

Since then, she'd forgone working with a partner because she knew she was an exacting boss. But strangely, in an ironic, evil twist of fate, she'd thought she could actually work with Mick. She'd even enjoyed herself yesterday when he'd returned from taking Mason home, and had helped her. It had been nice and, much to her regret, had inspired a series of if-only thoughts, first and foremost being if only he'd stay.

But it had all been a lie, given his purpose here.

Speaking of which, it was time to put a stop to that. Sarah Jane stepped into the room and resisted the urge to return his smile. It looked so genuine, so open, intimate, and his mouth...She swallowed back a whimper. She loved his mouth. Loved that little crooked upper lip and the way it made his cheek crease with an endearingly sexy dimple. But she wouldn't be deceived again.

She couldn't afford to be. Literally.

Clearly, he was just a really good actor who'd gotten into his part.

And into her mouth and almost into her bed, which would have undoubtedly let him into her heart. Thankfully, Chastity hadn't been able to keep her gloating piehole shut, thereby preventing the worst. Yes, Sarah Jane's pride was wounded, but at this point, she was less disappointed and more angry. And anger was good. It had the bullying ability to push every other emotion aside until she had the time to deal with it.

"Hey," he said, his gaze falling to her mouth, causing her traitorous lips to tingle. "Thanks for the brownies."

"You enjoyed them?" She kept her tone deceptively light.

"I ate every one."

Sarah Jane winced in regret and strolled over to inspect his work. "You're going to wish you hadn't done that."

He twirled the hammer, still grinning. "Aw, Tina said they were low calorie, so I'm not worried about it."

She crossed her arms over her chest and made a false moue of concern. "That's not what I'm talking about."

His smile still in place, he switched the hammer to the other hand. "Oh?"

Sarah Jane looked up and met his gaze directly. She had the pleasure of watching a flicker of trepidation form there. "I know who you are and why you're here, Mick."

There was a momentary flash of guilt in his eyes before they grew guarded. An uneasy laugh bubbled up his throat. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

She chewed the inside of her cheek, struggling to stay calm. "You don't? Well, then, let me illuminate the facts to you as I know them. You're not from Designing Weekly—thanks for that, by the way," she added. "It's nice to know I've done all this prep work for nothing, and the money I was expecting isn't going to come."

"I—"

"You are working as a private investigator for Chastity, and you've been charged with the task of catching me breaking into my own house to find my father's will so that I can claim my inheritance before my thieving slut of a stepmother runs through every bit of it and sells off my home to subsidize her future plastic surgery. If I understand things correctly, the only reason you've brought a camera along is to document the evidence of my so-called crime."

Sarah Jane paused, staring at him. "Have I left anything out, Mick?" She rolled her eyes and snorted as if this was all laughable, as if she wasn't hurt and angry, as if she hadn't felt a spark of something special between them, something more substantial than sexual attraction. "If Mick is even actually your real name."

He didn't try to deny a single part of her story, silently confirming his guilt. He merely looked away, rubbed the back of his neck and swore.

"Now, I realize that I'm actually paying for your services—by proxy, of course," she added sweetly. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon you earn your keep somewhere else. I've got work to do."

"Sarah Jane, listen—"

She stepped forward and very deliberately took the hammer out of his hand. "I've finally figured out your Indian name, Mick. Wanna hear it?"

He grimaced comically, making the moment particularly sweet. "Somehow I doubt it."

"It's Squatting Snake in the Grass."

His brows drew together in a questioning line.

"Squatting Snake?"

She pretended to be thoughtful. "Last night it was just Snake in the Grass, but today..." She felt her lips twitch. "I think adding the 'squatting' is going to be particularly significant."

His belly gurgled ominously and his suspicious gaze narrowed. "What—"

"I'm so glad you liked those brownies. You're right. They're not the kind that'll truly stick to your ribs because I added a secret ingredient just for you." She smiled evilly. "Those mocha chunks in there? Did you notice them?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "Those were actually chocolate laxatives."

Gratifyingly, his eyes widened in horror. "No," he said, laughing nervously even as his stomach made another interesting sound. "You didn't." He swallowed, the muscles in his throat moving uneasily.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked. "Because it was underhanded and vindictive?" She frowned pointedly. "Like you."

"Sarah Jane—"

"I'd hurry if I were you," she said, cutting him off once again. "I'm sure you've noticed there's no bathroom out here, and if you ate all of them like you've claimed to..." She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid, and winced regretfully. "It's a long drive back to town."

Looking a bit pale and more sweaty than he had a few minutes ago, Mick grabbed his shirt and shrugged into it. He pulled his keys from his front jeans pocket and sent her a comically pained but determined look. "This conversation isn't over."

"The hell it's not," she retorted. "Stay away from me, Squatting Snake in the Grass. We're done." She summoned a sweet, patently false grin just for his benefit. "Enjoy your afternoon. I believe Clara keeps a stack of magazines in the common room."

"I'll see you later," he promised, completely ignoring her. He was a man, after all, she thought, watching him awkwardly slide into his SUV and roar out of the driveway as though he was being chased by the hounds of hell. She smiled. Or, more accurately, the bowels of hell.

Either way, she meant what she'd said. They were done.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. And as Mason had said yesterday, Sarah Jane was nobody's fool.

Not even a good-looking, lonely mustang's, who made her heart long for things it had never wanted and her body burn like dry tinder touched by a lit match.

## 11

MICK SPENT the better part of the afternoon and early evening doing exactly what Sarah Jane had intended for him to do—the evil, spiteful she-devil—so by the time he got back out to the Milton Plantation to speak to her again, she'd left for the day. Squatting Snake in the Grass, he thought ruefully, his poor stomach still a bit queasy.

Of all the fiendish, diabolical things. Laxatives in the brownies. He snorted. He'd heard of the prank before, of course, but had never carried out or been on the receiving end of such a heinous personal attack...until now.

Tina, the she-devil's partner in crime, had evidently been on the lookout for him, because when he'd rushed into the B and B, she'd been leaning against the doorjamb, all sweet and smug. If Chase's brownies had been infected, as well, then Mick certainly felt for the man. He could empathize.

Literally.

Still, for all his moaning and groaning and bellyaching—and he meant that in the truest sense of the word—there was a small part of him that was reluctantly impressed with her prank. He couldn't help it. It was a hell-raiser thing, a mutual respect for a trick well played...and Sarah Jane Walker had executed it brilliantly.

Catching him off guard early in the morning, devising a plan to be late getting to work, thereby allowing him to sleep through breakfast. And he'd followed her carefully laid trail one crumb at a time, devouring her payback brownies every step of the way.

A quick check at her house now revealed her truck in the driveway, but after ten minutes of knocking on her door, Mick got the impression that she truly wasn't home. Of course, she could simply be avoiding him, but for whatever reason, he didn't think that was the case. Sarah Jane liked a good row. Hiding from him when he knew she'd secretly like to throttle him didn't seem her style.

Call him crazy—and many people certainly had—but he was actually glad that she'd found him out. Being deceitful had never been his style. Had he intended to tell her about his original purpose? Truthfully, no. He'd planned to keep her out of trouble until he could find the will, and use the magazine article cover to keep working with her. Why? Because he selfishly wanted to spend more time with her, even knowing that it wasn't prudent. Even knowing that being with her without being with her was tantamount to torture.

As much as he hated to admit it, Mick feared he'd developed a bit of an...attachment to her.

Considering that she didn't particularly like him at the moment, that wasn't smart. In this messed up stage of his life, developing an attachment to anything probably wasn't wise. Especially when, he suddenly realized, his heart had become involved.

No, he had to be mistaken, Mick decided. This was a sizable amount of admiration coupled with a monumental quotient of lust. She was novel. Unique. And he was in a compromised condition, that whole ship-without-a-rudder thing. He'd completely lost perspective, that was all.

Rather than sit outside her house, waiting on her to make the next move, Mick decided to take advantage of Chastity's absence and go over to Sarah Jane's old home. He pocketed a penknife and a flashlight, then parked a couple of blocks away and quickly made his way around back. The gate was locked, but was easily picked. At last, he thought. Ranger training was coming in handy.

The back door on the old Victorian was new, but the lock was even easier to disengage. Using the flashlight, Mick decided to make a quick sweep of the house to learn the layout, as well as to make sure he was alone before beginning an in-depth search. The first floor revealed a kitchen, utility room, parlor—where, in a crime against home decor, Chastity had installed a tanning bed—formal living room, dining room and half bath.

The second floor contained three bedrooms, two full baths and what Mick instinctively knew had to be Sarah Jane's father's study. The room smelled of cherry-tobacco smoke and housed a big desk and leather chair. Books lined the walls, filling the built-in shelves. He'd spotted a filing cabinet and decided that would be the best place to begin his search when a noise from the adjacent bedroom—Sarah Jane's old room, he imagined, given the purple frilly bedspread—caught his attention.

Instantly alert, he switched off the flashlight, doubled back and covertly made his way to her old room. Adrenaline kicked his heart rate into overdrive and made the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he heard the noise again—coming from the window, he was sure. He crept closer, then peeked around the edge and waited, certain he'd caught a glimpse of something outside. A break in the clouds released a shaft of moonlight and that's when he saw her.

Or her hair, rather.

Chuckling softly, Mick shone his flashlight through the glass, illuminating Sarah Jane's irritated face. Firm chin, narrowed eyes. Totally mutinous. Only he would find that intensely sexy. She clung to a tree branch a few feet from the window and glared poison-tipped daggers at him.

Mick opened the window and leaned nonchalantly against the sill, as though seeing her in a tree was an everyday occurrence. "Fancy meeting you here," he whispered.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sarah Jane asked, her voice low and harsh. Dressed all in black, she wiggled farther out on the limb, causing the branch to make a threatening crack. That accounted for the noise.

Mick frowned. "You'd better go back. That limb's not going to hold."

"Yes it will," she snapped. "I know what I'm doing.

I've climbed this tree dozens of times." Predictably ignoring his advice, she carefully inched closer, and the branch gave another groan in protest.

"As an adult?" Mick asked, growing more concerned by the second. "Seriously, Sarah Jane. Climb down and I'll let you in the back door."

A bark of ironic laughter broke from her throat. "So that you can take a picture of me for Chastity? I don't think so."

Mick exhaled an impatient sigh and helpfully pointed out the flaw in her logic. "If I was going to take a picture of you, I'd have already done it. I don't even have my camera." He glared at her. "Now get the hell out of that tree before you fall and crack your beautiful skull and I'll let you in the back door." The last bit came out more as a growl than actual words.

Sarah Jane paused, seemingly unaccustomed to being told what to do, and Mick belatedly realized his demand was tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull. She simultaneously lifted her chin and a single haughty eyebrow, and said, "I'm coming through the window."

It had been so long since someone had disobeyed his direct order, Mick was momentarily stunned.

She heaved an exasperated breath. "So, if you're not going to help me, then at least get the hell out of the way," she snarled, taking hold of the screen to pull it loose.

Leaping into action, Mick swore and popped the screen out. Sarah Jane caught it and helped him angle it through the window, and he propped it against the wall. When he looked back, she was already halfway through the opening.

Determined to help her—because it seemed vitally important at the moment—he grabbed hold of her beneath her arms and tugged, sending both of them tumbling to the floor where they landed with a grunt. Her knee came perilously close to Dick and the Twins, but it was the feel of her lush body, those delectable breasts pressing against his chest, that made him unable to breathe.

Soft womanly body, apple-scented hair against his cheek, his hellcat, his she-devil...

He bit back a blistering curse as his body instantly reacted. His dick sprang to attention and nudged, recognizing that the proper anatomy was in line, even if it was still fully clothed.

Sarah Jane angled up, bracing her hands on either side of his head, and her startled gaze tangled with his. Her own breathing was quick and shallow, as though she, too, was aware of every part of her body currently pressed against his. She blinked, then inhaled sharply. Her eyes snapped with sudden insight and anger. "You were waiting for me, weren't you? Guarding the house to catch me?" With a disgusted breath and several garbled epithets, she rolled off of him and scrambled to her feet. "You low-down—"

"Squatting Snake in the Grass," he finished for her, standing, as well. "I believe we've covered that." His voice hardened. "Particularly the squatting part, thanks to you." And someone—either dear old Byron or Tina, he couldn't be sure—had sneaked into his room and removed all the toilet paper. He'd had to bellow from his bathroom like a toddler and ask for a replacement roll. Thankfully, Clara had discreetly taken care of it for him.

"I was going to say bastard," she said. "But you're right. Yours works better."

"Sarah Jane, I told you I didn't have my camera and I wasn't here guarding the damn house." He drew in a deep breath, hoping to inhale a little patience, as well.

"If you could stop leaping to conclusions for just a minute, I'd like to explain."

She paused and he watched her cock her head in the darkness. "Oh, you mean you can explain working for Chastity? You can explain why, in order to line your pockets with my stolen money, you agreed to trap me so that the bitch ends up with everything that's supposed to belong to me? You can? Really?" she asked sarcastically. "Well, by all means, go ahead. I won't stop you. I'd really like to hear how you can explain that."

That wasn't exactly what he'd intended to explain. Come to think of it, explain probably wasn't the right term. Defend his position would probably work better. Mick scowled at her. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a smart-ass, Sarah Jane?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they have—"

He grunted, unsurprised.

"—but you've got the jackass title locked down tight, so no worries on that score." She flipped on her own flashlight, momentarily blinding him. "If you're not here to trap me, then what are you doing here?"

Mick squeezed his eyes shut, grabbed the end of her light and angled it out of his eyes. "I came here to look for the freakin' will. I'm trying to help you, dammit." He hadn't planned to tell her that, but she had a way of surprising things out of him.

Sarah Jane aimed her light to the right of his face, once again illuminating his expression. "You want to help me?"

Skepticism dripped from every word, showcasing just how hard he was going to have to work to convince her. He'd ventured behind enemy lines, survived countless high-risk missions and had managed covert operations he imagined were less difficult than winning over her trust.

But for whatever reason—insanity, he decided, smothering the pressing urge to howl—he felt he had more riding on this assignment than any other in his life.

Clearly, he'd lost his mind...and quite possibly a little piece of a vital organ farther south and to the left.

SARAH JANE WATCHED Mick's expression, looking for any hint of deceit. His unfairly handsome face, the one she'd committed to memory over the past few days, remained open and without the slightest evidence of dishonesty. Gut instinct told her he was earnest, but she didn't know how much to trust it. That could be wishful thinking brought about by intense sexual attraction and something else. Something less definable, but frightening all the same, that thing that had inspired all those if-onlys.

If only you wouldn't be bored out of your skull here...

If only you'd like to work with me...

If only you wouldn't leave and we could explore this thing happening between us...

If only you weren't damaged...

If only I could trust you not to break my heart...

That shadow of loneliness, of untold sorrow she'd periodically glimpsed in those unusual blue eyes, surfaced again, fraying her heartstrings and instilling the annoying but persistent urge to help him.

Her enemy...who claimed he wanted to help her.

Talk about a quagmire.

Sarah Jane expelled a small, tired sigh. "Who are you, really? No bullshit, no lies. Bare-bones facts, please."

He considered her for a moment before answering. "I'm Mick Chivers. I'm former military, now working for Ranger Security based out of Atlanta, though after this assignment—my first, by the way," he added, chuckling darkly, "I'm resigning from their employ. I'm twenty-nine, originally from Kentucky, practice amateur photography, but don't work for Designing Weekly. Although they will do the spread on you as planned, and have agreed to use my photos, which is why I'll have to continue to take pictures while you finish the salvage project at the Milton Plantation. I'm allergic to shellfish, much to my regret, enjoy action-adventure movies, Southern rock and reading true-crime novels. I'm a registered Independent, nonsmoker, occasional drinker...and I like you, Sarah Jane." He paused just long enough for her to remember their kiss, making her intensely aware of the fact he was less than a foot away, shrouded in darkness. "Does that answer all of your questions?"

Not by a long shot, she thought, a reluctant smile pulling at her lips. "It's a start. So...this Ranger Security? Is this the first job you've had since you left the military? What branch were you in?"

"It is." There was a guarded tone in his voice, barely detectable, but there all the same. "I was in the army, a Ranger, specifically." She heard him swallow. "I served ten years."

Ten years and he'd walked away? she thought, struck by the admission. From being a Ranger? Didn't it take years of special training to become one of the army's elite? Weren't those men usually in for life? Why would he do that? Sarah Jane wondered, intrigued. What would make him want to leave after all that time, all that training? She longed to ask, but instinctively knew better. Nevertheless, intuition told her that his recent misery had something to do with leaving the military. She knew it. Could feel it. "Why are you leaving Ranger Security?"

That chuckle came again, the one that slipped into her blood and inevitably made her smile. "Because I'm obviously not cut out for it. Just look at how I've botched this job. You were officially my target, Sarah Jane, and so far I've managed to abandon my mission in favor of taking up your cause—with Ranger Security's permission, of course—and become intimately involved with you. I'd say I've broken a couple cardinal rules, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't c-call it intimate," she stammered, feeling herself blush at his terminology. She inwardly squirmed. "It was just a kiss."

As though drawn by an invisible cord, he sidled forward, lessening the distance between them. "Just a kiss?" he said, his low voice laced with an undercurrent of...desperation? "I, uh, I think you need a little remedial instruction on what defines a kiss, sweetheart." He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, the gentle action making her eyelids flutter shut. "That's a kiss. Sweet, simple, a mere brush of my lips against yours." Every word he said made her melt and sway toward him. She was putty in his hands, utterly pathetic. She swallowed a whimper, and wished she could resist him. For the first time in her life, she realized what her friend Tina must feel like around Chase. To be a hopeless slave to her body, her heart.

Mick framed her face with his warm palms, drawing her close. "This...This is a bit more intimate." He lingered over the last word, then fastened his lips to hers as though he'd been dying to taste her, that every breath away from her mouth was one wasted. This kiss was hungry, almost punishing, as though all of this—this attraction, these circumstances—were somehow her fault.

Oh, hell no, Sarah Jane thought, answering his unspoken challenge as her control literally snapped.

She wasn't taking the wrap for this. She kissed him back, her tongue dueling his. She dropped her flashlight, abandoning any pretense of restraint, and wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Propelled by her unexpected assault, he stumbled back against her old bed, taking her slowly down with him. He fed at her mouth, suckling her tongue, dragging her further and further down the slippery slope of desire.

In a small, dim corner of her mind, Sarah Jane suspected this was not the right path—sleeping with Mick was the height of idiocy. He was still possibly her enemy—though she sincerely doubted it. But he was definitely temporary, and more disturbingly, had the potential to break her heart.

Was it in danger at the moment? Probably not.

But a week from now when he was gone, when he left town never to return...who knew about then? Right now she skated the thin edge of being emotionally invested, but feared a single misstep or a single endearing crook of these devilishly talented lips could send her reeling into misery.

If she had a brain in her head, she'd retreat from this battle he'd started, stop tugging the shirt from the waistband of his jeans—

Hot bare skin, supple muscle...

She groaned low in her throat, a purr of pleasure, and her roaming palms feasted on his flesh.

She'd make him remove his wonderful hands from her ass, and she'd run as fast as she could back to her own house and barricade the door.

Unfortunately, her brain had already ceded control to the fever in her blood, the fight being enacted through sexual warfare, an ultimate winner-take-all war for the upper hand, and she knew she had a better chance of damming the Mississippi with Silly Putty than resisting him now.

Because she didn't want to.

She'd wanted Mick Chivers the instant she'd seen him. Had longed to feel him touching her like this, kissing her, heaven help her, taking her the way he was right now. He was laying siege and, while she was putting up a valiant fight, she would gladly lose if it meant she'd get to come apart in his arms. In fact, she'd gladly let him conquer the hell out of her. What was that old saying? Never take a hill you weren't willing to die on?

That's what this felt like. Laying it bare, giving it everything, lost and beyond caring...She couldn't help herself. She couldn't stop. She wanted him too desperately, temporary or not.

He dragged her shirt up and over her head, tossed it aside, then quickly popped the front clasp of her bra. A second later, wonderfully sexy lips were on her pouting nipple, tugging it into the hot cavern of his mouth. Sarah Jane gasped, pleasure bolting through her, and set about removing his clothes, as well. Every cell in her being screamed for instant release, desperate to put the hardest part of him into the softest part of her. She could feel her pulse beating a steady tattoo in the heart of her sex, her folds slickening, readying for him.

More importantly, she could feel him beneath her, hot, hard and huge, nudging determinedly against her. She ripped the shirt from his body and flung it aside, then aligned herself more firmly against him, flexing her hips on the hard, jean-covered ridge of his arousal.

She whimpered, quivered as sensation whipped through her. It wasn't nearly enough. She needed to be closer.

As though reading her mind, Mick slipped his hands beneath her black leggings and panties and, not even bothering to unbutton or unzip, slid them over her rump. She wriggled, once, twice, helping him along, then kicked them off and onto the floor.

She was naked. He wasn't. But that was easily rectified, she thought, her hand going to the snap of his jeans. He drew in a startled breath, sucking his belly away from his waistband where the tip of his swollen penis sprang free. Her fingers brushed him as the zipper whined.

"Sonofabitch," he whispered.

She moved his boxers over his hips and out of the way, then took him in her hand and worked the slippery skin against her palm, milking a single bead of hot moisture from the tip. Emboldened, she swirled her finger over the top and heard him swear again, this time even more vehemently. Sarah Jane smiled. He'd wanted a war, hadn't he?

Before she'd even completed the thought, he had her on her back and was licking a determined path down her belly, his hands skimming over her sides, as though memorizing every indentation, every inch of skin. He paused at her belly button, slipping his tongue inside, even as his fingers brushed her soaked curls. It was as though his tongue had depressed a catch in her hips, making her legs fall open for him, baring herself to him.

Mick dragged a finger through her folds, unerringly honing in on the sensitive nub nestled at the top of her sex. He pressed a finger deep inside, then hooked his thumb around and knuckled her until her back bowed off the bed.

"Mick."

"Yes, Sarah Jane?" His voice was ladened with male confidence, and she imagined that sexy grin in the darkness.

"That's a n-neat trick. C-can you do it w-with something other than your f-finger?"

A wicked chuckle sounded, and a heartbeat later he was laving and suckling, lapping at the heart of her with his tongue.

Sarah Jane felt her eyes widen, her belly quake and a startled part gasp, part laugh tear from her throat. That wasn't what she'd meant, but sweet God, it would do. A shuddering breath leaked out of her lungs as the first flash of climax caught fire.

Seemingly sensing that she was close, Mick drew back, hastily grabbed his jeans and withdrew a condom from his wallet. He tore open the packet with his teeth, fished the protection out and swiftly rolled it into place.

"Sarah Jane?"

Back to being chivalrous, was he? she thought, suppressing the wild urge to laugh. He'd just stripped her naked and tasted every intimate part of her. Did he have to ask?

She angled her hips up, brushing purposely against him. "Yes, Mick?"

He bent forward and sipped at her nipples, abrading her skin with his five o'clock shadow. "Can I come into you?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse with need.

She angled up against him once more, then bent forward and nipped at his shoulder, licked that delicate skin at the hollow of his throat. If she'd had a white flag, she would have waved it.

I surrender.

But her answer would have to suffice. "Yes," she breathed. "Come into me...and make me come," she added wickedly.

## 12

...AND MAKE ME COME.

It was an absolute miracle that he didn't have a screaming orgasm right then, Mick thought, chuckling softly at her sinful command.

"You bet," he said. An instant later, he was inside of her, buried to the hilt in her welcoming folds. He groaned as her feminine muscles clamped around him, holding him in place. And even as his body demanded the exquisite friction of movement, everything inside him went still as a peace more fulfilling than anything he'd ever experienced swept through him, mending fissures, cleaning out the clutter stuck to his soul.

He felt strangely energized, but calm...soothed, Mick realized with a flash of insight, the thought so unique and profound he felt a curious tingling in the back of his throat.

For the first time in his life, he realized he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

With her. In her.

Sarah Jane wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked beneath him, her greedy body absorbing his thrusts. He pushed deep and hard, then harder and faster and faster still. Her dark blond hair fanned out beneath her head, the moonlight picking up streams of caramel. Her soft breath whispered against his skin, her eager hands slid over his back and grabbed his ass, urging him on, as if she was desperate for the release that hovered just out of reach.

Funny, Mick thought. He'd wanted to punish her for belittling their kiss, when they'd both known it had been so much more. Kissing her had rattled him to the very core. How dare she say that it was "just a kiss"? That was like saying the Taj Mahal was just a building or the Atlantic was just an ocean. That kiss had shaken him to the soles of his feet, had made him abandon what was left of his good sense and his restraint and had made her priorities his.

But, too late, he saw the flaw in his reasoning—an occurrence that was happening with entirely too much frequency for his comfort. If merely kissing her had rattled what was left of his already imploding world, what the hell had he expected to happen when he made love to her? How could he have thought for an instant that it would just be sex? Just an attraction? How could he think that he'd walk away from her an unchanged man?

Because, Mick realized, as her heels dug into his ass, her beautiful breasts slid against his chest and her small hands lovingly mapped his back, desperate and reverent, eager and in awe, there was no way he'd ever be the same.

The knowledge should have spooked him, should have scared the hell out of him, because he'd never felt this way before. He'd never met a woman who simply did it for him the way Sarah Jane did. But Mick Chivers had never been afraid of anything in his life and he'd be damned if he'd start now. She was just a girl, he told himself as he pumped in and out of her, desperate to believe it.

She was just a girl...and he was just a guy who could quite possibly fall in love with her.

If he hadn't already.

Sarah Jane made a keening cry low in her throat and her neck arched back, even as her hips upped the tempo between them.

"Oh, Mick. I need—I want—"

Me, he mentally supplied. You need me. You want me.

She thrashed wildly beneath him, making little mewling sounds that, impossibly, made his swollen dick stiffen even more, just shy of the point of pain. His balls hardened until he thought they'd shatter. He could barely breathe, his lungs were so tight. He could feel his release gathering force in his loins, building and building, but refused to let it go until she'd gotten hers.

Make me come, she'd said. And he would, if it freakin' killed him.

With his heart threatening to pound right out of his chest, Mick reached down between their joined bodies and knuckled her clit once again. That teeny amount of pressure was all it took to send her flying over the edge.

Her back bowed off the bed, her mouth opened in a soundless scream and he could feel her tight little body closing around him, again and again, hard contractions that ultimately set him free, as well. The orgasm blasted from the back of his loins like a bullet down the barrel of a gun, and with each continuing pulse from her body, he quivered and shook. Gooseflesh raced up and down his spine, and it took every bit of strength he possessed not to completely collapse on top of her.

Hands down, it was the most incredible sex of his life.

And he knew why. He knew, though he didn't want to admit it, didn't want to even acknowledge what was happening to him.

The difference was her, Mick knew. Sarah Jane Walker, his hellcat, his she-devil. He chuckled softly, gently pressing a kiss to her cheek.

His little badass.

The question was...just what in the hell was he supposed to do with her? Particularly when he didn't know what he was going to do with himself.

"WELL, THIS IS CERTAINLY a significant change in events," Tina said, staring at Sarah Jane in wide-eyed astonishment. "You know, when you called this morning and said you were going to miss breakfast, I didn't think that much about it. I just thought you were staying home and licking your wounds." Her lips twitched. "But that wasn't the case at all, was it? You were too busy licking him."

Sarah Jane finished putting a coat of paint on the picket fence that would go around their Fried Pie Festival booth, and felt the tops of her ears burn. "Only after he came clean," she said.

Tina cocked her head in bemusement. "He came clean? Really? In my experience it's always been a little—" she gave a delicate shudder "—messy."

Struggling to keep a straight face, Sarah Jane glared at her friend. "Did you completely miss the part where I said he was going to help me find the will? That he hadn't felt right about any of this since the beginning? That Chastity's evil plan has backfired because the lackey she thought she was hiring isn't a lackey at all, but a hero?" Sarah Jane quirked a brow, practically giddy at the thought. "Were you listening to me at all, or are you more interested in teasing me about the best sex I've ever had in my life?"

Tina dipped her brush once more. "Seriously? The best ever?"

"Tina."

"Fine." Her friend relented. "If you want to focus on the whole villain-to-hero aspect of this—which admittedly is pretty damned romantic—then I suppose that'll work for me." She slid her a look. "But it's still not as juicy as the sex news if you ask me."

Villain-to-hero aspect, Sarah Jane thought, secretly pleased with her friend's assessment. That certainly seemed fitting. Just a couple of days ago Mick had been the instrument of her destruction, but things had definitely changed.

And though they'd searched every nook and cranny of her old house—and she'd departed the premises with her mother's wedding dress, her father's pipe, as well as a few photo albums she'd wanted—and they still hadn't found the will, Sarah Jane felt confident that, together, they would.

As a matter of fact, next week during the festival, while Cecil was busily judging the competition, they planned to sneak away to search his office. With any luck they'd lay hands on it and be back at the town square by the time the winners were announced. In the meantime, Chastity was going to be lulled into a false sense of security, imagining that her watchdog was in place, especially since Sarah Jane had every intention of spending most of her time next week with Mick. She grinned.

And so far, her plan was working out splendidly.

Though he hadn't stayed with her last night, Sarah Jane had every intention of asking him to do so tonight. She'd met him first thing this morning at the Milton Plantation and, despite several lengthy kisses, which led to some pretty intense sex, they'd managed to get an incredible amount of work done. No doubt she would finish ahead of time, which was better for everyone all around. Ervin's dozer schedule wouldn't be interrupted, and with Mick at her side for the next week, she'd encouraged Mason to take time off to scope out a few local colleges, something he'd been postponing in favor of working with her.

Though she'd always done the majority of the salvage work herself, Sarah Jane had to admit having a capable second on the job with her was...nice. Not to say that she didn't appreciate Mason—she did.

But Mick...Mick worked with the same care and efficiency that she did, and while she'd always loved her job, she had to admit she'd loved it more the past couple of days with him by her side. Why? A million little reasons—that crooked smile, the humor in those unusual blue eyes, the way his chocolate waves became more endearingly unruly as the day wore on. He was smart and funny and every once in a while—usually when he had the camera pointed at her—she'd catch him looking at her in a most peculiar way. One that made her heart swell with the bloom of something special.

Something rare.

How did she know this? Because she was giving him the same unsure can-I-trust-what-I'm-feeling? look.

When she'd said last night had been the best sex she'd ever had in her life, Sarah Jane hadn't been lying. Hands down, the absolute best sex ever. It had rocked her world, shook her universe, sent her sailing past cloud nine and back again.

But...it had been so much more than that.

Damn those if-onlys, she thought.

Mick Chivers, a damaged, restless, guarded island unto himself, a lonely mustang, former military, soon to be former security specialist, with seemingly no plans for the future, who'd spent more time at a boarding school than at home, who'd learned carpentry from his grandfather and never mentioned parents or siblings—a man she knew seemingly nothing about—had managed, with just a crook of those devastatingly sexy lips, to insinuate himself into her...affections.

No, as much as Sarah Jane would like to tell herself this was merely a harmless flirtation punctuated with magnificent sex, she knew better.

She knew herself better. For the first time in her life, she could look ahead and see a future—one that was as imaginary as the life she'd planned on Ponder Hill. Still, in her mind she could see him by her side in her dream house, them making love in the blue glow of stained glass beneath her wishing angel.

Unfortunately, she didn't know Mick as well as she knew herself. But with any luck that would soon change. Tonight, they planned to order a pizza, then Sarah Jane had promised to show him the fine art of fried pie making. It was just an excuse, of course. She would have invited him over to watch paint dry if it meant she could spend another minute with him. Just knowing that he was leaving soon—an unspoken assumption—hung like a black cloud over their otherwise rosy new romance. But rather than think about that unpleasantness, she'd borrowed another page from Scarlett O'Hara's book and tried not to think about it. Tomorrow was another day. It wasn't the brightest or most mature tack, she'd admit, but she'd work with what she had.

And right now all she had was a limited time frame that was going to have to last her a lifetime.

"So no luck finding the will, then?" Tina asked, drawing her back into their conversation.

"None," she admitted, frowning darkly. "I think she's destroyed it." It was just the sort of thing Chastity would do. Her father's last wishes, tossed aside like so much garbage.

Tina's worried gaze met hers. "Surely to God Cecil has more sense than that."

"One would hope," Sarah Jane said with a shrug.

"But you never know with men."

Her friend snorted. "You can say that again." She slid Sarah Jane a veiled look that instantly piqued her curiosity. "You're not the only one who had some interesting action last night."

"What?" Sarah Jane breathed. "Did you hear from Chase?"

Tina chuckled. "In a manner of speaking. He called and left a message on my machine, saying he'd be over after he 'finished spilling his intestines into our local sewer system' to have a little chat with me."

Sarah Jane choked on a laugh. She could just imagine his outrage. Served him right for hurting her friend.

"So I invited Mark Higgins over for dinner and served him my lemon artichoke chicken, roasted new potatoes, peas in white sauce and..." Tina's eyes twinkled with vengeful humor.

"Banana pudding," Sarah Jane finished breathlessly, awestruck at her friend's diabolical plan.

Chase's meal. His absolute favorite, the one Tina made only for him. If the way to a man's heart was indeed through his stomach, then watching another man enjoy his bounty had to have positively eaten Chase up. "I'm so proud of you," Sarah Jane said, impressed. "That sounds like something I would do."

"I know." She squealed delightedly, apparently shocked at herself. "I opened every blind and every curtain in the dining room." She giggled. "Chase beat on the front door like an outraged elephant. It was wonderful."

"What did you do?"

"I calmly told him that I had a date and we were trying to enjoy our meal. If he was hungry or looking for company he could try 410 First Street."

Sarah Jane felt her eyes widen significantly. "Laura's address. Stroke of genius," she said, nodding. "Utterly brilliant."

Tina made a moue of regret. "I'm not sure how brilliant Mark thought it was. He knows how I feel about Chase." She gave a little miserable snort. "Hell, the whole town knows that."

"Don't worry about Mark," Sarah Jane told her.

"He's always happy for a good meal. As for Chase...I'll bet he's questioning what he knows today."

Tina crossed her arms over her chest. "I hope you're right. He certainly seemed jealous."

"Has he called?"

"Several times. I've been ignoring him. He came by Clara's this morning and she wouldn't let him into the kitchen."

Sarah Jane grinned. "Excellent. I think this is just what he needs."

"I don't know about that, but it feels good to stop being the victim, I can tell you that." Tina smiled sadly.

"I should have listened to you a long time ago."

Remembering the little insight she'd had last night about her friend's feelings, Sarah Jane shook her head. "Nah," she said. "I believe that everything happens in its own time for its own reason. Until now, you haven't been ready." She rocked back on her heels. "Now you are."

Tina's concerned gaze met hers. "What about you, Sarah Jane? Are you going to be 'ready' when Mick leaves town?"

Sarah Jane ignored the prick of uneasiness in her chest and shrugged. At this rate, Scarlett O'Hara wouldn't have enough pages in her book to matter. "Honestly, Tina, I'm trying not to think that far ahead."

"Whether you're thinking about it or not, it's coming." Tina winced, her face a mask of concern. "I just don't want to see you get hurt. I know that Mick's ended up being a really great guy—and I'm thrilled that he's going to help you—but that boy looks like the type who's always sitting on G, waiting on O." She hesitated. "I guess what I'm trying to say is—"

Sarah Jane smiled sadly. "I know what you're trying to say, and I know, so no worries, okay? I know what I'm doing."

Lies, lies, all lies. She didn't have any idea in hell what she was doing. She just knew she couldn't stop.

## 13

MICK PLUCKED ANOTHER berry from the basket on Sarah Jane's kitchen counter and watched her carefully flip another fried pie. She wore a frilly apron over her trademark sleeveless shirt and shorts, her hair pulled into its usual ponytail. There was a smudge of flour on her adorable chin, and while he knew he should tell her about it or wipe it off himself, he thought she looked too damned cute.

One of her cats—Nod, if memory served—wound around her legs while she stood at the stove, and all three dogs lay sprawled under the kitchen table. Norah Jones's voice floated from an under-the-counter CD player, and the strong scent of cinnamon sugar flavored the air.

"All right," Sarah Jane said, transferring a warm pie onto a plate for him. "I'm a pie purist, which means I don't want any whipped topping or ice cream. However, if you'd like some, I have one or both."

Mick grinned. "A pie purist?"

Her answering smile was chiding. "Don't mock me. I told you we take our pie seriously around here."

He nodded and reached for the fork she handed him. "I remember."

She giggled, the sound vibrating through him. "You thought we were all crazy, didn't you?"

"I don't know where you would have gotten that idea."

Sarah Jane's lips curled. "You mean that 'I've-landed-in-Yokelville' look on your face wasn't supposed to tip us off?"

Mick carved off a chunk of flaky pie and lifted his chin. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've already told you that I was too busy staring at your ass to think about pie or anything else."

"You were facing me when we were talking about pie, boy genius."

He smiled evilly. "Sorry. I meant your breasts."

She gasped and whacked him with a dish towel. "Try it," she said, gesturing to his loaded fork.

Mick winked at her, then took a bite. Warm, sugary, the perfect blend between tart and sweet. Like her, he thought again. He groaned in pleasure and his gaze swung to hers. "This is wonderful," he said thickly. "No wonder you win every year."

"I haven't won every year," she said. "Just the past three." She smiled. "But I've got some new competition this year that I'm a little worried about."

"Oh, really? Who?"

She grinned. "Tina."

Mick inclined his head. "Ah. What sort of pie will Tina be entering?"

"I don't know. Though we've never kept secrets from each other in our lives, she's guarding her entry like it's the holy grail." Sarah Jane quirked her lips. "It's quite annoying of her, actually."

"Well, I don't care what she enters, you've got her beat."

"Thank you," she said, nodding primly. "I'm glad you like it."

"Seriously, Sarah Jane. It's fabulous." He took another bite. "Have you ever thought about trying to sell them through any of the local stores around here?"

She shook her head and a shadow passed behind her eyes. "Nah," she said. "This recipe belonged to my mother. It's a piece of my past, not a marketing strategy." She took a dishcloth and wiped down the counter. "This is just my way of honoring her, if that makes sense."

Mick swallowed. "Of course."

She turned to look at him. "What about you? Any family traditions?"

Before he could stop himself, he snorted. "Er...no." Mick glanced at her, then away. Damn, this was awkward. "I'm not what you'd call close to my parents," he admitted.

Her lips twisted. "I gathered that when you mentioned boarding school."

"I was...rambunctious," Mick said, glossing over the "bad seed" comment he'd once heard his father make. "And my parents weren't cut out to have kids. They're both college professors, scholarly, studious. They were always so wrapped up in their jobs and each other that I think I just—" he swallowed and gestured "—got in the way."

A flash of outrage lit her eyes, making something in his heart shift. "Bullshit. They became parents. They should have nurtured you, treasured you, not dubbed you a problem child and shipped you off to military school." She blushed, evidently fearing she'd overstepped her bounds. "Sorry," she said. "I know it's not my place—"

Mick waved his hand again, secretly pleased with her outrage on his behalf. He'd barely revealed the tip of the iceberg and she knew exactly what she was dealing with, right out of the gate. "It's fine. Water under the bridge."

"Maybe now, but I'll bet it nearly drowned you as a kid. Did you stir up a lot of trouble? Try to get sent home?"

He blinked, surprised. "Er..."

She lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug and smiled. "It's what I would have done."

"I did in the beginning," Mick found himself telling her, surprised at how easily the words were coming.

"But then I'd get home and I'd be more miserable." His gaze found hers. "Believe it or not, it ended up being the best thing for me. I was always pulling some sort of prank, always getting in trouble. Hell, I told you what my nickname was, the one I got in Jump School."

"The Hell-raiser?" She nodded, and those gorgeous eyes, lit with humor, tangled with his. "I remember. And I can see where that would fit. You do seem a bit...restless."

"Restless?"

"Or as Tina says, 'sitting on G, waiting on O.'"

Mick laughed. "That's a new one."

"I have more."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Hopefully, because I'm fascinating," she deadpanned, causing a bark of laughter to rumble from his chest.

"You are that, Sarah Jane," Mick said, sidling closer to her. He picked up a blackberry and fed it to her, felt his dick twitch as her ripe mouth closed around the succulent fruit. "And more."

Her gaze searched his. "Can I ask you something, Mick?"

He grimaced. "Usually that question is followed by a more personal one."

"It is personal," she admitted. "But I'm curious and it's not in my nature not to ask questions. You can reserve the right to refuse."

He nodded. "All right. Shoot."

"You said this was your first job since leaving the military. But you've never said why you left." She winced slightly, waiting for his response. "Too personal?"

Damn.

"No problem," she said, stepping away from him when he didn't respond. "Forget I asked. I just—"

"I screwed up," Mick admitted. "That's the short answer. Will that suffice?"

She studied his face and the flash of pity he saw in her eyes made him wonder what he'd revealed. He felt raw and open, as though she were delving into his thoughts, seeing things he wanted to keep hidden. "It will. Thank you."

"Tit for tat," Mick said. "I want to ask you something."

She shrugged. "Ask away."

"Last night...what made you decide to trust me?" He didn't know why her answer was important, but it was, and he'd been wondering about it all day. He'd deceived her six ways till Sunday and yet she'd still somehow managed to find merit in him. How?

Once again that penetrating gaze caught and held his. "Because you were so desperate for me to believe you, to believe in you. I knew you had to be telling the truth." She shrugged and offered a slightly wicked grin. "I was also hopelessly in lust with you, and sleeping with you seemed like an excellent consolation prize."

Another choked laugh got strangled in his throat. "C-consolation prize?" He'd been called many things in his life, but that was definitely a first.

"It seemed only fair," she said. "You'd put me through hell. I figured the least I should get was an orgasm out of it."

"Only one?" Mick said, playing along. "I was a total bastard. I think I owe you more than one, don't you?"

Sarah Jane picked up the basket of blackberries and a can of whipped cream and started out of the kitchen. She shot him a sidelong glance and grinned. "You don't really think you're here just to eat pie, do you?"

PREDICTABLY, Mick followed her into her bedroom. He pulled his shirt up over his head, revealing a chest so heartbreakingly perfect she wanted to weep. "I thought you said you were a pie purist?"

"I am." Sarah Jane set the berries and cream on the nightstand, then wiggled out of her clothes, leaving nothing but the apron on. "Who said the whipped cream was for pie?"

The look on Mick's face was priceless, and a slow, knowing smile slid over that endearingly sexy mouth. "You like shocking me, don't you? You like telling my heart that it's okay to have an attack."

"Wrong. I need you to stay healthy, otherwise I couldn't claim my consolation prizes."

He nodded, coming purposefully toward hers, his jeans unbuttoned and sagging at the waist, his manly feet bare. All male. All hers. "Ah, yes," he said. "And that would be a tragedy. I would hate for you to feel slighted."

Her gaze dropped to the impressive bulge in the front of his pants and a shuddering breath leaked out of her lungs. "I can assure you, I have yet to feel slighted." Her eyes widened considerably. "Overwhelmed, but never slighted."

Mick fingered the gauzy lace along the edge of her gingham apron. "Nice," he murmured.

"I'm glad you approve. Take off your pants."

He chuckled, much to her delight. "You're bossy."

"And yet it turns you on." She gave him a gentle shove onto the edge of her bed and quickly stripped his pants and boxers off, then swept them out of the way.

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

Sarah Jane painted the head of his penis with a mound of whipped cream, causing a hissing sound to emerge from between his teeth. She took him in her hand and deliberately licked it off. "This."

Mick lay back on the bed with a shaky laugh. "Oh, well. It's hard to argue with that evidence."

Sarah Jane grinned and licked him again, making a slow, deliberate path around the engorged head of his penis. "Or when the evidence is so hard...."

He let out a growl, one that moved into her bones. She suckled him deep, licked and laved, enjoying every inch of him. He was smooth and hard, slippery and wet, and she loved the way he felt against her tongue. Her body grew languid, yet energized with every pull of him deep into her throat. She cupped his tautened balls, gently playing with them as she upped the tempo, sucking harder, flicking her tongue over the sensitive head.

Mick's thigh muscles abruptly tightened, heralding his impending climax. As much as she wanted to keep tasting him, she wanted to feel him come inside of her more. She snatched a waiting condom from the bedside table, opened the package, then swiftly rolled it into place. A second later, she was straddling him. The first bump of him against her throbbing clit pushed the breath from her lungs, and feeling him slide inch by inch inside of her all but made her go boneless.

Mick leaned forward and latched on to a nipple, his hot mouth tugging at her, inadvertently pulling at a nerve that ran between her breast and her sex. She clamped her muscles around him, dragging up, then pushing back down, riding him—heaven help her, loving him—with her body...He was glorious beneath her, all sleek muscle and supple skin, with a dusting of hair over his chest.

Feeding at her breasts, pushing up inside of her...

The beginning of climax stirred in her achy womb and she rode him harder, her thighs burning from the exertion. Her breath came in winded little gasps, and with every thrust of his hips, she spiraled closer and closer to the point of no return. Mick bucked violently beneath her, moved to the other breast, suckling hard. It was down and dirty sex, Sarah Jane thought, knowing the time for tenderness would come later.

After they both did.

But right now she just wanted this—him, hot and hard, driving into her as though his very life depended on bringing her to release.

The orgasm caught her unaware, broadsided her. Her body contracted around him, every throbbing pulse weakening her further and further. Seconds later she was completely spent, wrung dry, but wet and satisfied.

Momentarily sated, Mick quickly rolled her onto her belly, dragged her hips up off the mattress and pushed into her from behind. "I. Love. Your. Ass," he said, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. He palmed her bottom lovingly, slid his hands over her rump in that possessive manner that put her in mind of a caveman. Or a beast. Or a hell-raiser.

Either way, she just knew she liked it.

He bent forward and licked the small of her back, making her arch into him, unwittingly meeting him. With every brutal push, his balls slapped at her aching flesh and, impossibly, she felt her sex ripen for release once again.

Too soon, she thought, certain she'd pass out from the pleasure.

He reached around and unerringly found her clit, making a vee with his fingers so that every thrust squeezed with just the right amount of pressure.

She shattered.

White turned to black and black to white, then the whole world went gray before returning to color. Sarah Jane's mouth opened in a scream, but she didn't hear it. Couldn't. Every sensation, every nerve ending, every bit of perception was concentrated between her legs, and it was all that she could do to cling to consciousness.

Mick thrust once, twice, three times, then buried himself to the hilt and stayed there. She could feel him pulsing inside of her, his big body quaking behind her, a pool of heat where his release gathered at the end of the condom.

He kissed the small of her back once more, carefully withdrew from her, removed the protection with the help of a tissue from the nightstand. Then, still breathing a bit unsteadily, he rolled her into the crook of his arm and tenderly stroked her hair.

"You know what I think, Sarah Jane?" he asked, his voice rusty and a bit weak.

She smiled against his chest, feeling safer and more content than she ever had in her life. "What, Mick?"

He pressed a reverent kiss to her temple. "I think you're the prize."

Her throat clogged with emotion. And you've won me, she thought, imagining handing her heart over to him, silently praying that he wouldn't break it.

## 14

"GRAMPS?"

A week later Mick drew up short at the sight of his grandfather coming out of the B and B.

"It's bad form to invite a man down for a visit, then stay out all night, boy," Charlie Chivers said. "I hope you're not getting into any trouble."

Only the kind that could ruin him, Mick thought, once again wondering what the hell he was doing with Sarah Jane.

Well, technically, he knew what he was doing—he was falling in love with her. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day he was growing more and more attached to her.

Unfortunately, his life was utterly directionless, and though he'd like nothing better than to stay in this cocoon of happiness he'd found with her for the past week, the more he thought about it, the guiltier he felt for dragging her into the fray. She was happy. She was content. She had a town she loved and a career she cared about.

Meanwhile, he was still at odds, without any sort of cohesive plan for his future. All he knew at the moment, besides the millions of little things he'd committed to memory about Sarah Jane, was that everything he touched eventually turned to shit, and he didn't want that to happen to her. He cared about her too much.

Though it had been a very unpleasant call—because he feared he'd be letting another friend down—he'd reached Huck on his cell phone this morning while Sarah Jane was in the shower, and let him know he wouldn't be returning to Atlanta or continuing to work for Ranger Security.

Huck had actually laughed. "I didn't figure you would, Mick. It's her, isn't it?"

Damn know-it-all, Mick thought. He'd never been able to get anything past his buddy. Levi, either, whom he'd also called. Past time, but better late than never.

Rather than answer Huck's leading question, he'd offered to reimburse the company for Chastity's lost income—thankfully, he had a sizable nest egg stashed away in savings—and could easily cover it.

Huck had assured him that wouldn't be necessary, then predictably asked him what his plans were.

Excellent question, Mick thought, still at a loss for any kind of an answer. Right now, other than finding that will for Sarah Jane and getting out of town before he could do any more harm, he didn't have one.

Coward, a little voice taunted. You're scared. You're afraid of falling in love with her. You're afraid of letting her care for you. You're afraid of screwing this up, too.

He wished he could argue with that little voice, tell it to go to hell, then eat blackberries from Sarah Jane's belly button for the rest of his life, but he knew better.

Until he got his head on straight, he didn't have any business getting closer to her, or worse yet, letting her get any closer to him. The idea of hurting her made his skin go clammy and his palms sweat.

And the idea of leaving her made him sick to his stomach.

But he couldn't do this. Not now. Not with her. Messing up his own life was one thing, wrecking hers was another. Hadn't he learned that with Carson Wells? Hadn't that nearly destroyed both of them?

This last week with Sarah Jane had been phenomenal. He'd gotten a glimpse of what his world could be like with her in it. Beer and pizza, hard work and a sense of satisfaction, laughter and love, hot sex and sweet affection. Apple-scented hair and blackberry tattoos, the click of puppy feet on a hardwood floor. Domestic. Wonderful. Happy. Things he'd never really contemplated before. He sighed.

But ultimately beyond his reach.

At least at the moment.

"What time did you get in, Gramps?" Mick asked as his grandfather began to stare at him with an odd expression. "I thought you said you couldn't make it."

"I changed my mind," he said. "I got into town about six last night, I reckon. Pretty little burg, isn't it? Hopping square. I played chess with a guy last evening, did a little flirting. Good food, too." He nodded. "That Mabel knows how to fry a chicken." His grandfather's faded blue eyes searched his. "How's the job coming?"

"It's not," Mick admitted, grimacing. In quick succession he presented the facts to Charlie, leaving out the bit about how he'd fallen for Sarah Jane, and concluding with his new and improved plan to beat the hell out of Cecil Simmons until he gave up the will. Naturally, he hadn't shared his alternate plan with Sarah Jane—she'd want to help, and he'd rather she stay out of it.

If anybody went to jail today, it would be him.

Charlie moved the toothpick he'd been chewing from one side of his mouth to the other, then said, "Sounds to me like this was a bad deal from the start, Micky. You never were a good liar. It's what made you such a good soldier."

Mick swallowed. "Thanks, Gramps."

"Of course, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad to see you out of the military. Too much action there for a guy like you. I knew you'd never settle down, find a wife and have a few babies so long as you were a Ranger."

Startled, Mick glanced up.

"Don't look so scared, boy," he said, chuckling under his breath. "Granted, loving a woman is a helluva lot more terrifying than war, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it." He paused. "You need any help with that Simmons guy? I may be old, but I ain't dead yet. I've decided it's time to start living that way."

Pleased, Mick grinned. "Thanks, Gramps, but I'll handle it. I'd hate for you to miss any of the festival."

His grandfather clapped him on the back. "Don't you know it. I can't wait to get one of those blackberry fried pies you told me about. They're the talk of the town."

Whistling tunelessly, with a promise to see him later, Charlie made his way down the sidewalk and headed to the square. Sarah Jane, Mick knew, was already there, setting up and getting ready. He instinctively knew his grandfather would love her. She just had that way about her.

In fact, the best he could tell, the only people in town who didn't care for her were Chastity, who was jealous, and Cecil Simmons, who was screwing Chastity, so he disliked Sarah Jane by association.

It was time for both of them to leave his girl alone.

And good old Cecil was about to find that out the hard way.

Determined to catch the lawyer in his office before he, too, left for the festival, Mick quickly made his way to the man's place of business.

The receptionist looked up when he walked in. "Good morning. Can I help you?"

Mick grinned at her. "I sure hope so," he said, going into full-blown "aw-shucks" Southern-gentleman mode. "I don't have an appointment, but I could really use just a moment of Mr. Simmons's time. Would he happen to be available?"

She frowned. "I'm afraid he's finishing up a few things before he leaves to judge in the festival. Perhaps Monday would be better?"

Mick winced. "It really can't wait. I'll only take a minute." He aimed another smile at her, pleased when he saw her hesitate. "I promise," he added.

"All right." She relented. "Come with me." She knocked on Cecil's door. "Mr. Simmons, you've got a client here to see you. A Mr.—" She looked over her shoulder at him, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

"Chivers," Mick said.

"I thought you said I didn't have any appoint—"

Mick pushed through the door and carefully closed it before Cecil could get any further. He leveled a hard stare at the portly older man, taking note of the weak chin and receding hairline. He inwardly snorted. Definitely an easy mark for Chastity.

"Do you know who I am?" Mick asked.

There was a brief flicker of recognition before Cecil made the wrong choice and lied to him. "I'm afraid not," he said, smiling indulgently.

Mick walked forward, planted both fists on Cecil's desk and leaned in. "Then allow me to introduce myself. I'm Mick Chivers, former U.S. Army Ranger. I've been trained in lethal combat and can break your neck before you can blink." His voice hardened. "More importantly, I'm the man who's going to beat the hell out of you unless you produce George Walker's last will and testament. Am I making myself clear?"

The lawyer's gaze narrowed. "Is this a test? Did Chastity send you here?"

"I don't work for Chastity anymore, Mr. Simmons." Mick slammed his fist into the man's face, sending him reeling backward. Blood spurted from his nose—probably broken, Mick thought, tickled that he'd gotten to hit someone, because it actually made him feel better—and Cecil cried out in pain.

"Here's the way this is going to work," Mick explained. "You're going to get me that will so that I don't hit you again. And I'm going to promise not to have you disbarred for withholding it to start with."

The color leached from his face. "What? I—"

Mick came at him again.

"I'll get it!" Cecil screamed, cowering away.

"Mr. Simmons?" the receptionist called worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Tell her you're fine," Mick said.

"I'm fine, Melissa," he answered in a nasal tone.

"Now get the will," Mick ordered.

With his handkerchief clutched to his face, Cecil ignored the filing cabinet and instead made his way to a bookcase on the far wall. He withdrew a leather-bound book—The Count of Monte Cristo, Mick realized, one of his favorite reads—and from within its pages, pulled a velum envelope.

Very reluctantly, Simmons handed it over.

Mick quickly withdrew the contents and, after a brief scan, once again met Cecil's gaze. His lips twisted bitterly. "Well, I can see why Chastity wasn't happy with this arrangement. She got a five thousand dollar settlement and the car, and Sarah Jane got everything else."

"She can fight it," Cecil said, drawing himself up.

"Oh? And who's going to represent that claim? You?" Mick grinned again. "I doubt it. But let me tell you what you are going to do. You are personally going to reimburse Sarah Jane every penny above five grand that Chastity has gone through."

Simmons's eyes widened in panic as he no doubt tallied up the plastic surgery, the new car, the deposit on the vacation home. "What? No! I can't possibly—"

"You can and you will, or I'll see to it that you're disbarred. The end. You don't have a choice, Cecil. You let Chastity take that away from you. Another protest and we'll tack on some emotional distress bucks for Sarah Jane. After all, you've put her through hell."

The older man seemed to deflate before his eyes. He had the most bewildered look. Lost, stupid and miserable. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking," he muttered.

Mick doubted whether he'd been thinking at all, but kept that tidbit to himself. With the will in hand, he walked to the door, then stopped short as another thought struck him. "One more thing. If her pie is the best, it wins. No taking this out on her."

Cecil drew himself up, as though his honor had been impugned. "Of course," he said. "I take my judging duties very seriously."

"Yeah, well, you'd have a lot more money right now if you'd given your lawyering duties the same attention." And with that parting shot, Mick left.

It was time to hand the will over, then do Sarah Jane an even bigger favor and get the hell out of her life while it was still on track. His chest ached at the very thought, and an odd pang pricked his conscience, but he straightened his spine and determinedly ignored both.

Man up, Chivers, he told himself. If it was easy, then it wouldn't be right, would it?

SARAH JANE DIDN'T KNOW what had happened between last night and early this morning, but somewhere in between, Mick had gotten...quiet.

And a quiet Mick, quite frankly, scared the hell out of her.

Her gaze slid to him now and, though she could tell he was happy that she'd won her fourth consecutive victory for her blackberry fried pies, she could also feel him pulling away. Retreating.

"Land sakes, girl, I think this is the best dessert I've ever put in my mouth," Charlie Chivers, Mick's grandfather who'd arrived unexpectedly, told her. "I'll admit that peach used to be my favorite, but there's something in this that just makes it a little bit better." He took another bite and frowned thoughtfully. "You wouldn't tell me, now would you?"

Charmed, Sarah Jane grinned. "Sorry," she said. "It's a family secret."

He looked at his grandson, then glanced back at her, and a twinkle lit those familiar blue eyes. "I can wait," he said mysteriously. Sarah Jane frowned. What had he meant by that?

Mick sidled forward, his own eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "Why do I feel like he's getting me in trouble?"

"I'm not getting you in trouble," Charlie said. He snorted. "You do enough of that on your own without any help."

"Thanks, Gramps," Mick told him. "Glad to know you've always got my back."

Merely chuckling, Charlie wandered over to Mabel's booth.

"Tina doesn't seem to be taking losing too hard," Mick said, jerking his head in her direction. Chase had arrived at their booth the minute the festival opened and, despite her protests, bought every single one of her pineapple cream cheese pies, determined that Mark Higgins—or any other man, for that matter—wasn't going to get another bite of Tina's cuisine.

Sarah Jane grinned, glad that Chase seemed to be coming around. "I'd say she's happier winning Chase back than a blue ribbon."

Mick inclined his head. He hesitated, and in that moment she could have sworn she heard her heart break. She knew what was coming. Instinctively knew that whatever he had to say was going to hurt her.

"Listen, Sarah Jane, I was wondering if we could go somewhere and talk for a moment."

Er...no. If she stayed here, she could keep it together. If she walked away with him, who knew what she would do? Make a fool of herself? Scream, cry, ask for another consolation prize?

She shook her head and pretended she didn't think anything was ominous about his request, when in reality she could already feel her legs shaking. "Actually, I shouldn't leave my booth."

"Oh."

"Is something wrong?"

He laughed darkly. "With you? No. With me? Everything." He looked away, smiled as he spotted his grandfather shamelessly flirting with Mabel. Mick released a breath, then withdrew a long envelope from his front pocket and handed it to her. His knuckles were scraped and bore the telltale signs of a recent fight. "I went to see Cecil this morning and I got this for you."

Sarah Jane's fingers went numb and her heartbeat kicked into an irregular rhythm. Her father's will? Stunned, her gaze flew to his. "Mick," she breathed.

"He's going to pay you back for every cent above what Chastity was supposed to get. Otherwise, I have promised to have him disbarred or worse." Mick gave a grunt of disgust. "It's no wonder she didn't want you to see it. I don't know if this was the will you saw, but in this one Chastity only gets five thousand dollars and your father's car. That's it."

Sarah Jane sank down onto her stool and carefully reviewed the paperwork. It was just as Mick had said. "No," she told him, swallowing hard. "This isn't the will I saw. Dad had left her his life insurance proceeds and part of his retirement fund...." She shook her head, flabbergasted. "He must have changed his mind, must have—" She stopped short as a handwritten note slipped from the pages. She instantly recognized her father's masculine scrawl, and a huge lump welled in her throat, making her gasp for breath.

You were always my first girl. I hope this proves it. Love, Dad

That was it. Simple and to the point, a wealth of meaning behind a few little words. But that was her dad. Though she'd suspected that he'd realized he'd made a mistake, he was too proud to admit it to her face. Instead, generous as always, he'd done this instead.

Sarah Jane blinked back tears and looked up at Mick. "Thank you," she said, her voice clogged with unshed emotion. "I don't know how I'll ever make it up to you."

Mick swallowed, shifted awkwardly. "You don't have to. I just couldn't leave without making sure that you had it."

And there it was. She cleared her throat, inwardly bracing herself. She knew this about him. Knew that he was restless, and that ever trying to put a bridle on him would be an act of futility. She'd been telling herself that over and over from the moment she first saw him. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah," he said. He laughed, but the sound was brittle and completely unnatural. So unlike him. "I've, uh, I've got to get a résumé together, start looking for a job."

"I'm hiring," Sarah Jane said, laying it all on the line. She didn't so much as crack a smile. She was serious and he knew it.

Pain sliced across his woefully familiar face. "Sarah Jane, I—"

"You don't have to decide now, Mick," she said. "But you're a great carpenter and we work well together. Think about it," she added. "That's all I'm asking."

He seemed to be wrestling with a decision. His jaw worked and the ever-present shadow he never seemed able to shake darkened around him. "I have thought about it, Sarah Jane." He gave a bark of ironic laughter. "The thing is, everything I touch lately falls apart and I...I can't let that happen to you."

So he was saving her, was he? she wondered, instantly irritated. Thank God, Sarah Jane thought. Something she could get angry over. Of all the crack-brained, ridiculous, testosterone-inspired horseshit.

"Listen, Mick, while I appreciate the sentiment, I'm a big girl. I can look out for myself. If you want to bail on us—" she gestured between them "—on this, whatever's happening here, then at least pay me the courtesy of admitting that you're a coward or that you're just not interested. Don't tell me you're saving me, because that's total bullshit."

Though he didn't move a muscle, she felt a change in him. That perpetual tension reached breaking point. "Bullshit, eh? How's this for bullshit? You want to know why I left the military, Sarah Jane? I'll tell you why. Because I made a bad call and sent a man over a ridge and almost got him killed, that's why." Mick's voice vibrated with self-loathing and pain, and her heart ached for him. "I almost cost a wife her husband and his children their father, because I ordered him to take a risk I should have taken. I went too far and he almost paid the price."

Sarah Jane felt herself soften. "Mick, you couldn't have known—"

He laughed darkly. "I know, and yet nobody seems to understand that it doesn't make a difference." He paused. "Another friend helped land me the placement with Ranger Security. First assignment, what do I do? I cross the line and get personally involved with you."

"Surely you don't think—"

"I know it was the right thing to do, Sarah Jane," Mick interrupted, passing a weary hand over his face.

"But it doesn't change the fact that I have botched another job, and while I haven't ruined a friendship, I sure as hell haven't done it any favors. I feel like I've betrayed another trust."

Though she knew it was futile, she had to argue with him. Had to try and make him understand. "Mick, what you're describing is life, not bad luck or a losing streak. Life is messy, it's complicated. You get dirty. You get knocked down, then you pick yourself up again." She reached out and cupped his jaw. She lowered her voice. "These are setbacks, not a permanent way of life."

"Whatever my life is, Sarah Jane, it's a mess right now, and it's not fair to drag you into it. I'm sorry." He exhaled heavily, then kissed her cheek, turned and walked away.

She watched him find his grandfather and tell him something, which made the older gentleman frown and look back at her. Charlie shook his head at her in apology and followed Mick away from the festivities.

Just her luck, Sarah Jane thought. She finally found a guy she could fall in love with, and the fool believed he was being noble by abandoning her. Tears burned her eyes and a lump the size of Arkansas swelled in her throat.

Tina wandered back into their booth. "Well, you were right," she announced happily. "Our evil plan worked. Chase has—" She drew up short, glimpsing Sarah Jane's face. "What's wrong?"

"You were right, too," she said. "S-sitting on G, w-waiting on O." She swallowed tightly. "He's gone."

Tina inhaled sharply. "Oh, honey," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Sarah Jane managed a watery smile and rattled the will significantly.

Her friend's eyes widened. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yep." She snagged a napkin and blew her nose.

"Come on," she said. "I'm going to console myself by evicting Chastity."

Then she'd work on evicting Mick from her heart.

## 15

One month later...

STILL A BIT IN SHOCK, Mick helped his grandfather load the last of his stuff onto the moving truck, then stepped back and closed the door. "I guess that's it, Gramps." He kicked at a loose pebble in the driveway. "Are you sure about this?"

"How many times have I got to answer that question?" Charlie grumbled. "I'm moving. I'm taking Morgan Freeman's advice from Shawshank Redemption. 'Member that line? 'Get busy living or get busy dying.'"

Mick swallowed a long-suffering sigh. Yes, he remembered. He'd only heard it about a dozen times over the past three weeks.

"Since I ain't ready to die, I reckon I'll live. I don't want to live here anymore, which I have explained to you repeatedly." Charlie paused and scratched his head.

"Usually you ain't so thick. I don't know what your problem is. You've been in a terrible mood lately."

"I'm not thick," Mick explained, summoning patience. "I just think you're making a snap decision based on Mabel's fried chicken and an annual festival centered around a dessert."

Honestly, when his grandfather had announced that he was moving to Monarch Grove—into Sarah Jane's old house, no less—Mick couldn't have been any more stunned than if Charlie had suddenly announced he was going to start buying foreign-made vehicles, or planned to march in a Gay Pride parade. Citing the need to be alone, Mick's grandfather—despite an interesting run-in with Byron, which had involved the breaking of glass and a few choice words about keeping his cold hands to himself—had stayed in Monarch Grove for a few days after his grandson had left. Mick had assumed it was to give him some space. He'd never dreamed the old man had actually been looking for a new place to live.

"Well, I hate moving off and leaving you, but you know where I am, and you're always welcome to visit," Charlie said. "That article in Designing Weekly has done amazing things for Sarah Jane's business, so I'm going to help her out until she finds a permanent partner," he added slyly, knowing it would drive Mick crazy. "That Sarah Jane," Charlie added fondly. "She's a pip. Hard worker, good heart, easy on the eyes." His grandfather stared at him. "A man could do a lot worse than a girl like her."

So he'd said, Mick thought, once again ignoring the pointed attempts at matchmaking. As if he didn't know exactly what kind of person Sarah Jane was. As if he didn't miss her with every fiber of his being, with every miserable beat of his heart.

Over the past month Mick had come within a gnat's ass of going back, of taking her up on her offer. After all, he sure as hell wasn't getting anything done here. He'd picked up breathing right where his grandfather had left off, maintaining the delicate balance of the Kentucky ecosystem. He inwardly snorted at the thought.

He'd been restless and miserable, like a cat pacing a cage, ever since he'd walked away from her. And no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he was doing her a favor, that until he got his head screwed on straight he didn't need to become any more involved with her than he already was, Mick couldn't help but think he was a first-class full-of-shit ass.

His grandfather exhaled mightily, as though he'd finally lost patience with something. Or someone.

Namely him.

"Okay, Micky. I've got to say something to you." His bushy brows drew together in a straight line. "All my life, I've tried to make up for the fact that you pretty much got the shaft from your parents. I brought you home with me every summer and I taught you a trade, so that you'd always have a way to earn a living. No, I didn't make you a rocket scientist, but carpentry is honest work, and if it was good enough for Jesus, then I reckon it ought to be good enough for anybody." He paused. "But the one thing I haven't been able to teach you is something that you can't learn."

Mick blinked, confused. "If you can't teach it, then how can you learn it?"

"Don't sass me, boy," his grandfather snapped. His silver head bobbed with indignation. "It's good old common sense! Sorry to say so, but you don't seem to have any. Or you've lost it. Either way, you're making a total mess of things right now and, well, what sort of grandparent would I be if I didn't try to help?"

"The kind that doesn't insult and interfere?" he suggested.

"That's not my style."

He didn't think he'd be so lucky, Mick thought, swallowing a long-suffering sigh.

"Anyway, I know that you've been going through a rough patch lately. I can tell that your confidence is shot to hell, and with good reason. I'm not going to tell you not to blame yourself for that mistake with Carson Wells. But I would ask you to put one of those buddies you're so proud of into your shoes, and tell me if you thought they ought to feel responsible."

Mick paused. "You mean if it had been Huck or Levi who'd made the call to send Carson over the ridge?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"I don't know," he said, though he was lying. Had it been one of them, he would have told them the same thing they'd been telling him for months. That they weren't mind readers and a soldier's orders were only as good as his intel.

"Well, I suggest you think on it," Charlie had told him. "And in the meantime, you need to get your butt back to Monarch Grove and patch things up with Sarah Jane."

"Gramps—"

"I saw the way you looked at her, Micky," his grandfather said, his voice low and knowing. "I may be old, but I'm not blind. You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question, but a statement, one that was accurate and on target.

"And you're miserable." Charlie slapped him on the arm. "Seems to me you need to follow Morgan Freeman's advice, too. Get busy living or get busy dying. Just because you're young doesn't mean you've got a golden ticket."

And with that parting advice, he clapped Mick on the back, climbed into the cab of the truck and drove away.

To Monarch Grove. To Sarah Jane.

An image of a big old home place, restored and filled with dark blond children and a menagerie of pets, the scent of blackberry pies in the oven, suddenly overwhelmed Mick. He imagined working with her every day, lying down with her every night, waking up with her every morning and all the wonderful things that could happen in between. Warm thighs, soft breasts, breakfast in bed, Christmas mornings...

He imagined his life with her, and knew every moment away from her was one wasted.

He'd been such an idiot, Mick thought, disgusted with himself. A total and complete idiot.

And stupidity of this order demanded a grand gesture. Thankfully, Sarah Jane had given him the information he needed to make one.

"SARAH JANE, I'm afraid I've got some bad news," Mason said, staring at her with a hangdog expression that instantly put her on alert.

In the process of putting her tools away, she stilled. They'd been working at another old house in a neighboring city for the better part of two weeks, and had finally finished the salvage. Deciding a vacation was in order after such a hard summer—not to mention the whole broken-heart thing—she'd booked a condo in Orange Beach, and was looking forward to taking a bagful of books and some sunscreen, and hitting the sand for a little relaxation. If Mason's bad news jeopardized her plans, she'd quite possibly pitch a good old-fashioned, bucket-kicking fit, turning her inner redneck loose.

"What?" she asked cautiously.

"That was Carl," he said, gesturing to his cell phone.

"Imogene Childress has sold Ponder Hill."

Horrified, Sarah Jane gasped. Shock lanced through her. "But I just tried to buy it from her a couple of weeks ago! She swore she wasn't going to sell!" Sarah Jane began to pace, shoving her hands into her hair, pulling until her scalp ached. "Did he say who bought it?"

Maybe if she offered that person enough money, she could convince them to sell. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes, and resisted the urge to drop onto her rear end and squall. Honestly, she hadn't shed a tear over Mick—she'd told herself that crying indicated she'd given up on him, and she hadn't—but losing that house, her dream home, suddenly made everything else, every repressed emotion, every bit of irritation, fear, longing and hope, bubble up within her and pour out of her eyes.

Huge sobs caught in her throat, then escaped, one gasp at a time.

Seemingly unsure of what to do, Mason hurried over and put a scrawny arm around her shoulders. "Oh, Sarah Jane, don't cry. Carl says the buyer is interested in restoring the house and won't work with anyone but you. I told him we'd go straight out there."

Sarah Jane hiccupped and looked up. "What? Restore the house?"

"Yes," Mason said. "That's good news, right?"

"No, Mason," she said, even more miserable. Now, not only was she not going to live in her dream house, she was going to be asked to restore it to someone else's specs. She shook her head. Nope. She couldn't do it.

"Call Carl back and tell him the buyer is going to have to come up with an alternate solution. I'm not doing it."

Mason blinked, seemingly certain he'd misunderstood. And with good reason—she'd never turned down work before. But this was one job she couldn't do.

"Sarah Jane, at least meet with the guy. See what his plans are."

She frowned. "It's a guy?"

He nodded. "That was my understanding. It's on the way home. Let's just swing by and see what he has to say."

She'd swing by and kiss her dreams goodbye, Sarah Jane thought. Make a final wish on her angel. But she'd be damned if she'd fix up her house for someone else.

Twenty minutes later, she climbed out of the truck and stared up at the old mansion, her throat tight. Rather than join her, Mason powered the window down. "I'm going to run down to Carl's for a minute. He asked me to come by and check his computer. He's having some trouble."

Sarah Jane frowned. He was leaving? "Mason—"

"Go on inside," he said, making shooing motions. "I'll be right back." And with that odd behavior, he was off.

Oh, well, she thought. It didn't look as if the new owner was here, either, which was actually kind of nice. She'd like to spend a minute in the old house before she left, to say goodbye. She doubted whoever it was would appreciate her habit of breaking and entering. Then again, she'd been in jail before and had survived the experience.

She lingered a minute in every room, once again imagining how she would have restored things, arranged the furniture, put up her Christmas tree and installed her claw-foot tub. Ridiculous, she knew, but she couldn't help it. She'd always, always loved this house.

Eventually she made her way upstairs, to her favorite spot in the whole place, her angel window overlooking the property. Another lump welled in her throat as she stared out across the landscape.

She had one wish left, Sarah Jane thought. She'd better make it count. "Send him back to me," she whispered, tracing the angel's robe with her index finger. "Please."

Mick stepped out from a bedroom on the right, startling her. She inhaled sharply and clasped a hand over her mouth. That gorgeous smile, sexy and irreverent and just the slightest bit unsure, curled his lips. "Hi, Sarah Jane."

She stared at him, unable to make it all make sense. "You?" she asked, her voice raw with emotion. "You bought this house?"

He nodded. "I did. It took a bit of persuading and more cash than I'd planned to part with, but after everything I've put you through...I thought it would make a nice—" his gaze tangled with hers "—consolation prize."

She blinked, confused. Consolation prize? Everything he'd put her through?

"It's yours, Sarah Jane," he said patiently. "I bought it for you. Actually, I bought it for us, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself." Again that endearing smile appeared, the one that made her heart ache.

God, she'd missed him.

She cleared her throat again. "Considering you bought the house before talking to me, I'd say you've already done that."

"I wanted to make a grand gesture," he said. "See if I could get rid of that Squatting Snake in the Grass moniker. Maybe exchange it for something a little better. Like Warrior Bleeding Heart's Husband?"

Sarah Jane grew utterly still as the impact of that little question rocketed through her. "Husband?"

He shrugged. "I'm already doing everything else backward. Thought I might as well go for broke and throw a proposal in there," he explained, as though this logic was completely reasonable.

"For the record, Mick, typically, women like it when a man gets down on one knee and offers a ring."

He sidled closer and slid the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. "Maybe so, but I'm not asking a typical woman. I'm asking you." His voice grew raspy, as though his throat was closing up, and his brilliant blue eyes pierced her. "And you are anything but ordinary, Sarah Jane."

He couldn't have found a compliment she would have appreciated more, she realized, her chest so full she feared it would burst. "Do you want an answer now?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Mick dropped his forehead against hers in relief. "Now would be nice, yes."

She tsked regretfully. "My life is a mess right now. I don't know if it would be fair to drag you into it," she said, shooting his words right back at him.

He laughed, the wretch, then lifted her off her feet and planted a long, hot kiss on her lips. Her insides melted. "Life's messy, Sarah Jane. But I'd rather be in a mess with you than anywhere else."

She grinned, realizing that every wish she'd ever made to her angel had come true in this moment. She rocked suggestively against him. "Then let's get dirty."

## Epilogue

One Year Later...

"WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK?" Mick asked.

Sarah Jane surveyed the outside of the house with a critical eye. "That wreath," she said, pointing. "It needs to be a hair to the right."

He expelled an exasperated breath, but did his wife's bidding. "Isn't that the one I just moved a hair to the left?"

"Yes, but I was wrong then." She beamed at him as he made the correction. "Yep, that's better."

"I'm glad," he said, climbing down off the ladder.

"I prefer the name Ponder Hill to The Widow-maker. And if I have to adjust another damned Christmas wreath I'm going to—"

She stopped his words with a long, slow kiss. "Take me inside and make love to me before a roaring fire?" she suggested silkily.

Mick growled low in his throat and smiled down at her. "That sounds like an excellent plan." He looked through the parlor-room window and sighed. "I'm assuming you mean after our guests leave?"

She squeezed his waist. "We have four fireplaces," she offered. "Surely one of those would work. I'm partial to the one in the upstairs bathroom."

Ah, a wonderful idea, he decided. Happier than he could ever imagine himself being, Mick felt a contented grin slide over his lips. "Have I ever mentioned that I like the way you think?"

"Maybe once or twice." She kissed the underside of his jaw, slid her hand up his chest and into the hair at his nape.

"How long until we can run them off?" Mick asked.

"Let's let them watch it one more time, then send them packing."

The "it" in question being their most recent ultrasound DVD. Charlie and Mabel, as well as Tina and Chase—who'd moved into Sarah Jane's old family home the instant she'd evicted Chastity—were all looking forward to welcoming the next generation of potential pranksters. Mick grinned. True to form, they were beginning their family in proper hell-raising, she-devil style—with twins, a boy and girl.

Now that was a compensation prize.

And he had one more for his lovely wife. Mick withdrew a little box from his pocket and handed it to her. "An early Christmas present," he explained at her uncertain look. Funny how the holidays used to be the most miserable time of the year for him, but now he looked forward to them with all the zeal of a kid who still believed in Santa Claus.

Smiling, Sarah Jane removed her gloves and carefully opened the box. She frowned at the little piece of paper she found inside. "What's this?"

"Look at it," Mick said.

She flipped it over and back, studying both sides, a questioning expression on her face. "It looks like an old receipt."

"It is," he confirmed. "For the stained glass window upstairs. Look at the name on the receipt."

A second later, her delighted gasp echoed between them, warming his heart. "Lillian Mae Walker. But that's—"

"Your great-great-grandmother," he stated. "You were right about your connection to the house. Lillian made your wishing angel."

Sarah Jane's eyes sparkled with tears of joy. "How did you find this?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Imogene kept good records, and made it a point to keep everything that had to do with this house. It was just a matter of going through her old files."

Sarah Jane's gaze dropped back down to the receipt, then to the upstairs window, after which she hugged him tightly. "Have I mentioned that I love you?" she asked.

"You have," Mick said. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "All the time, and in ways I never expect."

He grinned. "Good. I'm The Hell-raiser, you know. I'd hate to be predictable."

She chuckled softly. "Impossible," she said. "Utterly impossible."

## Lie with Me

## By Cara Summers

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

## Prologue

SECOND THOUGHTS ambushed me, stopping me short just as I reached the door to Roman Oliver's hospital room.

It was a hell of a time to be having them, but the momentum that had fueled me to race to Saint Jude's Trauma Center at the crack of dawn was threatening to drain away with the speed of air leaving a pricked balloon.

I needed that momentum if I was going to convince Roman to make love with me.

Get a grip, Philly. You've made your decision, and once you do that, you never backslide.

That was certainly true when it came to business. Since I'd graduated from college last year I'd already implemented steps in my plan to open my pet psychic business. In addition to working part-time as a hostess in my family's restaurant, I also assisted a vet at a local animal hospital, and I'd created my own Web site. But my plan with regard to Roman Oliver was not only more immediate, it was dependent on whether or not he agreed to it.

Stop dithering. Angelis women know what they want and how to get it. And you want Roman Oliver.

Through the narrow pane of glass in the door, I could see him sitting in the chair next to his bed gazing out the window. Just looking at Roman was enough to make every molecule in my body yearn.

Why did I want him? Let me count the ways. The man was incredibly attractive—if you went for a lean, raw-boned face, tousled dark hair, a full, firm mouth and the kind of hard-muscled body that ancient sculptors had captured over and over again in bronze and marble.

And it wasn't just his looks that attracted me. There was a quiet sense of determination and purpose about him that pulled at me, too.

Something fluttered right beneath my heart. Roman Oliver, current CEO of Oliver Enterprises and my brother Kit's best friend since their freshman year in college, had been causing that "heart flutter" response in me ever since I was sixteen and he'd saved my life while we were sailing. That's when I'd developed my first big crush on him. It had been a classic case of fantasy love, existing totally in my mind and completely one-sided. After all, I was sixteen and he was an older man of twenty-two.

But in the past year, my response to Roman had changed—drastically. The dryness in my throat, the thickness in the air and the heat that flooded my senses whenever I was in his vicinity signaled clearly to me that I was way beyond the crush stage and well into lust territory where Roman was concerned. Still, I might have been able to ignore my body's responses if I hadn't become convinced the attraction I felt was reciprocated. I hadn't been imagining the heated looks Roman had sent my way when he thought I wasn't looking. And I certainly hadn't imagined what had happened in his hospital room two days ago.

Nearly a week had passed since he'd taken the nearly fatal fall that had put him in Saint Jude's Trauma Center. He'd been injured at Saint Peter's Church while saving his sister Juliana's life, and it had been three more days before he'd fully regained consciousness and three days before the doctors had been able to say with certainty that there'd been no permanent injury to his spine.

I'd come to visit him every chance I got. Before that, I'd been shy in Roman's presence. But having almost lost him had motivated me to change my ways. Then two days ago, I'd been alone in the room with him. He'd been sleeping and because I couldn't help myself—I'd slipped my hand into his just as I had when he'd been unconscious. I hadn't even known that he was awake until his fingers had suddenly tightened on mine.

Startled, I'd met his eyes, and the heat I'd seen there had more than matched what I was feeling. The sharp flood of desire was something I'd never experienced before. My whole body went into a meltdown, and my mind had emptied and filled with Roman.

"Come here." His voice had been raw, hungry, and there was a question in his tone that I'd answered by sitting down on the bed next to him. He'd moved quickly then, levering himself up and moving his free hand to the back of my neck to draw me even closer until his mouth was only a breath away from mine.

Time had seemed to slow as everything about him flooded my senses. His eyes had been so beautifully dark. Had I noticed that before? And he'd smelled of soap, simple, basic. Wonderful. I could feel the press of each one of his fingers against the skin at the back of my neck.

I'm not sure who moved first, but our mouths made contact. It wasn't a kiss really—just the gentlest brush of lips against lips. But the pleasure was so intense, the need to have more so huge that when he'd suddenly dropped his hand and drew back, I'd wanted to cry out in protest. But before I could make a sound, someone had spoken from behind me.

"Good morning, Philly. I'm beginning to believe that Roman's recovery depends on your visits."

Roman's father. I'd taken a moment to gather my thoughts before I turned to him and managed a smile.

I hadn't slept for two nights as I'd relived those torrid moments and fantasized about what might have happened if we hadn't been interrupted...

Though I'd visited him each day, we hadn't been alone again. Finally, this morning, I'd reached a decision. It was high time I took action. I wasn't a sixteen-year-old with a schoolgirl crush. I was a woman, and I knew what I wanted.

Even now, I wanted to go into the room and touch him, to strip him out of that thin hospital gown and run my hands over that smooth skin, those taut muscles—

Roman rose suddenly from the chair. Through the slightly opened back of the hospital gown, I caught a glimpse of bare buttocks before I whirled away from the door and pressed my back against the wall. Ruthlessly, I tried to gather my thoughts, and rev up my momentum. I dragged up all the arguments I'd made to myself in the past two days, mentally ticking them off on my fingers. He'd very nearly died. I might have missed my chance of making love with Roman Oliver forever. But the Fates had spared him. The Angelis family has always put a lot of store in the Fates. Surely the fact that Roman was alive was a sign that I should do something.

Not for the first time I wished that I'd inherited my aunt Cass's power to see into the future. Psychic powers run strong in the Angelis family—especially in the women. Aunt Cass believed that the power could be traced back all the way to the Oracle at Delphi. Even my three brothers possessed some kind of clairvoyance. But my psychic ability seemed limited to the work I did with animals. I'd always had a special knack for communicating with them mentally. Some people were skeptical about my special connection with animals, but because of the pets I was able to help at the vet hospital where I worked, my reputation was growing more and more.

Animals I understood. It was people I didn't always get. So I didn't have a clue about what would happen when I propositioned Roman Oliver.

Nerves knotted in my stomach. A part of me wanted to race right back home. But I was twenty-three; Roman was twenty-nine. What were we waiting for? Drawing in a deep breath, I turned, opened the door of Roman's room and walked in.

He was back in bed with most of his body discreetly covered by the sheet, and he was reading what looked to be some business papers.

"Philly." Glancing up, he sent me a smile. The kind of brotherly smile he'd been giving me for so many years. My stomach sank, but I moved toward the bed.

"Am I interrupting?"

He glanced down at the stack of papers. "A lot of things have been piling up on my desk, and I bribed my personal assistant to smuggle some work in to me." He met my eyes again. "But I have some time for my most frequent visitor."

For a moment, our eyes merely held, and I thought for an instant I saw a flicker of something. My heart leaped.

It's now or never, Philly. Go for it.

"I came here to say...I have something that I want you to know." I'd prepared a little speech. But every time I was with Roman, I had difficulty organizing my thoughts. I couldn't help remembering what had almost happened the last time we were alone in this room. What if I stopped talking? What if I just walked to the bed and pressed my mouth to his?

"Yes?"

I caught myself twisting my fingers, something I'd stopped doing when I was in junior high. I felt a sudden surge of anger at myself. Why was I still hesitating? "I came here to talk about us and about what happened two days ago just before your father walked in."

Roman opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. "Please. Let me finish. I know that we've known each other a long time. And for a lot of that time, I've had a kind of schoolgirl crush on you." Get to the point, Philly. "But my feelings for you have changed. I'm very attracted to you and I want to make love with you."

For a moment, Roman said nothing, and I couldn't read anything in his expression. Finally, he responded, "Philly, I want you to know that I care a great deal about you, in much the same way that I care for my sisters, Juliana and Sadie."

Pain struck—a hard sucker punch to my gut. I might not have been able to say another word if a surge of temper hadn't followed. Hands fisted on my hips, I strode toward the bed. "It wasn't brotherly affection I saw in your eyes two days ago, and I didn't imagine your mouth brushing against mine. If your father hadn't walked into the room, we would have kissed and a whole lot more."

I saw another flicker in his eyes. Of desire? Or pity?

"I'm sorry. I was afraid you might have misinterpreted that, and I should have said something sooner. I was just waking up, and I thought for a moment you were someone else. Someone I've been dating."

For a moment, I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The second slap of pain was too consuming. It pounded into my heart like a fist.

But I didn't have to say anything—Roman was talking. I saw his lips moving, but only caught bits and pieces—something about how he thought of me as family, loved me like a sister. And that he couldn't lead me on but it was a good thing I'd brought it up so that we could clear the air. And then he apologized.

I nearly saw red. I'd spent most of my twenty-three years learning to control my temper. But this time, I was grateful for it because it helped me deal with the pain. Roman was dead-on right about the fact that it was a good thing I'd brought the subject up. Because now I had my answer—even though it wasn't the one I'd wanted.

Pride ran deep in the Angelis family, and I didn't think I'd ever needed it more. Squaring my shoulders, I said, "I won't bother you again."

Then, somehow I made it out of the room.

ROMAN STARED at the door after it swung shut. Philly Angelis had thrown him for a loop, and he still couldn't gather his thoughts. For two days, he hadn't been able to rid his mind of the memory of what had nearly happened right in this room. He'd almost kissed her, and if he had, he wouldn't have stopped there.

He never went into a business meeting unprepared, but he hadn't been prepared for her today. If he had been, he would have handled the situation better. He wasn't even clear on what he'd said to her. The words he'd spoken had been nothing but babble in his ears because he'd had to focus all his energy on staying still when, with every fiber of his being, he'd wanted to go to her, take her into his arms and act on the proposition she'd just made him. How many times had he imagined having her beneath him, plunging into her again and again?

Now, he'd hurt her—the last thing he'd wanted. But it was for her own good, and for his. Roman raised his hands, intending to run them through his hair. When he saw they were shaking, he dropped them back down on the blanket. Something akin to fear moved through him.

No other woman had ever affected him this way. For years, he'd been guiltily lusting after Philly Angelis—ever since she was sixteen. He'd taught himself to live with the steady thrum of desire he'd felt whenever he was near her. And for years, he'd been able to control it by reminding himself that she was too young for him. But since she'd returned from college a year ago, all of his discipline and control had been slipping away. Whenever she was near, desire escalated into a raging need that bordered on pain. There'd been an incident at the Angelises' family restaurant, the Poseidon, when he was sure Kit had caught him watching Philly. Roman had seen something in Kit's eyes. A question? A warning? But then Theo and Nik had joined them, and Kit had said nothing.

But Roman didn't need a warning from Kit. Even without the age difference, he could never act on his attraction to her. The Angelises were family to him. Kit and Nik and Theo were the brothers he'd never had. Becoming sexually involved with their little sister was out of the question. Her father, Spiro, a man Roman looked on as a second father, was an old-fashioned Greek. He'd expect commitment. Marriage.

Hell, Philly would expect it. And deserve it. And Roman had long ago decided that marriage was not on his agenda. Oliver Enterprises would always be his first priority. Ever since he was a boy, he'd dreamed of running the company his father had created. But there was a price to pay. A wife and family would always suffer from neglect. He'd experienced that personally and so had his sisters. His father had buried himself in the business while they'd been growing up, and even more so after their mother's death. Roman had spent more time with his younger sisters than Mario Oliver ever had. He was now on wife number three, and she was already constantly complaining that she saw nothing of him.

I'm very attracted to you and I want to make love with you.

God. This time Roman managed to run his still-trembling hands through his hair. Words always made things more real. When she'd looked into his eyes and spoken them, he'd very nearly lost it. He could have had her right here in his hospital bed. Or on the floor. Or in the chair where he'd been sitting and fantasizing about her. It would have been wild and crazy and perhaps once would have been enough. But Roman didn't think so.

He'd done the right thing, the only thing he could do. Whatever hurt Philly had experienced today would pale in comparison to the way he'd hurt her if he acted on his feelings. She'd keep her distance now. He'd stay away from her family's restaurant and gradually the feelings would fade.

They had to.

He glanced down at the business papers he'd been reading, but it was a long time before he could actually see them.

## 1

One month later...

"YES, CALL ME BACK just as soon as you have some information on flights." I hung up the phone on my travel agent and turned to face my two curious cats.

Well, Pretzels was curious. And a bit apprehensive. He could always sense it when I was thinking of leaving him for any length of time. Not that I did it very often. Peanuts, his sister, had a more complacent nature. Though they looked very much alike, a pure silvery-gray with white paws, they had very different personalities.

Right now, both cats were seated on the wide window seat of the small apartment I kept in the mansion my aunt Cass had inherited from her father. The house was huge, and it took a lot of money to keep the place going, so about four years ago the family had decided to renovate it into apartments. My brothers and I each paid rent on our own places, and my dad and new stepmother, Helena lived in the gardener's cottage. When we eventually moved out, Aunt Cass could continue to make a good income by renting the apartments out.

"I'm going to go to Greece," I informed my two pets. Saying the words aloud helped make my plan more of a reality, and a little thrill moved through me. I hadn't told anyone yet, so Pretzels and Peanuts were functioning as my test audience. It was a role they often played. My family tended to be a bit protective of me, and I wasn't sure how they'd react to my trip. Of course, now that I'd made my decision, I was going to go to Greece no matter what, but I'd have a better time if they weren't worrying too much.

Pretzels immediately leaped off the window seat and joined me on the couch. His apprehension had escalated into high anxiety. I lifted him onto my lap and began to stroke him. "You'll be with Aunt Cass and Kit." I pictured first one apartment and then the other in my mind. Then I pictured Aunt Cass and Kit. Almost immediately he began to calm. "They'll take good care of you."

With a sigh, Pretzels settled himself firmly on my lap as if to keep me there. He was a bit possessive of me. Peanuts remained on the window seat cleaning her paws. I sensed she was already anticipating the extra treats she would receive from Aunt Cass and Kit.

Of all my brothers, Kit was the one who most loved animals. He had a huge dog named Ari who often stayed with me when Kit was working on one of his P.I. jobs. Luckily my cats loved Ari, and vice versa. Kit would be the primary caretaker of my animals while I was away, and Aunt Cass would serve as backup.

As soon as I told them of my plans.

Pretzels was already snoring, so I eased him off of my lap and, after stopping to scratch Peanuts behind the ears, let myself out of my apartment. The cats had taken it pretty well. I hoped the news would go as well with the rest of the family.

As I climbed the stairs to the third-floor tower room where my aunt Cass spent much of her time, I tried to gather my thoughts—something that I was finding increasingly difficult to do since I'd walked out of Roman's hospital room a month ago. I'd vowed that day that I was going to get him out of my system once and for all. My utter failure to accomplish that was what had triggered my decision to go to Greece.

In the past month, Roman and I had only run into one another once, at the wedding reception my father, Spiro, and his new wife, Helena, had given at the Poseidon. That had been two weeks after I'd left his hospital room for the last time. I couldn't avoid attending my father and Helena's party; neither could Roman. But we'd managed to steer clear of each other.

What I couldn't shake were the feelings he stirred up in me. All he'd had to do was walk down the steps to the main dining room of the Poseidon, and I'd realized that I wanted him even more desperately than I had before. Nothing had changed. Frustrated and angry with myself, I'd thrown myself into my work, but that hadn't helped, either.

Dr. Wilson at the vet hospital had begun to depend on me to help him diagnose what was troubling the animals he saw, and recently he'd commented on the fact that I'd seemed distracted. That's when I'd decided that drastic action was required. I was going to Greece.

When I reached the door to the tower room, I hesitated, once more gathering my thoughts. Aunt Cass had raised my brothers and me ever since I was four and her husband and my mother had been taken from us in a tragic boating accident. In many ways, she was the only mother I'd ever known.

The door swung open and Aunt Cass smiled. "I've been expecting you."

I glanced over to a sitting area and spotted a teapot and cups on the coffee table. Of course she'd been expecting me. Aunt Cass had been one of the most well-known and successful psychics in the San Francisco area even before my older brother Nik got himself engaged to J. C. Reilly, the mayor's daughter, and her business had increased by almost fifty percent.

Next to the tea tray, I saw the crystals that Aunt Cass frequently used to help her see into the future. Over a month ago she'd foreseen the dangerous adventure that my brothers were going to have on one fateful weekend and she'd known that they would each meet the woman they were destined for.

Oddly enough, my brothers' good fortune in finding their true loves had had a ripple effect on other members of the Angelis family. My dad had finally gotten engaged to Helena, and my aunt Cass had met and begun to date two men—Mason Leone, who headed up security for the Oliver family, and Charlie Galvin, the police commissioner. Roman and I seemed to be the only ones romantically unaffected by the events of that weekend.

Aunt Cass drew me over to the couch. While she poured tea, she said, "You're hurting."

"Yes." I took the cup she handed me and set it down. "But I don't want to be. I hate the fact that I am."

"This is about Roman."

I glanced at the crystals, then at Aunt Cass. "You know."

She nodded as she sipped tea from her cup. "All wounds heal."

I opened my mouth and then shut it. If anyone had the experience of that, Aunt Cass did. She'd lost her husband, Demetrius, the one true love of her life, nineteen years ago. And her son, Dino, had been gone for two years serving in the navy.

"Okay. I can accept that. But I want to hurry the healing along. I can't concentrate. I mixed up two dinner reservations at the Poseidon last night. And this morning I couldn't focus when Mrs. Trumble brought her cat, Esmerelda, in to see Dr. Wilson. Neither she nor Esmerelda were happy campers when they left, and Dr. Wilson had already told me that I seem distracted lately. I want to get Roman Oliver out of my system and get on with my life."

With a smile, Aunt Cass studied me. "Of all Penelope's children, you've always been the most impatient. Have you told Roman how you feel about him?"

"Yes. A month ago, I told him I wanted to make love with him."

"Of course you did," Aunt Cass murmured. "You're always so decisive."

I looked at her then and for the first time I saw a trace of uncertainty in her eyes. Aunt Cass never seemed to be uncertain. "What is it? Do you think I did the wrong thing?"

"No, I wasn't thinking about you. I was thinking that I wish I could make decisions and act on them as easily as you do."

"This is about Mason Leone and Charlie Galvin, isn't it?"

Cass sighed. "I can't keep juggling them forever—it's not fair. And I can't seem to see anything in the crystals."

I studied my aunt with interest. She was blushing, and she actually looked flustered. I took both of her hands in mine. "I don't think you should pressure yourself. You haven't dated anyone since Uncle Demetrius died. Take your time. Enjoy both of them. I'll bet that's why you're not seeing anything in the crystals. When the time is right, you will."

Cass leaned over to kiss my cheek. "Thank you. Now tell me more about Roman. What did he say when you told him you wanted to make love with him?"

Temper and frustration streamed through me as it did whenever I let myself recall what had happened in Roman's hospital room that day. Rising, I strode to a space near one of the long, narrow windows where I could pace. "He said that his feelings for me were brotherly. And even if they weren't, we couldn't have a...sexual relationship because I'm Kit's sister—or something stupid like that. He didn't want to hurt me."

"It sounds like he cares a great deal for you."

I turned and strode back to the sofa. "He cares for me the way he cares for his sisters. And I know what they mean to him. Sadie and Juliana have told me how he stepped in and tried to fill their parents' shoes after their mother died. They hardly ever saw their father, but Roman was always there for them. The problem is that my feelings for him aren't sisterly at all. They never have been. And I refuse to be the kind of woman who spends her life pining away for a man who doesn't want her. Stuff that."

Aunt Cass picked up her tea and took a sip. "So what's your plan?"

For the first time since I'd entered the room, I felt some of my tension ease. Of course, Aunt Cass would know I had a plan. I sat back down on the couch next to her. "I've decided to go to Greece and have a fling with a sexy Greek man."

Aunt Cass didn't bat an eye. "Why Greece?"

I leaned forward. "Because that's where you and mom found Uncle Demetrius and Dad. It was love at first sight. And that's where Dad met Helena, so there must be something magical about Greece when it comes to our family. I figure that if anything can get me out of this rut I've fallen into with Roman, a trip to Greece will do it."

Cass took another sip of tea, and this time I joined her.

"So you want to go to Greece to find your true love."

I frowned. "No way. I just want to find someone very sexy to have a fling with so that I can forget Roman Oliver. I spoke with a travel agent today and she's looking for a cheap flight. The sooner I get this taken care of, the better."

CASS ANGELIS LEANED back and once again studied her niece. How wonderful that Philly's plan coincided so perfectly with her own. A little vacation, a trip to Greece, was just what she'd seen in her crystals last night. "I have a suggestion. Why don't I call your father's cousin Miranda? She operates a little hotel—the Villa Prospero—along the coastline of Corfu."

Philly's eyes lit up. "Isn't that the place that Dad and Helena just visited on their honeymoon?"

Cass nodded. "I'm sure she'd love to have you." And being family, Cass knew that Miranda would look out for Philly. Her niece had a tendency to rush headlong into things. And Philly's father and brothers would feel better about the trip if she visited family.

"How soon can I leave?"

Cass shook her head and smiled. "You never were one to let the grass grow under your feet. As soon as I check with Miranda, you can book your flight."

Philly wrapped her arms around Cass and hugged her hard. "Thanks, Aunt Cass."

Once her niece had left, Cass picked up a few of the crystals that had been sitting on the table. She could only hope that she hadn't made a mistake in suggesting the Villa Prospero to Philly. At midnight, she'd seen in the crystals Philly standing on a white sand beach. But she'd also seen blood and sensed danger—much the same things she'd seen a month ago for her nephews.

But Cass had also sensed very strongly that Philly was meant to go to Corfu. In the mists that had pulsed and eddied in the depths of the crystals, she'd glimpsed other images—a white bird soaring into a blue sky, and a man she'd recognized immediately. She suspected that he was the one Philly was fated for. But both of them would have to decide if they would accept what the Fates were offering.

Tears pricked at the back of Cass's eyes. If they did, Philly would find her true love in Greece just as she and Penelope had.

WITH A FRUSTRATED SIGH, Roman dropped the papers on his desk. This was the third time he'd tried to read through Gianni Stassis's business plan and the third time he'd drifted off in his mind.

He'd been out of the hospital for a month and physically, he was almost back to normal. There'd been no permanent nerve damage from the fall, and the doctors were amazed at how quickly his body had responded to therapy. In another month or two, he'd be able to beat his sister Sadie at tennis again. In the interim, she was thoroughly enjoying each one of her victories, and the exercise was good for him.

The problem was, his mental recovery seemed to be lagging behind his physical recovery. He couldn't concentrate. Running his hands through his hair, Roman leaned back in his chair.

Working with his father and eventually running Oliver Enterprises had always been his dream. The company dealt primarily in commercial real-estate development and before his accident, he'd been pouring every spare minute of his time into the project that Stassis, a Greek entrepreneur, had proposed to him. Even though he'd been working with his father almost 24/7 to close a deal for a prime strip of land in Orange County, he'd found time for the Stassis proposal. It involved Oliver Enterprises and Stassis Ltd. acquiring a stake in a select number of small independently operated Greek hotels. They would help them modernize and then share in a percentage of the profits. Within five years, they hoped to own a string of small exclusive hotels throughout the Greek Islands.

If he and Stassis could come to terms, this would be the first time that Oliver Enterprises would be operating outside of the United States. Roman's goal had been to take the company global for some time, and the project had been his baby. He didn't just want to run the company his father had founded, he wanted to expand it.

He'd been excited about the project with Gianni Stassis, confident of its success, and now, when it was close to coming together, he couldn't seem to drum up the same level of enthusiasm he'd had before.

Roman picked up a paperweight, tossed it into the air and caught it. Letting out a frustrated breath, he stifled the urge to throw it at the wall. It wasn't his damn fall that was to blame for his current situation. It was Philly Angelis.

A month had passed and he couldn't get her words out of his mind. What had possessed her to walk into his hospital room that day and tell him that she wanted to make love with him?

Before that, he'd been able to convince himself that she was too young, that having her was out of the question. Before she'd spoken those words, he'd been able to find happiness and total satisfaction in his work. He glanced around his office. For as long as he could remember, this was where he'd wanted to be. Now he was restless, having trouble focusing, and nothing he'd tried so far had seemed to help.

His gaze shifted involuntarily to the group of photos he had on his desk. There were various shots of his family and the Angelis family. He'd removed the one snapshot he'd always had there of Philly. Out of sight, out of mind had been his thought.

That hadn't worked. Staying away from her family's restaurant hadn't worked, either. Except for the celebration that Spiro and Helena had thrown when they'd returned from their honeymoon, he hadn't been to the Poseidon. Philly frequently filled in as hostess, and there was no telling when she might be there. Dammit, he missed it—the laughter, the music, the opportunity to hang out with Kit and his brothers.

Be honest. You miss the chance of running into Philly, too.

It wasn't as though he could hang out with his sisters, either. Sadie was spending her days with Theo Angelis, and Juliana spent as much time as she could with her fiancé, Paulo Carlucci. Roman went home each night to an empty apartment and tried to bury himself in work that he couldn't find the same satisfaction in that he did before.

He'd even thought of calling another woman. Though he'd never dated anyone seriously, there were several women who would be more than willing to share drinks or dinner followed by some satisfying and uncomplicated sex. The problem was that he couldn't work up the enthusiasm for that, either.

The bigger problem was that he couldn't get Philly's proposition out of his mind. Nor could he get rid of the image of her standing there—those wide brown eyes, that dark hair. It had curled when she was younger, but now she wore it in one of those sleek, chin-length cuts that made a man want to run his hands through it. There was a passion in her that lurked so near the surface, threatening at any moment to break through. What man in his right mind wouldn't want to be there when it finally did?

Roman glanced at the paperweight again and gave serious thought to throwing it. Or perhaps the better solution to his frustration was to simply take Philly up on her offer. Maybe if he made love to her once, he could get her out of his system. He'd almost convinced himself that that was a reasonable alternative—perhaps the only one—when there was a knock on his door, and Kit Angelis strolled in.

"Long time, no see."

Roman watched Kit settle himself in a chair and felt like the worst kind of heel. They had been fast friends ever since Kit had also strolled into their dorm room that first day of college. And a month ago, when he'd taken that fall at Saint Peter's Church and had also fallen under suspicion of murder and kidnapping, Kit and his brothers had worked nonstop to clear his name and protect his family. He owed Kit. He owed Nik and Theo too. And having a one-night stand with their little sister was no way to repay what he owed.

"Nik and Theo and I were thinking that you might have had a relapse, but you look fit enough to me."

"I am." Roman willed himself to relax. Kit couldn't possibly know just what he'd been thinking. "I've just been busy."

"Good. But just the same, I'm here on a search-and-rescue mission. My brothers and I are planning a fishing weekend—men only—at my grandfather's fishing cabin. We may even talk Dad into joining us. Interested?"

Roman smiled. "Absolutely." It might be just the ticket to get him back on track. It certainly appealed more than spending the weekend at the office or in his empty apartment. "How are you getting away from your women?" Each of the Angelis brothers now had a special woman in their lives, and from the looks of it, a permanent one. They'd all met their significant others during the weekend when they'd literally saved his family.

"Easy." Kit shot him a grin. "They have a wedding to shop for. J.C. and Nik are tying the knot on Thanksgiving weekend. According to Drew, that doesn't give them nearly enough time to register for gifts and decide on flowers."

It had been so long since he'd dropped in at the Poseidon that Roman hadn't given much thought to Nik's upcoming wedding. He didn't suppose it would be long before Kit would give Drew a ring. And Theo and his sister Sadie would probably follow their lead. He'd never in his life seen men fall so hard and fast as the Angelis men had and all in the space of one weekend.

"When Philly heard about the girls-only shopping weekend, she nearly postponed her trip."

Every muscle in Roman's body tightened. "Her trip?"

Kit pointed a finger at him. "See? You really are out of touch. Philly's going to Greece."

Roman frowned. "Why?"

"That's what we all asked her." Chuckling, Kit leaned back in his chair. "You know the story about how my mom and dad and my aunt Cass and uncle Demetrius met on a beach in Greece and fell in love at first sight?"

Roman nodded. The story had become a sort of legend in the Angelis family. Spiro and Demetrius had left Greece and followed Cass and Penelope back to San Francisco.

"My dad met Helena in Greece, too."

He'd met her at the five-star restaurant where she'd been the head chef, Roman recalled. Spiro Angelis had persuaded her to come back by promising to open a similar restaurant on the top floor of the more casual Poseidon.

"So Philly has this idea that it's high time she followed in the family tradition. She's cut her hair, splurged on a new wardrobe, and she's off to Greece to find her true love."

"That's crazy!" Roman quickly rose to his feet. "Aren't you going to stop her?"

Kit shot him a quizzical look. "Trying to stop Philly once she's made up her mind is a bit like trying to stop a runaway train. But you can relax. Aunt Cass has the situation under control. She's arranged for Philly to stay at a small hotel on Corfu that's run by my dad's cousin Miranda Kostas. Philly will be perfectly safe. Helena says that Miranda is a very traditional Greek woman. Her own marriage was even arranged. She's not likely to let Philly stray too far to the wild side."

Right, Roman thought as he sat down in his chair. He was overreacting. But in his mind he saw Philly walking up to some handsome Greek and saying, "I want to make love with you."

## 2

THE MOMENT I STEPPED OUT of the taxi onto the crunchy white gravel path that wound its way to the Villa Prospero, I knew that I had made the right decision in coming to Greece.

My driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "You'll see the villa as soon as you walk around that curve."

I tried to be patient as he opened the trunk and began to unload my luggage. Now that I was here, I wanted to get started on the rest of my life—the part that I'd named Post Roman. I'd cut my hair and my brother Kit's fiancée, Drew, who was a dress designer, had helped me select a new sexy wardrobe. I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror.

I'd also done my homework and discovered that Corfu was believed by many to be the setting of Shakespeare's The Tempest—hence, the name of Miranda Kostas's hotel. The island was located off the west coast of Greece on the Ionian Sea.

I'd flown into Corfu Town, which was in the middle of the island across from the mainland of Greece. To reach the Villa Prospero, I'd hired a driver to take me to the other side of the island where the rugged coastline bordered the Ionian Sea.

My driver was an endless source of information, most of it gossip about the Castello Corli, which sat atop a cliff about two miles away from the Villa Prospero. Venetians had built the castle in the fourteenth century—thus, the Italian name. Below the fortresslike walls, there were a series of caves that were reputed to have been used by smugglers for hundreds of years. However, according to my very talkative driver, what the Castello Corli was famous for now were the extravagant biannual parties that its billionaire owner, Andre Magellan, threw. One of his famous soirees was due to take place in three days.

"You may actually meet some movie stars walking along the beach," my mustachioed driver had said to me. "Or a member of royalty. When Andre Magellan throws one of his parties, the Castello Corli becomes a destination for the rich and the famous."

Magellan's family had supposedly been bankers in Rome for centuries. But local rumor had it that Andre was a spoiled playboy who expended all of his energy on living an opulent lifestyle and only visited his family's banks to make withdrawals.

By the time my driver had unloaded my luggage and I'd paid him, thanking him again for a very informative ride, I was itching to get to the villa and begin my Grecian adventure. I hurried along the narrow lane, then stopped short as soon as I went around that first curve. Just as the driver had promised, the Villa Prospero had come into view to my right. Color was everywhere—from the ivy and roses that draped over pink stucco to the riot of flowers that edged the path to the front of the small hotel.

The building itself was two-storied and tucked into a hillside. Parked right in front of the entrance was a sporty red convertible. The terrain to my left was rugged, thick with cypresses and fell away steeply. Through the trees, I spotted a serpentine trail that wound its way to a brilliant expanse of turquoise-blue sea. As colorful as the villa was, it was the sea that pulled at me.

I stood for a moment torn between following my impulse to take that winding path down to the beach and checking in with my cousin Miranda. In the end, family obligation won. After all, she was expecting me. I couldn't let her worry.

The ground floor was bordered by a wide terrace with several porticoes opening into the lobby. I crossed to one of them. At first I thought the lobby was deserted; there was no one behind the small reception desk. But then I heard the angry voice.

"I demand to speak with your son Alexi."

"He's not here right now, Mr. Magellan."

Peeking through the open portico, I could see two figures to my right. I recognized my cousin Miranda from the photos Helena had shown me. Her voice was calm, pleasant, professional, but the tension in her body contrasted sharply with her tone. Miranda had the kind of face that medieval artists had captured in their portrayals of the Madonna. She wore a tailored white blouse, a black skirt and sensible shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a ballerina's knot and gold hoops winked at her ears. She was average height, but the way Mr. Magellan was towering over her made her seem tiny.

I had no doubt that I was also getting an up-close-and-personal view of the rich, flamboyant playboy that my driver had described to me in such great detail. Magellan's red print shirt and matching red slacks were made even more dramatic by the way he stood in front of my cousin, his hands fisted at his sides. Diamonds glittered from his watch and a ring on his pinkie.

"Of course he's not here. Even as we speak, he's probably trespassing on my land again. It has to stop. I've warned him more than once. And I don't want him poking around in the caves, either. They're dangerous—that's why they're posted. I should think as his mother, you'd see to it that he doesn't go there."

"You don't understand. One of Alexi's cats is missing—Caliban. Alexi just wants to—"

"I don't give a damn about his cats or his fixation on them." Magellan's voice had grown shrill with temper. "I've warned him. If either of those cats are seen anywhere on the grounds of the Castello Corli, my men have orders to shoot them."

"No, please, don't hurt them." Miranda pressed a hand to her chest. "I'll speak to Alexi."

"I'm filing a complaint with the police. If your son trespasses one more time, I'll have him arrested."

Anger flared inside me at the callous way he spoke of Alexi and the cats. I knew from Helena and my dad that my cousin Alexi was eighteen and had always been a bit slow in school. But since his father had died three years ago, he'd become quite good at helping his mother run the hotel.

Fueled by my temper, I was about to move into the lobby and give Mr. Andre Magellan a piece of my mind when he whirled and strode out through the main entrance. He vaulted over the door into the sporty red car. An instant later, tires squealed and gravel sprayed as he raced away.

The lobby was empty when I turned back. To my left, doors opened onto a sunny terrace where lunch was being served, and every table was filled. Helena had raved about the cuisine at the Villa Prospero, and it seemed that the current guests were in agreement. Miranda was now serving dishes from a loaded tray. I hated to interrupt her, so I wandered around the large, airy room. There was a small gift shop that opened off the lobby, and through its open door I caught a glimpse of glass cases as well as racks of T-shirts and wide-brimmed hats.

A young woman entered from yet another door. She, too, carried a loaded tray. The moment she saw me she paused and said, "I'll be with you in a moment."

Her English was heavily accented, but she meant what she said. She returned to the lobby just as soon as she'd served a table of four.

"Sorry. You have a reservation?"

"I believe so. I'm Philly Angelis." Her name tag said that she was Demetria.

"Oh, Ms. Angelis." A smile warmed her whole face. "Welcome to the Villa Prospero. Mrs. Kostas is expecting you.

Over her shoulder, I could see Miranda chatting with the guests at a table for two as she cleared plates and cups.

"I'll get her," Demetria said.

"No, I can see she's busy. And you're busy, too. Why don't I just leave my luggage here and go for a walk until things settle a bit."

Relief swam in her eyes. "Are you sure? We're shorthanded today because Alexi hasn't shown up yet."

I smiled at the young girl. "I'm positive. The sea is calling me. I thought I saw a path down to the beach."

"Yes. Just go to the end of the gravel drive and turn right."

With a final smile, I turned and after stopping briefly to get my camera out of my suitcase, I hurried out of the lobby. I believed in following my impulses, and something was pulling me to the beach, in much the same way that something had drawn me to Greece.

Of course, sometimes my acting on impulse had gotten me into trouble. A prime example was the day Roman had saved me from drowning. I was sixteen and decided I had to go for a sail. Right then. It had been a boring, rainy day at my grandfather's fishing cabin. My brothers and Roman and my dad had been whiling away the hours with a game of poker. Roman had been winning, of course. The moment the sun had come out, I'd announced my intention to take Nik's boat out. Then I'd hurried down to the dock before anyone could object.

I'd wanted to sail alone, but Roman followed and asked if he could join me.

Before that, I'd always thought of Roman as just an additional brother, but everything changed once the storm came up. It was so sudden and so severe that the boat had capsized almost immediately. Once in the water, I'd felt a huge wave pick me up and toss me. I'd barely had time to catch a breath before I was pulled under. Dizzy and disoriented, I wasn't sure which way to swim to get to the surface. Panic had streamed through me, and I'd felt my lungs begin to burn. Then a pair of strong hands had gripped me, and seconds later Roman and I broke the surface. The water was rough and another wave had crashed over us. When we'd surfaced again, his voice had been calm as he told me to put my arms around his neck and lie on top of his back. I did, and he'd struck out toward shore. Though waves had tossed us and dragged us both under several times before we finally reached the beach, I'd never once doubted that we would both make it.

When I felt the now-familiar band of pain tighten around my heart, I stopped in my tracks and swore under my breath. I had not come to Greece to think about Roman Oliver. I had come to solve my "Roman problem" once and for all. And I would. I knew it in the same way that I often "knew" things about the animals I worked with.

The path to the sea was narrow and sloped gently as it zigged and zagged its way down the steep hill. I'd only been walking for a short time before I realized that it was going to take a while to reach my destination. I was tempted to just forget the path and strike out on a more direct route through the trees. But it wouldn't do to get lost on my first day in Corfu.

Then I rounded a sharp corner and caught sight of a wide, crescent-shaped beach and the vast stretch of the crystalline blue Ionian Sea. There was no sound other than the breeze rustling through the trees and the distant push of waves against rocks.

I raised my camera and focused the lens. The deserted stretch of white sand was tucked snugly between two rocky promontories that stretched far out into the water. Waves broke frothy and white against the rocks. I took a few shots. Beyond the far promontory, the terrain changed abruptly from wooded hillside to a cliff face of solid rock that shot straight up to form a fortress wall and two towers. It had to be the Castello Corli.

As I snapped more photos, I felt transported to a much earlier time, and I thought fancifully of the castle that Princess Aurora slept in for one hundred years after she'd pricked her finger. Because of its location between Italy and the Greek mainland, Corfu had always had strategic importance. I recalled what my driver had said about the Castello Corli being built in the fourteenth century when the Venetians had ruled the island, and I could see the Italian influence in the design of the towers. My driver had said that the estate's current villa dated from the turn of the century and had been renovated ten years ago by Andre Magellan's parents, and then presented to him on his birthday. I zoomed in with my telephoto lens, but even then, I could see nothing past the towers.

Suddenly my attention was caught by a large white bird that flew out of one of the towers and soared upward in wide circles. I had no idea what its species was, but an odd mix of fear and excitement moved through me. Perhaps I was still being influenced by the enchanted appearance of the Castello, but the white bird made me think of the numerous calls to adventure that populated so many fairy tales.

Silly, I said to myself. But I knew better. Hadn't I known all along that I was meant to come to Greece? More than ever I was convinced that the Fates had brought me here.

Once the bird had disappeared inland, I lowered my camera and continued to follow the frustrating, snakelike path. Gradually, the vegetation thinned. Cypresses and pines were replaced by boulders and rocks. As I rounded yet another sharp curve, I caught another glimpse of the crescent-shaped beach. It was no longer deserted. There were two men standing near the far promontory near the Castello.

Curious, I raised my camera and focused the lens. It was only as I zoomed in that I spotted the cat. It was so pale in color that it nearly blended into the white sand, and it was circling the two men. Not happy, I thought. And female. The cat had to be seriously agitated for me to be able to sense so much over such a distance. She reminded me a bit of Pretzels. What was the source of her worry?

I shifted my attention back to the two men. They were deep in conversation, and from the gestures the younger man was making, it appeared to be a heated one. He looked to be in his late teens. The older man pointed to the cell phone he had in his hand. Both men were of medium height and wearing sunglasses and shorts, and both carried backpacks, but that's where the resemblance stopped. The older man had a more portly build. He wore a T-shirt, hiking boots and a wide-brimmed hat that cast his face in shadow. A pair of binoculars was slung over one shoulder.

He turned and took a few steps in my direction, but the other man grabbed his arm and stopped him. The younger man had an athletically toned body, and sun glinted off a medal he wore around his neck.

The cat was circling them now, growing more agitated. The younger man squatted, and when she went to him, he stroked her. But she backed away. It wasn't soothing that she was after.

The man in the hat was hurrying along the beach now in my direction. The other man rose, ran after him, then grabbed his arm and jerked him around. The argument escalated, and suddenly, the younger man shoved the older man to the ground. When he fell, he missed the cat by inches.

Concern for the animal filled me, and lowering my camera, I gave up on the path and began to make my way down the rugged hillside in a more direct route to the beach. By the time I reached it, my view of the two men and the cat was blocked by the rocks that bordered the little cove on the Villa Prospero's side.

I felt the cat before she appeared around a boulder. Her emotions slammed into me with enough force to stop me in my tracks. The agitation I'd sensed earlier in her had given way to terror, urgency. In my head I saw a bright red color. I squatted, tried to calm my mind and waited for her to come to me. She did, pausing when she was only a few feet away.

Slowly, I held out my hand. I'm Philly. I'm a friend.

Most often when I communicated with animals, I did it mentally. I thought what I wanted them to know—sometimes in words, other times in images, depending on the initial way the animal communicated with me.

She was a beauty—nearly pure white, and her eyes a pearly mix of gray and green. Without coming any closer, she studied me in much the same way I was studying her. The emotions rolling through her were chaotic, and I couldn't get a clear image.

What's your name?

Ariel.

I'd heard the word in my mind as clearly as if she'd said it aloud. With a name like Ariel, I bet she was one of Alexi's cats. I recalled Miranda had mentioned the name of the other—the one that was missing. Caliban.

Help.

This time I caught an image. A white cat lying still in a shadowy place. Bigger than Ariel, I thought. I caught the gleam of his eyes before everything went red.

Ariel turned and raced back toward the boulders.

When she paused to glance back, I was already on my feet and heading after her. She had an easier time of climbing down the rocks than I did. After slipping for the second time, I thought, Slow down.

Ariel paused and waited for me. The moment I joined her, she began to run again, and I followed her lead. I was beginning to feel the same overpowering sense of urgency and fear that I was getting from her. The two men who'd been with her at the far end of the beach were gone. It wasn't until I reached the center of the crescent that I realized I was wrong. One of them was still there—lying on the sand. I broke into a sprint.

I was out of breath when I finally reached the man. As I dropped to my knees, my mind registered details. He was the older of the two men I'd seen. His wide-brimmed hat had fallen off, and he was lying faceup, the backpack and binoculars at his side. But my eyes were riveted to the hole in the side of his head, and the large red stain on the white sand. My heart was racing and not from the run. I wasn't a forensic scientist, but it looked like a bullet hole to me. Wouldn't I have heard the shot?

My stomach was in free fall, my hand shaking as I did what I'd seen people do on countless TV shows. I put two fingers to the side of his neck and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

I felt myself going numb. When an insect hummed past my cheek, I brushed at it absently. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ariel, standing, watching me. Waiting. Worrying.

Help.

This was no time to go numb. I can't help him. He's dead.

Once again an image flashed into my mind—the white cat. There were fewer shadows this time because of dappled sunlight, so I caught more details. Next to the cat was what appeared to be the remains of a small animal. A bird? And I made out a puddle of water. Even as the image faded, questions poured into my mind. What was Ariel trying to tell me? Was the other cat the one that was missing? And what was her relationship to the dead man? Had she witnessed what had happened to him? Where was the younger man who'd stroked her and shoved this man to the ground?

The list of questions would have gone on if I hadn't heard another insect hum by. This time I also heard a ping and I glanced in the direction of a nearby boulder. Then I heard yet another hum and saw sand erupt inches away from Ariel.

Shock threatened to numb me again. Someone was shooting at us. He had to be using a silencer. That was why I hadn't heard a shot.

Run.

Ariel took off first, racing toward the foot of the hill. A second later she'd leaped across rocks and disappeared into the trees. I was about three beats behind her and not quite as fleet of foot. But that gave me time to spot the flash of reflected sunlight from the woods bordering the Castello Corli.

Ariel! Wait. I scrambled over the rocks and raced after her into the cypresses.

CASS ANGELIS STOPPED pacing the moment the knock sounded on her door. When she opened it and saw Kit, some of her tension eased.

He hugged her soundly, then moved to the tea tray she'd set up near the couches. He never drank the tea, but he'd already popped one of the finger sandwiches into his mouth. "Mission accomplished," he mumbled around it. "Roman's plane should be touching down in Corfu Town as we speak."

"Good."

He glanced at Cass, studying her for a moment. Then he sat down on one of the couches and gestured for her to join him. "Everything's going just the way we planned. Philly's in Corfu, and Roman has followed her. What's worrying you?"

Of all of her nephews, Kit was the one who could always read her the most clearly. She sat next to him and picked up one of her crystals. "This morning I was out at the pond." Kit knew that she usually went there at sunrise—visions often formed for her in the water. "I saw more—Philly and Roman standing on white sand and there was a castle in the distance. I saw a white cat, and there was blood on the sand. It's the second time I've seen blood."

Kit frowned. "Philly's or Roman's?"

Cass shook her head. "No. But they're headed into danger. I sensed that before. And that cat—if there's an animal in the middle of it, your sister is going to get involved."

Kit took one of her hands. "Maybe an adventure is just what the two of them need. Look at Nik and J.C., Theo and Sadie, Drew and me—we were all in a lot of danger the weekend we fell in love. You keep reading the crystals, and I'll keep in touch with Roman. If things get serious, I'll go over and give them some backup."

Cass smiled at her nephew. "You always know what to say to make me feel better."

He leaned closer and kissed her cheek. "Funny—you have the same effect on me." Then he grabbed another sandwich. "Mason said to give you his best."

Cass's heart skipped a beat. "You saw him?"

"He was at the Poseidon last night. I think he was hoping to run into you."

Cass felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She'd been attending a fund-raiser for the mayor with Charlie Galvin.

"Sooner or later you're going to have to decide between those two men."

"I can't. I can see that Roman and Philly are meant to be together. And I knew the moment I saw Demetrius that he was the one for me. But with Charlie and Mason, I can't tell—I like them both. They're very different. Charlie is so outgoing while Mason is reserved. Philly says to give it time and I'll know. But maybe I'm not meant to be with either of them."

Kit squeezed his aunt's hand. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

## 3

ROMAN STEPPED OUT of the car he'd hired in Corfu Town. A sense of urgency had been growing in him ever since his plane had touched down. His decision to come to Greece had been made shortly after Kit had left his office two days ago. The trip was business related. Meeting personally with Gianni Stassis in Athens would allow him to finalize the details of their project. Oliver–Stassis Ltd. would be officially launched, and his dream of taking Oliver Enterprises into the global market would be realized. But Roman wasn't a man who liked to lie to himself. He'd also come to Greece to check on Philly.

If his plane had been on time, he would have landed at the Corfu airport before Philly. His plan had been to have a reasonable talk with her and persuade her to go back to San Francisco. Or if that didn't suit her, he'd take her with him to Athens for his business meeting with Stassis. At least he could keep an eye on her there.

Exactly what he was going to say to her still hadn't come to him yet, even though he'd had plenty of time to think about it on the long flight. But he was a first-rate negotiator. Surely he could make Philly see the risk in coming to Greece to make love with a perfect stranger. And he had no doubt that was what she intended to do. A mix of fear and frustration streamed through him. She might be propositioning someone right now.

When his flight had been delayed, he'd had to reschedule his meeting with Gianni Stassis and switch to plan B—follow Philly to the Villa Prospero. The driver he'd hired had promised in broken and minimal English that he knew exactly where it was. Now, after a two-hour drive, the hotel was nowhere in sight.

Tamping down his temper and his growing sense that Philly had already gotten into some kind of trouble, Roman paid the driver, tipping him generously, and asked, "The villa?"

For a moment, the driver looked puzzled.

Roman made a sweeping gesture with one hand and repeated the question.

This time the driver shot him a beaming smile, motioned for Roman to follow and then grabbed his carry-on and led the way up the white-graveled driveway. Around the first curve, Roman spotted the small hotel and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe his luck was turning. Nodding his thanks to the driver, he shouldered his bag and strode up the drive.

Once inside the lobby, he let his gaze sweep the room. It was a pleasant airy space, with doors opening onto a sunny terrace where people were enjoying food and drinks. In the distance he caught a glimpse of an incredibly blue sea.

He turned his attention to a young girl behind the registration desk and read her name tag. He prayed that Demetria's English was better than his driver's. When he smiled at her, she responded by directing a worried glance at his bag.

"Welcome to the Villa Prospero. Do you have a reservation?"

He hadn't made one because he'd expected to settle things with Philly in Corfu Town. Setting his bag down, he turned up the wattage on his smile. "No, I'm sorry—my plans changed at the last moment. I'm afraid I was depending on luck to get a room. I've heard so many good things about the Villa Prospero."

Concern filled her eyes. "I'm so sorry, but we're full. There's a huge party going on at the Castello Corli the day after tomorrow, and we've taken in the overflow. I could try to find you a room in the village."

When she reached for the phone, Roman stopped her. "That won't be necessary. I actually came to surprise someone—Ms. Philly Angelis. Is she here?"

"No."

Roman frowned. "She should have arrived by now."

"She has, about an hour ago. Mrs. Kostas and I were in the middle of serving lunch, so Ms. Angelis went for a walk on the beach."

Just the word beach had an image forming in his mind of Philly rolling around in the sand with some strange man. "How do I get there?"

For the first time, Demetria smiled. "Just follow the path at the end of the driveway. You can't miss it."

He almost did miss the path, and even though he was at the Villa Prospero and it was only a matter of minutes before he would see Philly, Roman found himself growing more and more anxious. Like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, he felt that he was late for a very important date. He didn't possess any of the Angelis psychic powers, but his instincts seldom failed him in business. Right now his gut was telling him that Philly was in some kind of trouble. Was he too late?

In spite of the rugged terrain, the question had him stepping up his pace. He nearly stumbled when he saw the white cat burst out of the woods and streak across his path. Philly appeared next. There were pine needles in her hair and fear in her eyes. He barely had time to absorb those details before she crashed into him, threw her arms around him and held on for dear life.

At last. Roman threaded his fingers through her hair and pressed her close against him. For the first time since he'd landed on Corfu, he felt his anxiety ease. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of Philly's ragged breathing and the rustle of the wind in the trees. He'd never held her like this before, never felt that slender, firm body pressed to his. She fit perfectly.

"There's...a man," Philly said, her breath hitching.

"Did he hurt you?" Roman drew her away so that he could study her face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm..." Her breath hitched again. "...fine. He's on the beach. He's..."

"Shh," he murmured. She wasn't hurt, he told himself. Frightened, yes. Fury at whatever—or whoever—had scared her threatened to rise up, but he tamped it down. Something had happened on that beach, and as soon as she settled he'd get it out of her. Then he'd handle it. But for now, she was safe. She was here. For the first time he noticed that she'd cut her hair very short. The curls and even that straight sophisticated bob were gone. In the dappled light, filtering through the trees, she made him think of one of Shakespeare's more ethereal woodland creatures.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, but Roman felt the air around them grow thick and charged. Desire sprang from the same place the fury had a moment ago, and he couldn't block it. Or he didn't want to.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

For this. Unable to stop himself, Roman lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips parted. In surprise? In acceptance? Roman couldn't be sure, but he didn't care. Kissing her was a mistake, and there would be consequences. But he'd waited forever to really taste her. Just this once, he told himself. But once her flavor flooded his mouth, he knew that was a lie. And he could have sworn that the rocky ground beneath his feet shifted.

She was sweeter than he'd imagined, but there was a bite beneath the sweetness. As he took the kiss deeper, he discovered a dark richness that he'd never experienced before. Then her scent wrapped around him and it wasn't sweet at all. It was exotic, erotic, and it made him think of the Sirens who'd lured sailors to their deaths. For the first time, Roman understood why they would have gone willingly.

AT LAST. That was the only coherent thought that formed in my mind once Roman pressed his mouth to mine. I felt as if I'd come home. Then he nipped at my bottom lip, changed the angle of the kiss, and I felt as if I'd just entered a brave, new world.

The sound of the sea, so muted before, grew louder. The breeze so gentle just seconds ago whipped around us, a storm seemed to be brewing.

I could feel everything so acutely. One of my hands was trapped against his chest and his heart hammered frantically against my palm. His taste—I'd imagined it so often, but it was so...potent. His touch burned my skin and sent thrill after thrill rippling through me. But it was his mouth I craved more of. It was so tempting that I took and took and took.

Still, I wanted more. I strained closer. As if answering my demand, he slipped one hand between us and covered my breast. Pleasure so sharp that it bordered on pain arrowed through me.

His other hand gripped my hip and lifted. Wrapping arms and legs around him, I scooted up until we were pressed center to center, heat to heat. It still wasn't enough. I couldn't get close enough. My heart was beating so hard, so fast that I was surprised it didn't burst right out of me.

Then suddenly, abruptly, he set me down on the path. I cried out in protest, but he took a quick step back.

"No. I can't. We can't."

"What?" I gave my head a shake, trying to clear it. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I never should have—" He broke off to run a hand through his hair. The other one was clenched at his side.

Anger shot through me, and some of my brain cells clicked on. He was apologizing! Again! Suddenly I wasn't just mad, I was furious. "You never should have what? Followed me here to Greece? Looked at me as if you wanted to eat me whole? Kissed me?"

"It was a mistake."

This time it was pain that shot through me. But I pushed it away, fisted my hands on my hips and sent him a killing look. "A mistake?"

Roman said nothing. He was staring at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. But I was seeing red. Over the years, I'd worked on controlling my temper, but at times it slipped away from me. Usually right after I saw red.

I lunged at him and shoved him hard enough to make him fall on his butt. "What you are, Roman Oliver, is a big fat liar."

I wanted to jump him. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his head rattled. But if I went near him again, even for a moment, I was afraid that I would simply beg him to finish what he'd started.

I summoned up all the pride I could muster and pointed a finger at him instead. "Maybe you think it was a mistake to kiss me. Your loss. And you can stuff your apology. But don't you ever try to tell me that you think of me just as a sister."

I wanted to leave then. But my dramatic exit was impeded by the fact that Roman was blocking my path. His eyes never left mine as he rose and brushed off his pants. "Tell me about the man on the beach."

My anger drained away as all the terror and panic I'd felt ever since I'd seen the bullet send up that telltale spray of sand came flooding back. "He's dead." I glanced around, looking for Ariel, but there was no sign of her. And I couldn't feel her, either. I had to hope she'd headed for the Villa Prospero and safety.

Roman's eyes narrowed. "There's a dead man on the beach?"

I lifted my chin. "I'll show you." Then, whirling, I started through the woods, retracing the route that the cat and I had taken up the hill. So I was able to execute my dramatic exit after all.

TEN MINUTES LATER, I stood next to Roman on the white sand, exactly where the man in the wide-brimmed hat had been lying when Ariel had led me to him. Only he wasn't there. The red stain caused by his blood was gone, too. There wasn't even a depression in the sand where his body had been. Roman and I hadn't spoken on the climb down the hill—not even when I'd slipped and fallen and he'd helped me up—but as much as I hated to admit it, I was glad that he was here. I felt a lot less spooked than I would have otherwise.

"He's gone," I said, stating the all too obvious.

"You're sure this is the spot?"

Since it was a legitimate question and there was no trace of skepticism in his tone, I kept the annoyance out of mine. "I'm positive."

"Any chance that there's another little cove similar to this one and we angled down the wrong way?"

I'd already asked myself that question. I pointed at the Castello. "There's only one cove that's flanked by a fourteenth-century fortress."

Roman glanced up at the towers. "Good point. And the man was lying right here?"

I squatted. "His feet were about here, and he was medium height."

"Could you tell how he'd died?"

I drew in a deep breath as the image of the man's body filled my mind. "He had a bullet hole in the side of his head." I tapped a finger against my left temple. Then I pointed to the spot on the hillside where I'd seen the flash of light. "I think the killer shot from up there just below the Castello."

"You actually spotted him?"

I shook my head. "I just saw a flash of reflected sunlight when I was racing after Ariel."

Roman frowned. "Ariel?"

"The white cat."

"The same one I saw dash out of the woods just before I bumped into you?"

I nodded. "She was the one who led me to the body—she was very upset. I'm assuming because of the name that she belongs to my cousin Alexi. He has two cats and one of them, Caliban, is missing. I'm hoping that Ariel is back safe at the Villa Prospero."

Roman stared out at the sea, then walked in a wide circle around the area I'd indicated. "Can you tell if the tide's coming in?"

I glanced at the waves and noted that they were closer than they'd been before. The base of the boulder that one of the bullets had ricocheted off of was wet now. "It's coming in. That boulder was totally dry before." Then I saw light reflect off metal. Moving to the boulder, I leaned down and retrieved a cell phone. "It could be the victim's. He had one in his hand when I first saw him."

"That will help the police identify him," Roman said.

I tucked it into my pocket.

Roman studied the water. "How much time has passed since you first saw the body?"

I'd completely lost track of time since I'd realized I was being shot at, so I glanced at my watch, then considered briefly. It was nearly one-thirty and my driver dropped me off at noon. "A half hour to forty-five minutes."

"So the body couldn't have been carried off by the tide."

"No."

Turning, Roman met my eyes directly. I could read nothing in his expression, I had no way of telling whether he believed me or not. Even with the cell phone, I wasn't sure I would have believed myself.

Finally, he said, "The killer must have come back and cleaned up after himself."

Relief streamed through me. Then I glanced around. "Maybe not entirely." I rose and walked over to the spot where I'd seen the sand spurt up near the white cat. The image was indelibly imprinted on my mind. The sand was damp now. Squatting, I began to dig with my fingers. On the fifth scoop I found the bullet and held it up for Roman to see. "He missed this."

Roman's eyes narrowed as he strode toward me. "How did you know that was there?"

"He shot at the cat, too. One of them ricocheted off the rock. Then I saw the sand spurt up."

Roman glanced up at the Castello, then grabbed my free hand and urged me toward the trees at the foot of the hill. Once we were in their shelter, he told me to sit down and then he sat down beside me. "Start at the beginning, Philly. And tell me everything."

## 4

BY THE TIME we finally reached the Villa Prospero, my initial adrenaline rush at finding the body had faded, and I was beginning to react to the reality of the situation. Telling Roman what had happened had brought all the details vividly to my mind. Since we hadn't talked on the climb back up to the villa, I'd had time to dwell on them.

A man was dead. And someone had disposed of his body. A bone-deep chill moved through me, and I shivered.

Roman turned to me immediately and took my arm. "Are you all right?"

I nodded. "Just a bit of a delayed reaction, I think."

"You're going to have to repeat the whole thing to the police."

"I can do that." I squared my shoulders in reaction to the concern I heard in his voice. "I'm a big girl, Roman."

Miranda was at the registration desk and she looked up with a polite smile when we walked into the lobby. I noted again the combination of neatness and elegance in her appearance.

I knew from Aunt Cass and my father that Miranda was only in her early forties, but she looked even younger. She'd married early to Sandro Kostas, a man her parents had chosen for her so that she would have help running the hotel after they passed away. Kostas had left her a widow three years ago. Before his death, she'd spent most of her time seeing to the cuisine and keeping the books. Sandro had played the host. But it seemed to me as though Miranda was doing well as a hostess—she looked far more assured than she'd been earlier when Mr. Magellan had confronted her.

"Philly?" Her face brightened as she moved toward me and took both of my hands in hers. "Spiro's daughter. You're even prettier than your pictures. Welcome, welcome. It's such a pleasure to have you here. I'm so sorry I didn't greet you properly when you arrived. Demetria should have told me."

"Don't blame her—I told her not to. I wanted to walk on the beach and I ran into a white cat. Did she come back here?"

As she shook her head, a faint frown appeared on Miranda's forehead. "That might have been Ariel. But I haven't seen her at all today. She may have gone to look for my son, Alexi."

Miranda turned to Roman then. "Demetria told me that you know my cousin Philly?"

Roman smiled at her. "I know her very well. I'm her brother Kit Angelis." He held out a hand, and Miranda grasped it warmly, her face a mixture of surprise and delight.

I simply stood there and stared at him. Later, I would tell myself that my mental state had been approaching shock. That had to have been why I said nothing.

"Welcome! I was only expecting Philly. This is such a wonderful surprise—to have two of Spiro's children visit."

I'm sure my mouth was hanging open, but neither of them was paying me any heed. I felt as if I were watching a play.

Roman squeezed Miranda's hands. "You must forgive me for not calling ahead. But my plans changed at the last minute, and I wanted to surprise my sister. My father and Helena so enjoyed their visit here and I can see why." He paused to glance around the room. "You have a lovely place."

I wanted to surprise my sister? Never in my life had I knowingly watched anyone lie so smoothly.

Miranda said something in reply, but I missed it because Roman chose that moment to meet my eyes. There was a challenge in his—almost as if he was daring me to expose his lie. I told myself I had to say something, to put a stop to his little masquerade before it went any further, but my lips just wouldn't form the words.

He shifted his gaze back to Miranda. "And you're not to worry. Demetria has already told me that you're completely booked, but I can bunk in with Philly. All I need is a cot."

"Of course you'll stay here," Miranda said. "And you won't need a cot. The sofa in the suite converts to a bed. As soon as my son returns, I'll have him make it up. In the meantime, you must go out to the terrace. I'll bring you coffee and pastries. We're through serving lunch, but I can have Demetria fix some sandwiches."

I finally had my mouth open to say something when Roman preempted me. "Before we sit down, we have to contact the police."

Miranda turned back at that, surprise and worry in her eyes. "The police?"

"Philly found a dead body on the beach."

"A dead body?"

Fear flashed into her eyes, and I sensed she might be worried about Alexi. "A man—medium height and stocky. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat—like the ones you sell in your gift shop—and he was carrying a backpack and binoculars."

"Does he sound familiar?" Roman asked.

Miranda frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. "There are so many visitors on the island right now because of the party at the Castello Corli the day after tomorrow. Andre Magellan throws these parties at least twice a year. His guests number in the hundreds. He can accommodate most of them at the Castello—it's reputed to have close to one hundred guest rooms—but we take the overflow here." She shifted her gaze to Roman. "How did the man die?"

"We believe he was shot by someone up on the cliff near the Castello," Roman explained. "Philly was on her way back here when she ran into me. By the time we returned to the beach, the body was gone."

"Gone?"

"The killer may not have wanted it found," Roman explained.

"When I first spotted the man, there was someone with him—a younger man he seemed to be arguing with," I said. "He was about the same height with dark curly hair. My guess is that he's still in his teens, and he was wearing some kind of medal around his neck."

Miranda shook her head, but I didn't miss the slight stiffening of her body. My description had made her think of someone, I was sure of it.

"That was where I first saw the white cat," I said. "She led me to the body."

"Ariel," Miranda breathed and then clasped her hands together. "It must have been Ariel. Her twin brother, Caliban, has been missing for two days. Alexi has been very upset. He and those cats have been inseparable since his father gave them to him. He's spent the last two days searching along the coastline." Dropping her hands to her sides, she gave us a flustered glance. "Please forgive me for rambling on. Come out to the terrace. You'll have something to drink while I call the police."

Miranda seated us at a table in the shade of some pines and poured us each a glass of pale gold wine before she hurried back to the lobby.

The moment she was out of earshot, Roman said, "Take a sip of that. You're still looking a little shaky. I have to make a couple of calls."

I didn't argue. I was barely able to keep my hand from trembling as I lifted the glass. The wine was cool, but it helped to take the edge off of the chill that was settling over me.

Demetria appeared and set a pot of coffee and a tray of pastries on the table. I smiled and nodded my thanks and then returned my gaze to Roman. He was talking on his cell to a man he called Gianni. Or rather listening. The man on the other end seemed to be doing most of the talking. From what I could gather, they were discussing something about hotels.

Sitting there in the dappled sunlight, Roman was at his ease, the picture of self-containment and confidence. Having him here was helping. This man seated across from me was the Roman I was familiar with—cool, competent.

"I'll be delayed longer than I originally thought," Roman said. "A day or two."

The man who'd told Miranda that he was my brother Kit was a bit of a stranger. So was the man who'd kissed me on the hillside path. There'd been nothing cool about that kiss. I'd tasted a desperation that had matched my own. These new aspects of Roman intrigued me.

At the same time his ability to return to normal mode so quickly annoyed me. He was calmly conducting business while my mind was still spinning. I wasn't even at the point where I could sort out my thoughts.

And I couldn't blame it totally on a delayed reaction to finding a dead man on the beach.

I tried to focus by concentrating on one thing. There was the cat, Ariel. I'd sensed a bone-deep, almost frantic, fear in her. Ariel had reminded me a bit of Pretzels, and I wondered if it was part of her nature to react in a very dramatic way. Not that she didn't have a perfect right to be afraid. It was very possible that she'd seen a man get shot. But she'd been distressed even when the man in the wide-brimmed hat was still alive.

Worry and concern about her brother may very well have been the source of the chaotic emotions I'd first sensed in Ariel. I recalled the image of the white cat lying in darkness. Could that have been Caliban? The picture hadn't been clear, but it did look as though he was alive and he had a supply of food and water. I wished that Ariel hadn't disappeared when I'd kissed Roman on the path.

I'd been trying to avoid thinking about that kiss. As lust curled snakelike in my stomach, I reached for my wine and took a long swallow. For a moment I sat there simply studying Roman. He was seated with his back to the marvelous view of the sea beyond. He'd angled his chair slightly so that he wasn't facing me, and that meant he didn't notice that I was staring.

I thought of how often I'd dreamed of kissing him. The first fantasies had been the innocent ones of a sixteen-year-old, but as I'd entered college and gained some experience with men, my fantasies had become more detailed. Still, nothing, actual or imagined, had prepared me for the reality of Roman's callused palms or his clever, demanding mouth. I'd never before felt my will drain so completely away. He could have asked anything of me, and I would have given it. Gladly.

Another moment and we would have made love right there on the path. But he'd pulled away. And then he'd had the nerve to apologize. Again. The anger I'd felt earlier came surging back. I started to sip my wine once more, then decided on coffee instead. I needed to keep a clear head if I was going to deal with the man sitting across from me. And I was going to have to figure out how to deal with him since he'd clearly decided to hang around for the next day or two.

The coffee was strong and bitter, just the way my father brewed it at his restaurant, and it immediately began to counteract the wine I'd had. I decided the question I most needed the answer to was why Roman had told Miranda that he was Kit. Had it been to emphasize to me that he thought of me only as a brother?

I narrowed my eyes on him. Fat chance he was going to get away with that story twice. I was beginning to think that I'd been a fool to believe it the first time he'd told it.

Demetria stepped out onto the terrace and hurried toward our table. "Mrs. Kostas sends her apologies. She's busy with some of the other guests. She said to tell you that Inspector Ionescu is on his way. Can I get you anything else?"

I smiled at her, assured her that we were fine, and she hurried away again. Through the open doors of the terrace, I could see several guests lined up to talk to Miranda. At least two of the men were wearing hats similar to the one I'd seen on the dead man.

I turned my gaze back to Roman. Maybe I was asking the wrong question. What did it matter why Roman had lied to Miranda? The question I ought to be asking was what was I going to do about the fact that Roman and I were going to be sharing a room?

Roman closed his cell and turned his chair so that he was facing me. "Your cousin lied to us about not knowing the younger man on the beach."

He was definitely in normal mode, I thought. I quickly gathered my thoughts so that I would appear to be also. "Yes, I agree. I think it might have been Alexi I saw. And she was worried at first that he might be the dead man. Alexi must be in some kind of trouble." I told Roman about my initial arrival at the Villa Prospero and the scene I'd witnessed between Miranda and Andre Magellan.

Roman poured himself a cup of coffee. "How old is Alexi?"

"Eighteen. According to my father and Helena, he was always a little behind in school. Not retarded, but a little slow developmentally."

"That might explain his single-minded determination to find his missing cat and the way he's ignoring Magellan's warnings and neglecting his duties here."

I lifted my chin. "I can understand his concern. If Pretzels or Peanuts were missing, I might neglect a few of my duties also."

"Point taken. What else can you tell me about Alexi?"

"Dad told me that since Miranda's husband died three years ago, she's depended on Alexi to help her run the place."

"He would have been fifteen. That's a lot of responsibility for a young man." Roman sipped coffee and leaned back in his chair. "I was a little older than that when I started to take an active role at Oliver Enterprises. After my mother died, my dad...well, he wasn't himself for a while. I had to take on more responsibility in the company—more than he would have given me under other circumstances."

"You handled it." I couldn't imagine Roman not being able to handle anything.

His lips curved slightly. "Actually, I loved it. Working at Oliver Enterprises, expanding our business has always been my goal. So much so that I didn't want to go to college. My dad insisted. Good thing or I never would have ended up being Kit's roommate." He sipped more coffee. "Alexi may not be as enthusiastic about running this hotel. Miranda must have asked him not to hang around the Castello. He may be acting out a bit in rebellion."

I studied him. It occurred to me that Roman and I had never sat like this before—just the two of us talking. Thinking about it, I realized that we'd always been with my family or his—except for those two times in his hospital room. It was at that moment that I caught a glimpse of that white bird again spiraling upward in the blue sky above the sea. The same feelings I'd experienced on the cliff path moved through me. And I knew—the same way that I often sensed things with animals—that this was where I was meant to be and that Roman was meant to be here with me. Whatever adventure lay ahead of me on this island, Roman was fated to be a part of it.

"There's another problem." Roman paused, then said, "Philly?"

"Sorry." I gathered my thoughts and met his eyes. "You were saying there's a problem."

"Inspector Ionescu may have some trouble investigating a murder with no body. The only evidence we have to show him is that shell casing. The cell phone will help with identification, but it doesn't prove a homicide."

"I know what I saw."

"And I believe you." Roman topped off the coffee in our cups. "But I'm trying to look at the situation from your brother Nik's point of view."

I saw where he was going. Nik would see everything through a cop's skeptical eyes.

"There's very little for the police to work with. If you wanted to tell them that you think it might have been your cousin arguing with the man just before he was shot, Alexi could at least corroborate your story about seeing them on the beach."

"I don't want to say that yet. I can't be positive that it was Alexi. I've never even met him."

"Are you worried that Alexi could be the shooter?" Roman asked.

"No." I shook my head vehemently. "The man arguing with the victim wouldn't have had time to get all the way up the cliff to where I think the shooter was."

"Good point." Roman sipped more coffee, studying me over the rim of his cup.

"It's too bad that Inspector Ionescu can't question Ariel."

Roman's brows shot up. "The cat?"

I nodded. "She may have witnessed the murder."

"Could you question her?"

I glanced around. "I'd like to. I'm worried about her. The sniper shot twice at her."

"Do you think she can tell you who he is?"

I studied him for a moment. It occurred to me that he'd not once questioned anything I'd told him about my communication with Ariel. He seemed to accept my ability to connect with animals with the same ease that my family did. "I don't know if she saw who it was. If the killing shot came from where the other shots came from, the shooter was too far up the cliff side."

"But he may have been closer to the beach when he fired that shot."

I frowned. Neither of us said anything, but that possibility meant that the man we were beginning to believe was Alexi could have shot the older man.

"I'll ask her the next time I see her."

"Just how do you do it—communicate with animals, I mean?"

"You're very accepting of my ability."

"I've listened to Kit brag about you for years. But he's never shared the specifics of how it works. Do they talk to you?"

"Sometimes I hear actual words in my head. But other times it's all images and sometimes colors. With Ariel, I saw red." I clasped my hands tightly in front of me. "It was all that blood on the white sand." When I'd described what had happened to Roman, I'd summarized my communication with Ariel, but I'd left out most of the specifics. "When I first saw her through my camera lens, I sensed emotions—fear, frustration and a huge sense of urgency. She wanted something and she wasn't about to be soothed. After the younger man leaned over to pet her, she backed away."

"Isn't it odd that she would back away if the younger man was Alexi?"

I thought about it for a moment. Once again talking to Roman was helping me to clarify everything. "She wanted something—help, I think. That was the first thing she said to me when she appeared around the rocks. When I found the body, I assumed she wanted help for him. But I think she was looking for help even before the man in the hat was shot. That's why she wouldn't let the younger man pet her for long. She was on a mission."

"Any ideas about why she ran toward you for help after the man in the hat was killed?"

I hadn't considered that. "When I first felt a connection with her, the feelings were so intense. Perhaps she sensed me, too. She also sent me an image. I didn't mention it earlier because it didn't seem to be connected to the murder. I saw a white cat lying motionless in a dark place."

"Her brother?"

"That's what I'm wondering. I have a lot of questions that I think she could answer. And I have a few for Alexi, too."

"You're not going to keep out of this, are you?"

I leaned toward him. "How can I? I found that body on the beach. And Ariel asked for help. When she comes back I want to try and find a way to help her."

Roman was about to say something else, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Look, if you're going to try to persuade me to leave, you're wasting your time. From the moment I stepped out of the taxi, I've been certain that I'm meant to be here."

"Fate?"

"Yes."

"Why are you so sure of that?"

It wasn't skepticism I heard in his voice. If it had been, I probably would have kept my mouth shut. But the thing I was discovering about Roman was that he was a patient listener, down on the beach and again right now. He was an easy man to talk to. And sometimes truth was the most effective weapon.

Aunt Cass was always saying that the Fates only offered a choice. It was always up to the person to grab on to what was offered.

"I'm sure that Kit has told you that my family has a history of finding their soul mates here in Greece—first my mother and Aunt Cass and most recently my dad. So after you turned down my proposition at the hospital, I decided that I'd try my luck over here. Not that I'm looking for my true love—exactly. I'd settle for a really hot fling. But life is nothing if not ironic. Instead of finding a lover on the beach, I found a dead man."

When Roman said nothing, I hurried on. "I'm convinced he's just the beginning of the adventure. I know that the Fates have brought me here, and I'm not going to leave until I find out all that they have in store for me."

There was a sort of nonplussed expression on Roman's face that I'd never seen before. It gave me the courage to say, "Now that I've bared my soul to you, turnabout's fair play. Why did you lie to Miranda and tell her you were Kit?"

I WISH THE HELL I KNEW. Roman had been pondering that very question ever since the lie had slipped so easily out of his mouth. He knew how to guard his tongue. He'd cultivated the skill in countless business negotiations. Still, he'd told Miranda he was Kit without missing a beat.

Why?

The surface answer was easy enough. "I'd already heard from Demetria that they had no rooms available. She offered to get me a room in the nearest village. There's no way I'm leaving you here alone until this matter is sorted out."

Her chin lifted in just the way he'd known it would. "I don't need a big brother. I can handle myself."

"You weren't doing so well when I ran into you on the cliff path."

"That was only because you were there. If you hadn't been, I would have been fine."

Roman didn't doubt that for a moment. Still he was glad that he'd been there. He thought of what she'd looked like right after he'd apologized for kissing her and she'd knocked him flat on his ass. She'd reminded him of Aphrodite—beautiful, powerful and furious. A goddess you wouldn't want to mess with. And he'd wanted her mindlessly. God help him, he still did.

And that was the other reason he'd lied to Miranda.

But what he said was, "You believe the sniper was shooting at the cat. Who's to say his next shot wouldn't have been aimed at you?"

She swallowed hard. "He missed the cat. Twice. Maybe he was just trying to scare us away so he could get rid of the body."

Roman nodded. "That's possible. But once we report all this to the inspector, and the shooter finds out you're still here at the villa—not only here, but asking questions—he might decide you saw too much."

"If you're trying to frighten me—"

"I am."

"I'm not leaving."

"Neither am I."

There was a beat. Then Philly leaned forward and there was a glint in her eye he couldn't recall seeing before. "Fine. But if we're going to share the same room, I want to lay down some ground rules."

"Ground rules?" What in hell was coming next?

"You're a businessperson. You must be familiar with the concept." She lifted her wineglass and sipped. "The next time you kiss me—no pulling back, no apologies. You'd better be prepared to finish what you start."

The challenge was clear in her voice, in her eyes. But he was saved from a direct reply when Miranda ushered a thin, wiry man of medium height and sharp, intelligent eyes onto the terrace.

"Philly, Kit, this is Inspector Ionescu," Miranda said. "Inspector, these are my cousins from San Francisco."

## 5

DURING THE TWO HOURS Roman and I had spent in the company of Inspector Ionescu, I'd learned he was a very professional and thorough man. I'm embarrassed to admit that I'd expected someone who was a bit more of a hick—or at the least someone more rumpled or cranky. The inspector was none of the above.

He sat across a table from me in a shaded and isolated part of the terrace flipping through a small notebook. The first word that had popped into my mind from the moment I'd seen him was dapper. He reminded me a bit of the actor who'd starred as Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot in the British television series. His build was thin and wiry. He wore neatly pressed khaki trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and tie and sturdy boots that had served him well when he'd accompanied Roman and me to the crescent-shaped beach where I'd last seen the body. I was hoping that I might catch a glimpse of Ariel on the way down, but I hadn't.

Before we'd climbed down the cliff path, Ionescu had questioned Roman and me separately in Miranda's office. Once we returned to the villa, he'd separated us again. Roman now sat several tables away, sipping coffee and chatting with Demetria.

Ionescu closed his notebook and glanced up at me. "Is there anything else you can tell me, Ms. Angelis?"

I pretended to think for a moment, and then I said, "No."

Ionescu said nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Roman was perfectly at his ease while my stomach was knotted with nerves. I'd been lying to the inspector for two hours.

"You don't have any idea of the identity of the young man you saw talking with the victim?"

"No."

He was looking right into my eyes, and I prayed that he couldn't read my mind. Because I did have an idea of who the younger man was. Still, I didn't know for sure that it had been my cousin Alexi.

"Is there anything about what you've told me that you'd like to change?"

"No." That was a lie also. Because I wanted very badly to tell him that Roman wasn't my brother Kit. Roman and I had argued about that point on the beach while Ionescu had been some distance away searching the promontory of rocks near the Castello. I'd pointed out that the inspector was going to discover that Roman was lying anyway. He was definitely going to check our passports. Or he could privately Google Kit's name if he didn't want us to know he was curious about us. My brother Kit had two different Web sites—one for his P. I. business and the other for his novels. His picture was prominently displayed on both. All Roman had said was that he'd handle that when the time came.

Somehow I didn't think Ionescu was going to approve of Roman's timing.

When Ionescu slipped the small notebook into his pocket and rose, Roman walked to the table to join us. "All finished, Inspector?"

"For the moment. Have you thought of anything else I should know, Mr. Angelis?"

"No—I believe we've covered it all. What will you do next?"

"I'll trace the owner of the cell phone Ms. Angelis found. Then we'll have a name. Whether or not it belongs to the victim is another question. By tomorrow, I may have a report of a missing person, either from here or the Castello Corli. I'd like the two of you to keep yourselves available." He handed Roman his card. "And if you think of anything else I need to know, please call me at once."

After nodding at me, Ionescu moved toward the lobby. Roman and I watched him stop and speak to Miranda. To my surprise, he reached out and touched her arm in a gesture that spoke of comfort.

I murmured to Roman, "They know each other more than professionally."

"If that's true, then he knows Alexi also."

"And probably recognized him from the description I gave of the younger man on the beach." I rose from the table. "I'm worried about Ariel and Caliban."

"I spoke to Demetria about the cats. She says that ever since Caliban went missing, Ariel disappears for long periods of time. She may be with Alexi."

I thought of the image of the white cat lying in the shadowy place. He was awake, just not moving. Maybe he couldn't. "Perhaps she goes to her brother. That would make sense especially if she's a worrier like my Pretzels is." I recalled the remains of the small animal. "She may be bringing him food. And I saw water."

"There's nothing you can do right now. Not until Ariel returns."

When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw that Ionescu was still talking to Miranda. "The inspector suspects we're lying about something. You should have told him you're not Kit."

"Miranda wouldn't approve of my staying in your room if she learned the truth right now. I'm sure she feels that while you're at the Villa Prospero, she's standing in for your father. I wouldn't want to add to the stress she's under by insisting that I stay in your room as Roman Oliver."

I met his eyes steadily. "I'm a grown woman. I make my own decisions about who stays or does not stay in my room."

Though his expression didn't change I could tell he was amused. "That doesn't alter the way your brothers would feel if they knew we were sharing a room. I know what I'd feel about my sisters."

My brows shot up. "Theo is sharing a room with your sister Sadie on a pretty regular basis."

"That's different. There's a commitment between Theo and Sadie." All trace of amusement disappeared from his eyes. "I'm not a man who can make that kind of commitment, Philly. Running Oliver Enterprises is much more than a full-time job to me. It's something I've worked for all of my life. I've watched my father try to juggle the responsibilities of business and family and now he's heading for his third divorce. I decided some time ago that it wouldn't be fair to ask someone to share my life when I would have so little time to devote to the relationship."

With my temper surging, I closed the distance between us and poked a finger into his chest. "Let's clear something up right now. I've never mentioned the C or the M word. I told you in your hospital room exactly what I wanted. I want to make love with you. Period." Warming to my theme, I poked him again. "For two cents—"

Just in time, I reined in my anger and clamped my teeth together. I'd nearly threatened to expose his identity to Miranda and insist that she find him a room in the village. Thank heavens my more rational side prevailed. Because I didn't want Roman staying someplace in the village. I wanted him in my room tonight. I was going to take what the Fates were offering me. I was going to take Roman Oliver.

Roman was looking at me as if he was seeing something he hadn't seen before. "For two cents, you'd what?" he asked.

"Knock you on your ass again," I said.

He chuckled then, and the sound had the rest of my temper draining away.

"C'mon." He took my arm and led me toward the lobby.

"Demetria said that our room is ready, and we'll want to freshen up. Drinks are served at seven, dinner at eight."

It was almost six. I figured that would give me plenty of time to implement stage one of my plan.

HANDLING PHILLY was going to be a problem. Roman knew it in the same gut way that he always knew when a business deal threatened to go south. He stood on the small balcony that opened off the living room of Philly's suite. The rooms were small but well appointed, and the view of the sea below was one of the best that the villa had to offer. The sun was lowering in the sky and the scent of lemons filled the air.

But it was Philly's scent that lingered in his mind. It had been haunting him ever since he'd kissed her. She'd used the shower first, so when it was his turn, each breath he'd inhaled had filled his mind with images of how it might feel to have her standing in the shower with him. He'd imagined running his hands over that slender body that he'd just begun to explore on the cliff path. Of molding her slick with soap against him. Hardness to softness. Heat to heat.

Spinning the fantasy out in his head, he'd lifted her and once she'd wrapped her legs around him, he'd pressed her against the wall and entered her slowly, drawing out the pleasure for them both until her wet heat totally engulfed him.

He'd very nearly come just thinking about it.

Turning, he glanced at the closed door to the bedroom. She'd been throwing him one curveball after another ever since she'd walked into his hospital room and propositioned him. And he could admit now that it had been a mistake to follow her here—the result of acting on impulse—something he rarely did. And now he felt trapped. How could he leave her? She was in trouble, and so, however distant the connection might be, was her family.

Someone had been murdered. Ionescu was a good man, competent. But there was no way to tell how successful the investigation would be or how long it would take. In the meantime, Philly had planted herself firmly in the middle of whatever was going on. If the young man she'd seen arguing with the dead man turned out to be her cousin, Ionescu would have a lot of questions for him. Then there were the cats.

Though he'd done his best to calm her worries about them earlier, there was no way she'd butt out until she was sure that both of them were safe. There was no way she'd butt out, period. The one thing he'd noticed about Philly was that once she set her sights on a goal, she always achieved it. Since she'd finished her degree in psychology, she'd slowly but surely built up her pet-psychic business while juggling part-time jobs at a veterinary hospital and filling in as hostess at her family's restaurant. Kit bragged to him about each new client she got.

He glanced at his watch—a little after seven. She'd been getting dressed for over half an hour. He turned his attention back to the view. While Philly had been talking to Ionescu, Demetria had filled him in on the local legend that there was a kind of magic on the island that people could tap into. What you wished for could come true.

Standing on the balcony and watching the sun lower in the sky, Roman could almost believe the legend was real. Demetria's English was more enthusiastic than clear, but from what he'd pieced together it was based on the belief held by many that Corfu had been the inspiration for the setting of Shakespeare's The Tempest. Perhaps some of Prospero's magic still lingered and that was why he was feeling so bewitched.

Philly had made it pretty clear what she'd come to the island wishing for. Sex with a stranger. Recalling how she'd talked so casually of making love with some man she hadn't even met yet, jealousy once again sliced through Roman with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. He was getting tired of the sensation and damn tired of wanting someone he'd told himself he couldn't have.

He turned when the door opened and watched Philly step into the room. For a moment, he couldn't breathe and his mind emptied. The one stray thought that tumbled into the void was that this wasn't the Philly he'd known for years. Either it was the new haircut or she'd done something to her eyes that made them look larger. And her lips were a siren red. But it was the dress—or the lack of it—that had his throat going dry. The silky material that dropped from thin straps at her shoulders to stop well above her knees and hugged every curve of her body.

He had to work to keep from staring at her legs. Then she turned around and he gave up the battle. The dress was backless, and the combination of white skin and black dress had him thinking of magic again.

"What do you think?" she asked. "The saleslady guaranteed this dress was male bait."

His only thought was that he would have to fight each and every one of those men off.

"Well?" Philly prodded, turning in another circle. As she did, the dress flared and revealed more leg.

"The saleswoman was right." Roman was surprised that he'd actually formed words. "Shall we?" He gestured toward the door and gave her a wide berth as he led the way. If he stayed in this room one second longer, the fantasy he'd indulged in earlier during his shower would become a reality. Once in the hall, he drew in a deep breath and stifled an impulse to run. As they made their way down the hall, he hoped that the drinks on the terrace would include something much stronger than wine.

"I THINK THIS PLACE is a magical spot, don't you?" Roman and I were seated on the terrace, lingering over a final glass of wine and some pastries. The sun was sinking into the sea and the sky was streaked with shades of blue and rose.

"The cuisine certainly is," Roman said.

I was sure that the food was excellent, but I'd hardly tasted any of it. Our conversation had passed the time pleasantly enough. We'd avoided the topics of the dead man and the sniper and my still-missing cousin Alexi. And talking to Roman earlier about the cats had eased my mind—I was convinced that Ariel was with her brother just as Pretzels would be with Peanuts if she were injured and in need of help.

Instead Roman and I had talked about our work. I'd learned that he was on his way to Athens where he was negotiating a deal with a Greek millionaire and entrepreneur, Gianni Stassis, to buy into select privately owned hotels in Greece. The Villa Prospero was a prime example of the type of place they would approach with their offer.

My contribution to the dinner conversation had been to describe some of the more eccentric animals and owners that I worked with. But all the time what I really wanted was dessert, and he was sitting directly across from me.

Nerves jittered in my stomach, but I was determined to overcome them. I was just not going to let myself waste this opportunity. I ran my finger around the top of my wineglass, just the way I'd seen Linda Hamilton do it in a made-for-TV movie called Sex& Mrs. X. After dipping my finger into the glass, I raised it to my mouth and licked the wine off. In the film, Linda was a journalist who was writing a story on the most famous madam in Paris, and she'd picked up several tricks on how to attract and seduce a man. This particular one seemed to be working on Roman.

Sexy seductress was not my usual role, but I was beginning to think that I might have a knack for it. The dress was helping. I'd never before worn anything quite like it, and the look right now in Roman's eyes was anything but brotherly. However, the man seemed to have a talent for running hot one minute and cold the next. Prime example—the kiss on the cliff path. I was still annoyed with him for pulling back.

Tonight, I wasn't about to leave anything up to chance. Roman Oliver was a businessman, so I'd decided that it might be a good idea to offer him a deal.

Leaning forward, I said, "I've been thinking. As I told you earlier, I came here to Greece to have a fling. But I haven't changed my mind about wanting to make love with you."

He didn't reply, but the look in his eyes could have liquefied my bones.

"Clearly, your story about your feelings for me being brotherly—well, that was an out-and-out lie. The way you kissed me on the cliff path wasn't brotherly."

He didn't deny it. In fact, he didn't say anything at all.

Encouraged, I took a sip of wine and went on. "It occurred to me at some point during our individual sessions with Inspector Ionescu that any reservations you might have about having a sexual relationship with me because of my family don't apply here."

His eyes narrowed then. "They sure as hell do."

I raised a hand, palm out. "On the contrary. My father and brothers are back in San Francisco. We're thousands of miles away on a magical Greek island. They'll never have to know. And you've told my cousin that you're my brother. So all we have to do is be discreet in public."

"Philly—"

I ran a finger down the back of his hand (another Sex & Mrs. X tip). Not only did the gesture shut him up, but he turned his hand over and gripped mine. My throat went dry, and I felt the heat streak right to my center. Roman Oliver was going to be some dessert all right.

"You're a businessman, so I'm going to make you a deal. We'll have an affair, but it will only last as long as we're here on Corfu. And it will remain our secret. No one ever has to know. When we meet again in San Francisco, we'll go back to our old relationship—big brother, little sister."

He still said nothing. He merely looked at me. But the hunger in his eyes had my toes curling. I debated. I could just stand and take him with me to the room. But I wanted to nail down the deal first.

"Why don't we pretend we're strangers? We've just met for the first time tonight. I want you and you want me, and for the time we're here at the Villa Prospero, we'll enjoy each other. No strings. And no holds barred. Deal?"

There were three beats of silence and each one seemed like a mini-eternity. Finally Roman released my hand and rose. "I want to kiss you, and we can't do that here."

I couldn't feel my legs as we started back to the room.

"I hope that you don't regret this, Philly."

I wasn't sure about the regrets part, but I would worry about that later. What I had to concentrate on now was making sure that Roman would never forget me.

## 6

ONCE INSIDE THE ROOM, Roman moved fast, using his hands and body to trap me against the door. He threaded his fingers through my hair, then merely studied me. The light was dimming, but I had no trouble seeing his eyes. The heat had my breath catching, my body trembling.

He slid his hands to my shoulders, then down my arms. Flames licked along my nerve endings.

"Second thoughts?"

"No." Saying the word aloud only heightened my certainty that this was what I wanted. He was what I wanted. The need that had been building inside of me all through dinner was bordering on pain. "Touch me."

Settling his hands at my hips, he moved in closer. "I've been waiting all evening to do this." He traced a finger up my spine. I trembled. Then he spread his palms against my bare back and slowly ran them down to my waist. Fire shot through my veins. His eyes stayed on mine as he moved his hands again, faster this time, sliding up my sides until his palms pressed against the sides of my breasts. I was throbbing at every point a pulse could beat.

"Last chance, Philly." His voice had roughened. He was trying to be a gentleman, but I wasn't in the mood for one tonight.

"I'm not Philly, and you're not Roman, remember?"

I locked my arms around his neck and dragged his mouth to mine. It was hard and hot and I tasted barely leashed hunger. The flavor was so unique that I had to have more. His tongue took possession of my mouth, his teeth scraped my bottom lip, and the kiss teetered toward pain. And all the while those clever hands raced over me, tracing the curve of my throat, cupping my breasts, digging into my hips. The speed had my head spinning. Sensations swamped me as he lowered the zipper on the back of my dress and stripped me out of it.

I struggled with the buttons on his shirt. The sound of one dropping to the floor only made me more desperate. Finally, I ran my hands up that damp smooth skin, absorbing the hard ridge of muscles on his back.

He nipped at my bottom lip, then deepened the kiss until I felt as if I were drowning—sinking fast into someplace where the air was too thick to breathe. Wild fists of need battered at me, and the heat building inside me grew brutal. There was only one answer. I dragged my mouth from his. "Now. Right now."

I cried out in protest when he set me against the door and stepped away. But then he took his gaze on a searing journey over my body. He'd never looked at me that way before, and every muscle in me quivered with fresh delight. When he met my eyes again, I saw a simmering violence. Still, it wasn't fear or even apprehension I felt. It was a wild, hot thrill.

HE HAD TO GET a grip. Catch his breath. Think. This was Philly. She deserved gentleness, seduction. That had been his intention, but it had evaporated the instant she'd exploded in his arms. Even now that he wasn't touching her, tasting her, he couldn't get his head clear. The experience was unprecedented.

He prided himself on being a gentle, considerate lover, and he'd been about to mindlessly pound himself into her against a door. He still wanted to.

Stepping away from her wasn't doing a damn thing to cool his blood. The dress had been bewitching enough, but what she was wearing under it was designed to bring a man to his knees. All Roman could do was stare. Hopefully, his mouth hadn't dropped open and his tongue wasn't hanging out.

He was going to have to turn and walk away if he wanted to regain control. But he didn't move. He couldn't—any more than he could prevent himself from reaching out to run a finger over the black lace that topped one thigh-high stocking.

Meeting her eyes, Roman watched them darken as he trailed a finger up to the hint of a thong that barely covered her. Never would he have imagined Philly wearing anything like this. As he lingered there, barely touching her, the sound of her breathing—or was it his own?—grew ragged.

"Very nice." Still using a featherlight touch and keeping his gaze locked on hers, he moved his finger over her abdomen and up her midriff to hook it beneath the swatch of lace that barely covered her breasts. She was trembling now, and those brown eyes had misted over. He could see his own image reflected there and knew that she thought only of him.

Triumph raced through him along with a ferocious surge of need. To hell with seduction. He had to have her. The whispery sound of lace ripping only added fuel to the flash fire threatening to consume him. Lifting her, he took his mouth on a desperate journey from her breasts down the path his finger had traced. Her skin was damp, hot, her flavor so...necessary. But there was no time to savor, not when his blood pounded with such overwhelming greed. Lace tore again as he straightened and pressed her back against the wall. Then he found her center and pierced her with two fingers.

Here was a heat that matched his own. He felt her inner muscles tighten around his fingers and watched her eyelids lower.

"No," he said. "Look at me when I make you come."

Then he absorbed each separate sensation—each tremor, each hitch of her breath as he shot her up, watched her ride the crest and shudder down. Her eyes blurred and went glassy. His name was a whispered moan that sent a fresh wave of heat slamming into him. He nearly came right then.

"Again." He didn't know who said the word as her fingers tore at his belt.

"This time...I want you inside me."

"Yes..." He wasn't sure he could survive another ten seconds if he wasn't inside of her. With whatever thin grip he had on his control, Roman managed to retrieve a condom from his pocket before his pants and belt hit the floor.

Her arms locked around his neck, her teeth sank into his shoulder. Then she whispered into his ear, "Make me come again."

Roman's head reeled.

"Protection," he said in a desperate attempt to keep his focus. His fingers shook as he sheathed himself.

"You'd better hurry." She nipped his earlobe, then pulled his mouth to hers. "I want you now."

"Right now." Gripping her hips, he hitched her up and drove into her where they stood. The door slammed hard into the jamb, and he was certain he heard his control snap in the same instant. Then her taste exploded inside of him, and he knew that he might never get enough. Of it. Of her.

His body took over, moving faster and faster. Hers kept pace, meeting him thrust for thrust until he knew nothing else, wanted nothing else but Philly. When she tightened around him like a slick, hot fist, he lost himself in her.

WHEN MY BRAIN CELLS clicked on again, I was straddling Roman's lap, my head on his shoulder. Bright moonlight streamed through the open balcony door. I had no idea how long we'd been sitting there like that. But I didn't want to move. Gradually, more details filtered through the sensual fog that still held me in its grip. I could see Roman's slacks pooled on the floor beside us. His back was against the door, his arms were around me...and he was still inside of me.

As my brain alerted my body to that fact, I felt my inner muscles tighten around him. Incredibly, fresh desire rippled through me.

He slipped a finger under my chin and drew my face up until our eyes met. I read concern in his.

"Are you all right, Philly?"

I smiled at him. "I keep telling you I'm not Philly." And I didn't feel like Philly anymore. It was as if my decision to seduce Roman and then finally making love with him had changed me. "But I am fabulous."

His gaze remained intent on mine. "You're sure I didn't hurt you?"

"Positive." I trailed a finger down his throat to his shoulder. "But I left teeth marks on you."

He smiled then. "Feel free—anytime."

Maybe it was the fact that he'd never smiled at me in quite that way before—a mixture of friendliness and intimacy. Or perhaps it was because he moved his hand until his fingers were spread against my cheek—but something stirred in me then. A knowledge, a certainty that I usually only experienced when I was communicating with animals.

This is the one.

An alarm sounded at the back of my mind. How often had Aunt Cass used just those words to describe what she'd felt, what she'd known the first time she'd seen my uncle Demetrius?

No. Roman Oliver wasn't the one. Panic bubbled in my stomach. That was something the old Philly had dreamed of for seven long years. I was not about to fall into that trap again. Roman and I were going to have a torrid affair, and I was going to get him out of my system. When we returned to San Francisco, we were going to go our separate ways. No harm, no foul.

More than that, I wasn't going to waste a moment of our time on Corfu worrying about silly childhood fantasies. Not when I could spend the time having incredible sex with Roman.

I traced my fingers over the bite mark. Then I lowered my mouth and bit him in the exact spot on his other shoulder. I felt him harden inside of me.

"Philly." He gripped my waist to lift me, but I clamped my legs on his thighs as I nibbled my way to his neck.

"You told me to feel free."

His fingers flexed at my waist. "If you keep that up, my plan to seduce you is going to be postponed again."

"Speaking totally for myself, I think your first plan worked out fine."

The laugh that vibrated from his throat sent a quick shiver through me. Straightening, I met his eyes. "I think it's my turn to seduce you. Only there's a rule. You can't touch me until I tell you to."

He raised his brows at that.

Since he was still wearing his shirt, I pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms, trapping them. "No cheating."

I bit into his lower lip, and his shudder had new flames igniting inside of me. Unable to resist, I crushed his mouth with mine, and my tongue tangled with his. This time, I had control of the kiss, and I tried to take my time, savoring his dark rich flavor.

But I wanted more—my body craved more—so I lifted my hips and lowered myself onto him again. I hadn't thought it possible for him to grow harder or larger, but he did both. And the flames inside of me threatened to turn into a wildfire.

With a moan, Roman dragged his mouth away from mine. "We need a new condom."

"Yes." I glanced around.

"In my pants pocket."

I lifted my hips, nearly groaning in disappointment when he was no longer inside of me. While I located the condom and removed it from the package, Roman, in spite of his "shackles," managed to dispose of the old one.

I sheathed him then, treating myself to the feel of the hard length of him as I did. There was a part of me that wanted to linger—to taste, to savor. But there was an aching emptiness inside of me, driving me. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I straddled him and slowly sank onto him. Each second of my descent was a delicious torture until he completely filled me. Our mouths met then, hot and wet and hungry. And my hips began to piston up and down.

I heard the rip of his shirt, and suddenly I was beneath him. We rolled across the floor, into thin streams of moonlight and out. I was as desperate as he, my hands as greedy. If it was a battle, we were both winning. Finally, trying to keep a grip on my sanity, I rose over him again. His fingers dug into my hips as we found that perfect speed and rhythm. My vision grayed, but his eyes were locked on mine as the madness took us.

## 7

I STOOD ALONE in the open doorway of my balcony. In the distance, the Ionian Sea gleamed bright blue in the morning sunshine, but my thoughts were still trapped in memories of the night Roman and I had spent together. Just thinking about what we'd done to each other was enough to heat my skin and melt parts of my body.

The word insatiable had taken on a new meaning for me. I'd learned things about myself and about my appetites that had shocked me. And driven me to learn more.

Together, we'd been like greedy children gorging ourselves on forbidden treats. The sky had been turning light and birds had been chirping when we'd finally fallen asleep. My last thought was that I fully understood Shakespeare's Juliet when she'd cursed the lark that heralded the dawn.

I'd taken some time in the bathroom to study myself in the mirror. The seeds of change I'd sensed in myself when I'd decided to proposition Roman for the second time at dinner had come to fruition during the night. I wasn't the same Philly I'd been before I'd come to Corfu. Something about being here on this island had made me...what? Stop dithering and decide to grab what the Fates were offering. My lips curved. That's exactly the way my aunt Cass would put it.

I realized now that I'd given up way too easily when I'd visited Roman's hospital room a month ago. I'd believed his lie and run away. Maybe I'd still been running by coming here to Greece. But I wasn't going to run anymore. I'd found exactly what I wanted.

I heard the sound of the tap stop and knew that Roman had finished shaving. I very nearly sighed. In a matter of minutes we'd leave the world we'd created during the night and have to deal with the day.

As if on cue, the young man from the beach suddenly stepped out of the woods and began to cut a diagonal path toward the villa. The white cat—Ariel—followed him. She was still very worried. And tired.

She seemed to sense my presence and glanced up at me. I calmed my mind, and once again the image of the white cat lying in the dark place filled it.

Caliban? I asked her.

Yes.

Then she disappeared from my sight beneath the balcony.

I sensed Roman's presence even before he touched my shoulder and ran his hand down my arm to link it with mine. I tried very hard not to let the casual intimacy of the gesture soften something deep inside of me.

"Your cousin returns," he murmured.

"Looks like."

Alexi—if it was him—looked tired and even younger than he'd appeared to be through my camera lens. He was wearing a T-shirt and what seemed to be the same shorts he'd worn on the beach the day before. He'd covered half the distance to the hotel when Miranda rushed across the lawn to meet him.

"You can't come in." Her tone was hushed, urgent.

Roman drew me back from the edge of the balcony so that we were out of sight, but we continued to eavesdrop.

"Why not?" Alexi asked.

"Inspector Ionescu is here looking for you. I told him you hadn't returned. His men are searching your room right now. And Mr. Delos's room. It was just luck that I saw you from the kitchen window. Go."

Alexi ran a hand through his hair. "Has Magellan filed another complaint that I've been hanging around his precious castello and poking around his caves? Delos was hanging out in those caves more than I was. And Magellan can't press charges against me for trespassing on his precious estate. I haven't been able to get past the gate. Only Ariel slips through. She's trying to lead me to Caliban. I know it. But the guards won't let me in."

"This doesn't have anything to do with Mr. Magellan. It's about the man you were arguing with on the beach yesterday."

"Delos?"

"Then it was you?" Miranda began to wring her hands. "I knew it."

"So I argued with Delos. That's not a crime."

"He was shot. Killed. That's why the police are searching his room."

Alexi seemed stunned into silence—but only for a moment. "Well, I didn't shoot him."

"You were there. Your cousin Philly Angelis saw you through the lens of her camera. She says you shoved him, knocked him down. And you didn't come home last night."

"I spent the night looking for Caliban."

"Inspector Ionescu must suspect you had something to do with Mr. Delos's death." Miranda sounded panicked.

"Mom, I didn't shoot Mr. Delos." Alexi's tone had gentled and he placed his hands on his mother's shoulders. "Sure, I argued with him. He told me he'd seen Caliban in one of those caves beneath the Castello, but he wouldn't show me which one. He said he had to get back here and make a call because his cell wouldn't work. I was angry. Furious. But I didn't shoot him. C'mon, we'll go inside and I'll talk to the inspector. It's going to be all right."

The moment I heard the door to the villa close, I turned to Roman. "Miranda knew who the dead man was all along."

"Yes." Roman's tone was thoughtful. "But she's worried about her son and perhaps a bit overprotective now that he's all she has left of her family. And Alexi evidently has a temper."

Whatever else Roman might have said was interrupted when Ariel suddenly appeared on our balcony railing. Again I calmed my mind and opened it. At first, I felt only her emotions. Frustration and anxiety were foremost.

Help.

Caliban is injured?

The image flashed into my mind of the barrel of a gun smashing down on a white cat's leg. "I think her brother's leg is broken. That's why he's lying so still and he can't get home," I murmured to Roman.

Ariel sat very still on the balcony watching us both.

"She told you that?" Roman asked softly.

"Not in words. I saw him getting hit by the barrel of a gun. Whoever did it must have left him in one of the caves. And you heard Alexi say that Delos had seen him there—and just left him." I felt a wave of empathy for my cousin and a wave of anger at the indifference of Delos. "No wonder Alexi shoved Delos to the ground. I might have done the same myself."

Ariel was sending more images now. In some of them the light was better. It seemed to be coming from above. Once again I saw the white cat lying very still in dappled sunlight. In most of them Ariel was sitting beside him. In one she had a small animal in her mouth. As far as I could make out they were on some kind of ledge.

"She's bringing him food, and there's water there," I said softly to Roman. "He doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger."

Help.

"But she's worried."

A knock sounded at the door. Releasing my hand, Roman went to open it. "Good morning, Demetria."

Over my shoulder, I saw Demetria beam a smile at him. "Mr. Angelis, Mrs. Kostas said to fetch you. Inspector Ionescu is here. He wants to talk with you."

"We'll be right there."

I turned back to Ariel. I can't come right now. I felt her frustration and disappointment so strongly that I nearly took a step back.

I tried to reassure her. I'll come as soon as I can. I'll look for you on the beach where we were yesterday. I pictured the crescent-shaped stretch of sand as clearly as I could in my mind. I hoped that she understood as she leaped to the branches of a nearby cypress tree and then disappeared.

AS IT TURNED OUT, Roman and I had to wait our turn to talk to Inspector Ionescu. When Demetria led us out onto the terrace, he was seated at the same table he'd used yesterday. It was located at the far end, isolated from the other tables. This time Alexi sat across from him. There were two men in uniform standing behind my cousin.

I didn't think that looked good and said as much to Roman once Demetria had served us coffee.

"I agree," Roman said. "Alexi is most likely the last person to have seen Delos alive. Add to that the fact that you saw him shove the victim to the ground moments before he was shot, and that elevates your cousin to the prime suspect."

My stomach twisted and I set down my coffee without tasting it. "He didn't have a gun."

"Not that you saw. But he was carrying a backpack."

I frowned at him. "You sound like you're building a case against him."

"I'm just trying to think the way a policeman would."

I glanced over at Alexi. The table was far enough away that it was impossible to overhear anything. The inspector seemed to be doing most of the talking.

"Ionescu's a smart man," Roman continued. "He has to know that Miranda recognized the description you gave of the younger man on the beach. He probably suspects that she recognized the description of Delos also. Policemen get annoyed when they're lied to. He's not going to be happy with us, either."

"What do you mean?"

"I imagine you were right on the money and he Googled Kit Angelis the moment he got back to his office. Your brother and I don't look anything alike."

"I told you to tell him the truth."

"You could have ratted me out."

But I hadn't. Instead I'd backed up his lie. "Do you think he'll arrest us?"

Roman reached across the table and gave my hand a squeeze. "I hope not. I called Kit yesterday when Ionescu was questioning you and gave him a heads-up about what was going on here. I also called my father. I imagine the inspector knows exactly who I am by now."

Just then the inspector joined us. "Mr. Oliver, Ms. Angelis."

The jig was obviously up. The moment Ionescu sat down, Demetria placed his coffee in front of him. He sipped it, then met Roman's eyes. "Why did you lie about who you were yesterday?"

"Mrs. Kostas didn't have any rooms. She was going to put me up somewhere in the village. Since she's related to Philly, and I understand she's had a very traditional Greek upbringing, I thought she might have concerns about my sharing a room with her. But I wasn't about to let Philly stay here alone after someone took a shot at her."

Ionescu turned to me. "You went along with the lie Mr. Oliver told Mrs. Kostas."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I met his eyes squarely. "Because I wanted Roman to stay with me."

"I see." He sipped his coffee, then asked, "Is the young man seated in front of my men the same person you saw arguing with the man in the wide-brimmed hat on the beach?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't know it was your cousin Alexi?"

"I'd never met him before. We still haven't been formally introduced."

Inspector Ionescu studied me for a moment as if he was weighing the truth of my explanation. I could feel heat staining my cheeks—I'd given him good reason to doubt my honesty.

"You've found out the identity of the dead man?" Roman interrupted.

Ionescu shifted his gaze to Roman. "Antony Delos. He was a guest here at the Villa Prospero for the past five days. His body was recovered by a fisherman early this morning about three miles down the coast. But I had already tracked his identity through his cell."

"What have you found out about him?"

Ionescu paused to take another sip of coffee. "I know you are an astute businessman, Mr. Oliver. I also know you have powerful contacts here in Greece. This morning, I received several phone calls—one from a Detective Nik Angelis with the San Francisco Police Department, and another from Gianni Stassis. Both gave you glowing character references."

"You know of Stassis?" Roman asked.

Ionescu shrugged. "We're not quite so isolated here as you might think. He's one of the richest men in Greece and he's politically well connected. I dare say there are very few people in my country who would not recognize the name. I'd like to make a deal with you."

"What kind of deal?"

"Normally, I don't share information about an ongoing investigation. But in this instance, I'll fill you in on what I know so far about Antony Delos on the understanding that you'll share any information you can gather through Stassis and your other contacts."

For a moment, Roman said nothing. Mentally, I urged him to make the deal. If indeed my cousin Alexi was a prime suspect, then we needed as much information as possible to help him.

"You believe that through Stassis I can gather information that you can't?"

"What I believe is that you can access it more quickly." He glanced at Alexi, then turned his attention back to Roman. "And because you have a family connection, I'm sure you can see the advantage of that."

"You can't believe that Alexi had something to do with Antony Delos's murder," I said.

Ionescu's eyes, when they met mine, had the same flat expression that my brother Nik's eyes always had when he was in cop mode. "What I believe doesn't matter, Ms. Angelis. I have to go with the evidence."

I swallowed hard when I realized that I'd supplied much of the evidence.

"Deal," Roman said. "What have you found out about Antony Delos?"

"He used to work for Interpol, mostly on high-profile gem thefts. Five years ago, he went private. He was still doing the same work, but for insurance companies and even more frequently for the well-heeled victims of the thefts. I did a little checking. The last call placed on his cell was to Carlo Ferrante, an Italian billionaire whose villa in Tuscany was robbed of a fortune in jewels six days ago. Five days ago, Delos checked into the Villa Prospero. I don't believe in coincidences, do you, Mr. Oliver?"

Something tightened in my stomach. Inspector Ionescu couldn't suspect that Alexi or Miranda had something to do with the theft? I glanced over at my cousin again. He looked young and scared, hardly the picture of an international jewel thief.

Roman seemed equally unconvinced. "I remember reading about that jewel heist. The Wall Street Journal did an article on it complete with photos."

Ionescu nodded. "I don't know how detailed the article was, but the jewels have been in the Ferrante family for centuries, and they have an interesting history. Reputedly, they were part of a dowry when a Ferrante son married a French aristocrat in the fifteenth century. They've been passed down to the male heirs ever since. And this is the second time they've been stolen from Carlo Ferrante."

"I don't recall reading that," Roman said.

"The first time, they were snatched from a museum in Belgium. Ferrante had loaned them out as part of an exhibition of medieval jewelry. Six months later, they were miraculously and anonymously returned to him by the thief. Ferrante returned the small fortune he'd collected from the insurance company."

"Any idea of how Delos tracked the jewels to Corfu?"

For the first time since he'd seated himself at our table, the inspector smiled. "I'm hoping you can find out, Mr. Oliver. I couldn't get Mr. Ferrante to take my call. But he might take a call from Gianni Stassis. Perhaps, you might be able to expedite matters on that front?"

"What's in it for me?"

I stared at Roman. My contacts with him had all been social—either at my family's restaurant or at our fishing cabin. For the first time, I was catching a glimpse of the cool, ruthless businessman I'd heard Kit brag so often about.

The blunt question didn't bother the inspector at all. In fact, his smile grew wider. "For starters, I won't mention to Mrs. Kostas that you're not Ms. Angelis's brother. I agree with you that she shouldn't be alone until this matter is cleared up." Then his expression sobered. "And the sooner we find out who shot Antony Delos, the safer Ms. Angelis will be."

I was getting a little tired of being left out of the conversation, but before I could say anything, two men in uniform strode onto the terrace and came directly to our table.

"Someone searched Mr. Delos's room before we got there," the taller one said.

The other one wore gloves and lifted the rifle he was carrying. "We found this in Mr. Kostas's room."

Ionescu rose and moved to the table where Alexi was still seated in front of the other two policemen.

"Alexi, you'll have to come down to the station with me."

Miranda rushed over to her son, and I sprang from my chair to join her.

"You can't think that he shot Mr. Delos," I said to the inspector. "The man with the rifle was high up on the cliff face, close to the Castello. I can testify to that."

The inspector ignored my outburst and I stood staring, horrified as the two uniformed men assisted my cousin to his feet and escorted him off the terrace. All of the breakfast conversation had stopped. Everyone was watching as Inspector Ionescu followed Alexi out of sight. Miranda started to weep softly, and I didn't know what to say, what to do. It was Roman who went to her and simply folded her into his arms.

I felt my heart take a little tumble and that alarm sounded in the back of my mind again.

IT WAS NEARLY an hour later that Roman finished making calls. I inferred from eavesdropping on his side of the conversation that he'd asked Stassis to recommend a local attorney to represent Alexi. When I'd passed on that information to Miranda, it had done a great deal to settle her. Roman had even thought to call Kit and ask him to do research on Carlo Ferrante and both thefts of his family's jewels. The man thought of everything.

In the meantime, the only thing I'd done was to hold my cousin Miranda's hand and try to reassure her that Alexi would be home soon. Something that I was not at all sure of myself. Ever since he'd been escorted out of the Villa Prospero, questions had been spinning through my mind. What had he been doing with that gun? Why hadn't he returned home until this morning?

I turned to Miranda and asked the question that only she could answer. "Why did you lie to Inspector Ionescu yesterday? You knew from my descriptions that I'd seen Alexi and Mr. Delos arguing on the beach."

She slipped her hand from mine and clasped hers together. "I was so worried about Alexi. He hasn't been himself since Caliban went missing. He loves those cats so much. They were a gift from his father shortly before he died." She turned to me and met my eyes. "Alexi's all I have left." Then she lifted her chin. "But he wouldn't shoot anyone. He doesn't even have a gun."

What she said made sense to me. The young man I'd seen on the beach had acted impulsively out of anger. And from what I'd learned since then, with good reason. But whoever had shot Antony Delos had chosen a spot on the cliff side and taken careful aim.

Unless...Questions erupted in my mind again. What if Alexi's absences from the Villa Prospero hadn't had anything to do with the missing Caliban? What if he'd been involved in something else altogether? Guilt flooded through me. I hadn't even formally met Alexi and I was suspecting him of somehow being involved in a major jewelry theft.

Seeing that Roman had finally repocketed his cell, I asked, "How long will it be before you hear back from Stassis?"

Roman shrugged. "Hard to tell. I asked for a private meeting with Carlo Ferrante."

My eyes widened.

"Might as well ask for the moon. Ionescu wants to know why Delos came here the day after the robbery. I'd like to know that, too." He shifted his gaze to Miranda. "What can you tell me about Antony Delos? What kind of a guest was he?"

A line appeared on Miranda's forehead as she considered. "I thought of him as an ideal one. Quiet, kept to himself. He ate breakfast early, always requested a packed lunch, and he'd be gone for the whole day, exploring the island. When Caliban disappeared, Alexi asked him to keep an eye out for him. Mr. Delos agreed. I don't understand why anyone would want to shoot him."

"Did he ever mention why he came here? Why he chose the Villa Prospero?"

Miranda shook her head.

Roman looked at me. I noted that he hadn't mentioned anything about the jewel theft to Miranda. But why do that if it wasn't necessary? It would only make her worry more. Roman might be ruthless in his business dealings, but there was an innate kindness about him that had my admiration for him rising even higher.

"Ferrante might very well have some information about what brought Delos to the Villa Prospero," Roman said. "But Stassis is going to have to call in some favors. Apparently, Ferrante's eccentric and a bit of a recluse. It may take a while, and in the meantime, we wait."

"Alexi is going to be so worried about the cats," Miranda said. "He's so sure that Caliban is still alive, that he's trapped somehow in one of the caves beneath the Castello."

"He is alive," I said. "But his leg is injured. He can't move, but Ariel has been bringing him food, and there's water."

Miranda blinked and stared at me. "How do you know?"

"Philly has a psychic gift with animals," Roman explained. "She can communicate with them."

"You talk to them?"

"Something like that," I said. Miranda's tone was skeptical, but I was used to that kind of reaction.

Then she frowned and pressed her fingers against her temples. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Your father and Helena told me how special powers ran in your mother's family. He told me about your ability. But I'd forgotten all of this..."

When she dropped her hands to the table, I covered one of them with mine. Then I filled Miranda in on everything else that I'd learned from Ariel.

Miranda nodded when I'd finished. "Alexi says that she disappears through the gates of the Castello or over the wall. Some of the caves are reputed to have two entrances—one on the cliff side and another farther up the hill. He's so frustrated that Mr. Magellan won't let him onto the estate to look for the second entrance. And Mr. Magellan is furious with him."

I recalled the scene I'd eavesdropped on when I'd first arrived at the Villa Prospero.

"He's filed several complaints against Alexi," Miranda continued. "He has all the caves posted with No Trespassing signs. They're dangerous because when the tide comes in many of them fill with water and escape becomes impossible."

"What was Mr. Delos's relationship with the cats? Did they get along?" Roman asked.

A small line appeared on Miranda's forehead as she considered. "Now that you mention it, he always took the time to talk to them."

"Did they ever go off with him on his explorations?"

"They may have. I didn't pay much attention."

I turned to Roman. "I need to find Ariel. I promised that I would try to meet her on the beach where we were yesterday."

This was something that I purposefully hadn't mentioned to him earlier to give him less time to argue. I kept my eyes on Roman's, trying to make my case. "It was about this time yesterday when she was down there with Mr. Delos, and they'd evidently been in the caves. If Miranda is right and there's more than one entrance to the cave Caliban is trapped in, we should check it out."

"I don't like the idea of visiting the beach where someone tried to shoot you yesterday."

"Why would the shooter expect me to come back? And if we don't find Ariel, we'll leave."

"Until we know more about what's going on, it's too dangerous."

I rose, meeting his eyes steadily. "I'm going to the beach. I promised Ariel I would come."

Finally, Roman nodded, and I felt as if I'd just won a major negotiation.

Miranda rose as we did. "I'll pack you something to eat just in case you miss lunch."

I was about to tell her not to bother, but she was already hurrying away.

"She's an innkeeper," Roman murmured. "She'll feel better if she makes us something. And she needs things to do to keep her mind off of Alexi being at the police station."

I studied him for a moment. "Were you born with an innate knowledge of people or did you acquire it at Oliver Enterprises?"

His lips curved and he reached out to trail just the tips of his fingers down my arm. The touch was so gentle, nothing like the way he'd touched me during the night, but I felt the warmth right down to my toes. "A little of both, I suspect. You can't stay in business very long if you don't know people. Just as you couldn't build your clientele if you didn't know animals."

## 8

ON THEIR FAST DESCENT to the beach, Roman decided that Philly wasn't exactly the girl he thought he'd known for years. There were unexpected layers to her that he hadn't noticed before. The temper for one thing. He found that he enjoyed watching her struggle to rein it in. And she had a steely determination that he'd evidently blinded himself to before. He'd seen it in her eyes when she'd told him she had to go to the beach—he'd known that she would have gone without him.

But he'd also experienced that single-minded determination up close and personal when she'd seduced him last night. He wasn't sure how he'd allowed it to happen. He should have been able to keep his hands off of her—he'd had seven years of practice. Seven years to learn to live with the dull ache of always wanting her. Seven years of telling himself she was too young for him.

But she wasn't. She was a woman—a fascinating woman who knew what she wanted and went after it.

Last night he'd wanted to blame it on the damn dress, but it had been Philly who'd bewitched him. Philly who'd set fires inside of him that had burned out of control until they'd both been consumed by them. The thing was—what they'd done to each other in their room last night should have gotten her out of his system once and for all.

Instead, making love with Philly had seemed to imbed her so deeply in his psyche that he wondered if he'd ever be free of her. Hell, he wanted her again right now. There was a part of him—a part he hadn't known existed—that wanted to snatch her up, carry her off into the trees and make love to her. Caveman tactics had never been his style before.

When she reached the outcrop of rock that bordered the crescent-shaped stretch of sand, she turned back to him. "You're dragging your heels."

He joined her and took her hand in his. "You're right. I'm having second thoughts about this whole thing. I wish I could talk you into going back to the villa."

"I need to talk to Ariel. As much as I believe that Caliban isn't in any immediate danger, we have to find out where he is and get him out of that cave."

Though the sun still beat down on all sides, the sea was turning angry and the rocks were becoming slick. Keeping her hand in his, he drew her over them and onto the sandy beach. Then he glanced out to sea. In the distance, black clouds were forming. "There's a storm blowing in."

She followed the direction of his gaze. "In Shakespeare's play, it was a storm and a shipwreck that brought Prospero to his island. Perhaps this one will bring us some luck." She pulled him with her across the sand. "I've been thinking."

"Yes?"

"Don't you think it's odd that Ionescu never once mentioned Andre Magellan's name with regard to the missing jewels and Delos's presence on the island?"

"Not particularly. I'm surprised that he told us as much as he did. He's a very canny man and in spite of the so-called deal he made with us, he's not going to reveal all his suspicions to a couple of relative strangers. Plus, I imagine that from a political standpoint, he has to tread lightly where Magellan is concerned. Those extravagant parties that the man throws have to bring a lot of tourist money to the area."

"But the caves Delos was evidently exploring lie below the Castello Corli, which belongs to Magellan. He's posted all of them, and he's been filing complaints because Alexi is hanging around them. I think that if I had a cache of stolen jewels to hide and hundreds of guests and servants poking around my house, those caves would make a perfect temporary hiding place. And I wouldn't want anyone hanging around them. You should have your friend Gianni Stassis check out Andre Magellan."

"I already asked him to," Roman said. "Kit's also researching Magellan's background."

"So I'm several steps behind you. Are you always on top of everything?"

"I do my best." And the person he wanted to be on top of right now was pulling him over another outcrop of rocks. On this side below the cliff face, the terrain was much rougher.

Philly scanned the stretch of rocks and boulders in front of them. "I was so sure she'd be on the beach. I pictured it as clearly as I could in my mind."

"Are you always sure the animals you communicate with get the message?"

"Not one hundred percent. Her disappointment that I couldn't come right away might have interfered. And her level of anxiety about her brother is very high."

Roman studied the sea. The clouds were getting closer, and while the waves were still quite a distance from the rocky cliff face, he had no idea how quickly the tide came in.

"Delos and Ariel must have been coming from one of the caves when Alexi stopped them," Philly said. "Let's check a few of them."

Without waiting for his agreement, she ducked her head and moved into the first one.

When she went a few steps farther into the cave, Roman crouched low and moved quickly to take her hand. "We don't have a flashlight, Philly."

"Let me just try to contact Ariel mentally." After a few moments, she sighed. "I can't sense her in this one."

Together they walked back out into the sunshine. There was a faint rumble of thunder, and he noted that the black clouds were moving fast.

"Let's just try a few more," Philly said.

Roman lost count of exactly how many they tried. Some of them weren't caves at all, but merely deep crevices that the sea had carved in the rock. They'd gone some distance when the heavens opened and the rain crashed down. By the time they reached the next cave and dashed in, they were drenched. Rain lashed into the opening of their shelter, and the walls seemed to amplify the sound of it beating against the rocks. Thunder rolled, and Roman urged her around a sharp corner and farther into the darkness.

"I have a feeling about this one," Philly said in a low tone. "I'm going to try to connect with her."

Roman settled his hands on her shoulders and waited. Minutes ticked by. A few feet behind them, the storm raged furiously.

Finally, Philly said, "I can sense something, someone. But it's not Ariel. Maybe it's Caliban, but the connection is so faint."

"Perhaps he's sleeping," Roman said.

She concentrated for a moment. "I can't tell. If we'd only thought to bring a flashlight."

Though understanding the frustration in her voice, Roman turned her to face him and said, "Once the rain lets up, we'll have to go back. I have no idea how fast the tide comes in, but I want us to be on the sand before we find out."

"I'm sorry this whole outing has been a bust. I was just so anxious to talk to Ariel, and I was certain she'd be here."

It was dark, but he could see the gleam of her eyes. He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles along her jaw, then cupped his hand behind her head.

A tremor moved through her. "You're always touching me now. Even when you're not about to make love to me."

He framed her face with his hands. "I can't seem to help myself. Whenever I'm near you, I want my hands on you. Do you mind?"

"No—no."

"More than that, every time I'm near you, I want to be inside of you."

"Roman."

His name trembled out of her on a breath, and the fire that he'd managed to keep banked the whole time they'd searched the caves burst free.

"I want you inside of me."

Clamping down on his control, he nibbled his way to her ear and whispered, "I will be soon. I've been wanting you ever since the last time I had you. And I'm going to take you here. Right now."

HIS WORDS, his tone had my knees melting and my head reeling. I wouldn't have been able to stand if my back hadn't been pressed against the wall of the cave. I couldn't even lift my hands to help him with my clothes.

"I thought of doing this at least a dozen times on the path to the beach." He used his teeth and tongue on my throat while his hands efficiently stripped me out of my shirt, bra and shorts. "I don't know what it is about you, but I can't seem to get enough."

The words sent ripples of pleasure through me. "Not a problem."

When he ran his palms over my throat, my breasts and down my sides, I moaned his name.

The rain had eased enough for me to hear the ragged sound of our breathing, and when I heard his zipper go down, everything inside of me tightened in anticipation.

"Now."

I somehow found the strength to wrap my arms around him. The next thing I knew he was kneeling on the floor of the cave, and I was straddling his thighs. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he sheathed himself with a condom. Then at last, he lifted my hips and pushed into me. I snaked my legs around him and took even more of him in as my mouth sought his.

"Are you all right?" His voice was rough with an underlying urgency.

"Fine. But you can't be." I recalled how uneven the floor of the cave had been when we'd entered. "The rocks."

He whispered against my lips, "Make me forget them."

I did my best, using my mouth on his body. He dug his fingers into my hips, lifting me and withdrawing so that he could push back into me very slowly.

"Faster."

"Not yet."

He kept the rhythm agonizingly slow, torturing us both. Each time I teetered on the brink of release, he would pause.

"Now." I fought against the pressure of his hands as he lifted my hips.

His laugh was wicked, infuriating, and only stoked the fires burning inside of me. Desperate, I sank my teeth into his earlobe at the same instant that I slid my hands beneath his shorts and dug my fingernails into his buttocks.

He moved faster then, and I matched him thrust for thrust until the climax slammed into us both and our simultaneous cries echoed and reechoed off the walls of the cave.

WHEN MY BRAIN CELLS finally began to click on again, I was sitting on Roman's lap on the floor of the cave. The light was brighter now. The storm had blown over and sunlight poured through the mouth of the cave. I was naked except for my shoes, but he was still fully clothed.

When I stirred, he tipped my face so that our eyes met.

"I can't keep my hands off of you."

I saw concern in his eyes, so I lifted my hand to rest it on his cheek and smiled. "That's okay. I want your hands on me."

"I've never experienced this lack of control with a woman before. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't think you could. Besides, we have a deal. There isn't anything we can't do to each other for as long as we're here in Greece."

"That's not what I meant, Philly. I'm talking about when we leave."

Alarm bells went off in my mind and panic knotted in my stomach as I pressed my fingers against his lips. I knew what he was going to say—that what we were sharing had to be temporary. But in spite of all my resolve, I found it too hard to hear the words. "We're not going to talk about what comes later. I don't want to spoil one second of the time that we have here together. I'm a big girl, Roman. I'll keep my word."

For a moment, he looked as if he was going to say more, but when he did speak it was to say, "We'd better get you back in your clothes and move out in the sunshine so that we can both dry off."

The moment we exited the cave, I tried to put Roman's words and every thought of the future out of my mind by focusing my attention on the glorious day. The sky was so clear that I thought for a moment I might have imagined the storm. The sea had moved closer, the waves stretching their length to a few yards from where we now stood.

"The backpack," Roman murmured and walked into the cave.

I turned to watch him, and something—a flash of sunlight off metal—caught my eye. Later, I would think that it was pure luck that had me notice it. Or the Fates.

I moved closer to the entrance of the cave. "Roman?"

When he joined me, I pointed to what I was looking at and we both moved closer. It was a small cylinder of metal no longer than an inch and it was taped to one corner of the cave opening.

"What is that?" I asked.

"My guess would be that it's some kind of state-of-the-art surveillance camera."

I reached for his hand and gripped it hard. "It didn't get pictures of us making love, did it?"

"No. We'd moved too far inside to get out of the storm. But I'm betting that it caught us entering and exiting."

"Someone's interested in whoever goes in and out? Why?"

"Good question." Roman turned then, scanning the area.

"We're getting out of here. Whoever is on the receiving end of that surveillance camera spotted us going into that cave over twenty minutes ago." Tightening his grip on my hand, he pulled me closer to the cliff face.

"I wonder if all of the caves have cameras."

"I was thinking the same thing."

We checked three, but found nothing. By that time we'd only covered half the distance back, and some of the waves were reaching our shoes.

"Roman, if we go on the assumption that Antony Delos explored that particular cave, whoever was on the other end of that surveillance equipment knew it. And there was a sniper on that hill waiting for him when he appeared on the beach."

"Yeah. I'm thinking there's been plenty of time for a sniper to take up his position for us."

I shivered. "I was hoping you'd say that you think I'm being paranoid."

"What I think is that I never should have agreed to bring you here. So here's the plan. Once we get to the rocks, we're going to stash the backpack someplace high. Then we're going all the way out to the end of the rocks and we'll swim across the cove. That should put us out of the range of any rifle shots. You game?"

"Yes." It was a good plan. And I was a much better swimmer than I'd been at sixteen. My brothers and father had seen to that.

We were still a good two hundred yards from our goal when Ariel appeared on the outcrop of rock. She raced toward us. When she stopped a few feet away, I crouched down. I've been looking for you.

This way. She tried to walk around us, but a wave crashed over my shoes and sent her scooting up on a rock. I looked behind us and saw that the waves were now sweeping up against the cliff face. The tide was coming in with a vengeance.

"We can't go back now," Roman said. "Remember what Miranda said about the caves filling up with water?"

I did. Vividly. I thought of Caliban. But if he was in one of the caves, he had to be high enough up to be safe from the tides if he'd survived for two days already. Maybe that was why the connection I'd felt had been so faint—because he'd been so far away. Leaning over, I focused my attention on Ariel.

We can't go there right now. We'll have to come back once the tide goes out.

An image filled my mind. There was enough light this time that I could see the edge of a rock ledge. Caliban was stretched out on his side, and one of his legs was at an odd angle. His eyes were closed, but I could see the steady rise and fall of his rib cage.

Roman suddenly grabbed my arm and drew me up. "We've got company."

Following his gaze, I saw the boat. It was coming from the end of the rock outcrop, and it was headed in our direction. I felt something fly by my face and heard a ping behind me even as I registered that the man standing in the prow of the boat had a rifle.

There was another ping, I ducked—and Ariel leaped off the boulder she was perched on. This way. She began jumping from one rock to the next in the direction she'd come from.

"She's taking us somewhere." I yanked Roman along as I began to run after her.

"I hope it isn't far." He shifted so that his body blocked mine from the shooter as we raced after the cat. We scrambled frantically over the wet rocks, slipped as we tried to keep our bodies close to the ground.

The man in the boat kept sending bullets our way. I figured the only reason he didn't hit all three of us was that the movement of the boat must be having an effect on his aim. We'd nearly reached the ridge of rocks when Roman said, "We're never going to make it over them. They'll slow us down, and he'll be able to pick us off like clay pigeons."

"The cave," I said as we neared the first one I'd ducked into.

This way. Ariel dashed into it.

Roman and I both had to crouch low as we followed her into the darkness. Behind us, I heard the whine of another bullet as it hit the cave entrance.

## 9

ARIEL HAD COMPLETELY disappeared into the darkness of the cave.

This way.

Before I could relay her request to Roman, he edged his way back to the entrance. This cave was much smaller than the one with the surveillance camera. I was about five-two, and I couldn't stand up straight. If I stretched out my hands I could touch both walls. The rocks were damp.

"There's one good thing," Roman called over his shoulder. "They can't land their boat here. The rocks would tear it to pieces. On the other hand, they don't have to land the boat. They don't even have to bother about shooting us. As long as they can keep us trapped here, the tide will finish the job for them."

He moved back to me and took my hands. "We have two choices—stay here and take our chances with the tide or make a run for it. I'm favoring the latter. Their aim has been off so far, and our luck may hold."

"Ariel wants us to follow her," I told Roman. "Miranda said that some of these caves have more than one entrance. Maybe Ariel knows another way out."

As if on cue, Ariel appeared out of the darkness and threaded her way around my ankles.

A wave crashed through the cave entrance, sending spray against the granite walls.

"She's going to lead us out," I said to Roman.

"You're sure about this?"

"I trust her."

He hesitated for one moment, then nodded. "I trust you."

And that was how our journey began, with Ariel in the lead and Roman bringing up the rear. We made a very slow-moving parade. Surrounded by total darkness, we were forced to feel our way carefully along. I had one hand in front of me, the other running along the side of the cave. The slabs of rock that formed the walls were worn smooth in places but remained rough in others. As we inched our way along, I became aware of two things—we were climbing upward and the cave itself was gradually narrowing on all sides. I was crouched so low now that I was practically crab walking. The fact that the space was shrinking to tunnel-like proportions worried me. What if there was a way out for Ariel but not for Roman and me?

I figured we'd gone about a hundred yards or so when I was forced to drop to my knees. "I have to crawl," I informed Roman.

"I've been doing that for a while now." He didn't say anything else, but I knew he also had to be wondering what we were going to do if the passage became too small for us.

We didn't have the breath to talk much after that. The incline became much steeper and rocks were cutting into my hands and my knees. Sweat was pouring off me. Then without any warning, my head rapped sharply into a rock that seemed to lie in the direct center of the little tunnel we were crawling through. Panic streamed through me. Had we come to some kind of dead end? There'd be no retreat. The tide had probably already filled the lower part of the cave.

Then I felt Roman's hand on the small of my back. He rubbed it gently. "What is it?"

Just the tone of his voice and his touch helped me to push down the rush of fear I was feeling and I ran my hand slowly over the slab of rock I'd smacked into. Not a solid wall. There was open space on either side of it.

"The cave branches off here. We can go left or right." And I hadn't a clue which way Ariel had taken.

"Ask Ariel," Roman suggested.

Of course. I would have thought of that—the moment my little panic attack was over. I forced myself to focus and willed the remnants of my fear away. Ariel? Which way?

I was kneeling with one hand in each tunnel when I felt her brush against my right hand. Relief streamed through me.

Then she was gone.

"To the right," I told Roman.

The bad news was that the new tunnel was even smaller than the one we'd left. Every few feet, my shoulders brushed against rock. If the space was becoming a tight fit for me, it had to be even more uncomfortable for Roman.

"I'm ditching the backpack," Roman said.

After that, neither of us spoke for a while. We needed all of our energy because we were crawling at such a steep incline.

My shoulders ached, and I had begun to pant. My hands had become so slick with sweat that they slipped out from under me and I landed flat on my stomach. What breath was left in my lungs whooshed out, and I was afraid that I wouldn't get it back.

"Don't give up now," Roman said from behind me. "The exit can't be much farther."

"Right," I wheezed and with muscles trembling I managed to haul myself back up on my knees. For a while, I emptied my mind and focused on putting one hand in front of the other. If Roman hadn't been behind me, I might not have kept going. Every once in a while, his hand would brush my ankle or my calf.

Then I whacked my head against a second rock. This time I didn't waste time panicking. I ran my hands over it quickly. "There's a slab of rock jutting out into the tunnel. We're going to have to wiggle our way around it." So saying, I stretched out full length, rolled to my side and began to muscle my way past the rock an inch at a time.

Once I was on the other side I crawled a few yards and waited for Roman. "It's a tight squeeze."

"Tell me about it." He sounded as breathless as I did.

He swore once, grunted several times and swore again before I once more felt him behind me.

It wasn't until then that I realized I could see my hands on the floor of the cave. And when I glanced up, I actually saw sunlight. Still, it seemed to take forever to reach the opening. My stomach tightened when I saw how narrow it was. I eased myself onto my stomach again and wriggled my upper body out. Then I grabbed shrubs and anything else I could get my hands on to drag myself all the way out onto grass.

Breathing deeply, I turned around and grabbed Roman's outstretched hands, braced my feet against a nearby tree trunk and pulled. His head appeared next. He had to roll sideways and hunch his shoulders to make any further progress. It was slow going. We had to fight for every inch.

Sweat was pouring off of him, and his shirt was torn in two places before we finally got him out. He immediately rolled over onto his back and pulled me on top of him. For a long time we just clung to each other. Even when my heart had stopped racing, I didn't want to move. Roman's arms were around me and every inch of my body was molded to his. Yet, I experienced none of the fire and passion that I'd felt every other time he'd held me. Instead, a river of warmth moved through me, and I felt as if I was coming home. My heart didn't tumble this time. It plummeted.

He's the one.

No. Ignore it, Philly. It's because you both just escaped death. That's all. But I knew I was lying to myself. In spite of all my resolve and everything I'd promised, I was falling in love with Roman. And I was going to have to figure out what to do about that.

To escape my thoughts, I said, "I never want to do something like that again."

Roman's arms tightened around me. "We're on the same page there."

We'd nearly died. Neither of us said it, but the thought hung in the air between us.

I finally found the energy to raise my head and look down at him. His face was dirty, and his hair stood out every which way. He didn't look at all like the Roman I'd known for years. "You look terrible." And I was fascinated. I had it really bad for Roman Oliver.

One of his eyebrows quirked upward. "Do you want me to tell you how you look?"

"A gentleman wouldn't do that to a lady."

"A lady would be able to take the truth."

"Lucky for me I'm not a lady." Then I laughed and hugged him hard. When he joined in the laughter, I felt the last of my fears melt away.

The sun was pouring down, the air carried the scent of lemons, and the horror of what had almost happened in the cave was fading. "I am so glad we made it. We owe Ariel our lives." I glanced around, but she hadn't spoken to me since we'd both wiggled out of that opening.

Roman's expression sobered then. He sat up, drawing me with him. "Philly, this is the second time someone's tried to kill you. I want to take you away from here."

I framed his dirty face with my hands. "I know. And there's a part of me that wants to run away, too. But Ariel just saved our lives, and the least I can do is rescue Caliban for her. Plus, we can't leave Miranda while Alexi is suspected of murder."

"I knew that's what you'd say. But I want your word you won't go back to the beach or the caves again. It's too dangerous."

"You have my word." I wasn't stupid. It would be much too risky to try to revisit the cave with the surveillance camera even after the tide had gone out. I'd have to find another way of rescuing Caliban, who I was now certain was lying injured on a rock ledge in that cave.

"C'mon." Roman took my hand as we both made it a little unsteadily to our feet. "I won't completely feel safe until I get you back to the Villa Prospero."

Roman moved slowly through the trees, and we hadn't gone more than fifty yards or so when I saw a wall of stone to our left.

"That's the Castello Corli," I said.

The cypress trees had begun to thin, and Roman and I caught a glimpse of a road ahead. When we reached it, we saw the entrance to the Castello to our left. The gate was made of iron and looked as ancient and impenetrable as the stone wall of the old fortress that bordered it on each side. I counted three men on guard duty, one in a shack and two standing as sentinels at each end of the gate. All three carried rifles.

"That's heavy-duty security," I murmured to Roman. Then I spotted Ariel perched on the top of the wall no more than twenty feet above one of the guards' heads. I started toward her, but I'd barely taken two steps before Roman grabbed my arm and drew me back into the trees.

"We can't go to her. Until we find out who just shot at us and trapped us in that cave, the safest route we can take is to let them think we drowned."

"Good plan. Good thing I'm in this mess with a strategy-minded CEO."

Roman sent me a sideways glance. "We have our uses."

A car appeared to our right, coming fast and sending dust and gravel spewing into the trees and shrubs that lined the road. I immediately recognized the sporty red convertible I'd seen on my arrival at the Villa Prospero, and Andre Magellan was seated behind the wheel. The shirt he wore today was as flashy as the one he'd worn the day before—a wild print in shades of royal blue, red and yellow.

The brakes squealed as he stopped at the iron gates. The guards scrambled to open them, and Magellan shot out of the car and yelled at them. He spoke in Greek, and gestured toward Ariel.

I quickly established a mental link with her because I wasn't sure whether or not she could see Roman and me.

Ariel.

Her response came immediately. This way.

We can't. You go. Danger.

Even as I relayed the information, one of the guards ran to the side of Magellan's car and raised his rifle. Ariel leaped from the wall just as the shot exploded. The man in the shack took a second shot, then Magellan grabbed the rifle and fired two more rounds.

I was so furious that if Roman hadn't been still holding my arm, I would have raced forward.

"Easy," he said in a low tone. "She's a smart cat. Can you find out if she's all right?"

Pushing down my anger, I tried to link with her again. Ariel?

Her reply when it came was faint. This way.

The image flashed into my mind. It was the same rock ledge I'd seen before. In the weak sunlight, I could see that Caliban's eyes were open. For a moment, I felt the same faint connection that I'd experienced in the cave. I didn't experience the same level of distress that I felt from Ariel.

I'm sorry. We'll come back as soon as we can. Tell him that. Tell him not to give up. And be careful. There are bad men who want to hurt you.

I waited for a few more seconds, but there was nothing further. I turned to Roman. "She not only led us out of the cave, she's still trying to bring us to Caliban. There must be a second entrance to the cave he's in on the grounds of the Castello. I think she's spending as much time with him as she can. She should be safe as long as she stays there. But I wish there was some way we could just go and get both of them right now."

Roman squeezed my hand. "We can't. We need to report all of this to Inspector Ionescu, and I need to check in with Stassis."

AN HOUR LATER, just before two o'clock, Roman was seated next to Philly in Inspector Ionescu's office in the nearby town of Myrtos. The room was as neat as the man himself. There were two file cabinets and a desk with two metal chairs in front of it. Another chair stood against the wall near a small window that offered a view of a bustling, sun-splashed street. Today the inspector wore a pale tan suit with a white shirt and brown tie. His desk was clear save for his notebook.

Philly had just given him a summary of their cave adventure—their experience with the men in the boat who'd shot at them, and their harrowing escape from the tunnel Ariel had led them through.

Ionescu was still making meticulous notes.

To Roman's relief, they'd reached the Villa Prospero without further incident and found that Gianni Stassis had arranged a meeting in Athens with Carlo Ferrante. Stassis had even sent a car to take them to his private plane, which was waiting at a small airport ten miles outside of Myrtos. They were expected to join him later that afternoon on his yacht, which was anchored near Athens on the Ithaca coast.

The man worked fast, and Roman was grateful for it. He wanted Philly away from Corfu, and Stassis had provided the perfect excuse. Not that Philly had been eager to make the trip to Athens. They'd had their first argument. She'd wanted to stay until they'd figured out a way to rescue Caliban, but trying to gain access to the grounds of the Castello was problematic—not merely because they'd probably be refused. For the present, he still believed that it was best to let whoever had tried to kill them think they'd succeeded.

Knowing that she was concerned about the cats, he'd reminded her that, by her own account, neither cat was in any immediate danger and Ariel was watching over Caliban. He'd finally prevailed by telling her that when a business deal reached an impasse, the best strategy was to find another approach. Carlo Ferrante might very well provide a way to Andre Magellan.

Roman still wasn't certain what he would have done if Philly hadn't been convinced by his argument, but he was pretty sure caveman tactics would have been involved. The woman was bringing out qualities in him that he hadn't known he possessed.

As Ionescu continued to write, Roman studied Philly. She sat facing the inspector, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Luckily, most of the surface damage they'd suffered in their escape from the cave had washed away in the shower. Then they'd doctored up the scrapes and cuts on their hands and knees with the first-aid kit that Miranda had provided. By the time Stassis's driver had dropped them at the police station, Roman had felt almost human again.

For a moment, he let his mind return to their harrowing escape from the cave. Philly's courage hadn't wavered for a moment, nor had her belief in Ariel. He'd never met another woman like her.

Ionescu stopped writing and glanced up at Philly. "How many times did the man in the boat shoot at you?"

Philly glanced at Roman. "At least a dozen times, wouldn't you say?"

Roman nodded.

"Yet he didn't hit you."

"No," Philly said.

"So his purpose may have been to warn you away from the caves."

Philly stiffened in her chair. "Or to force us into one of the caves so the tide could drown us."

"The more I think of it," Roman said, "the more I believe that might have been their intention. To have two more people killed by snipers in a twenty-four-hour period might have focused too much police attention on the Castello. But a couple of tourists who ignored the posted signs and drowned in one of the caves—that would have been a terrible tragedy. And it would seem to have no connection with Antony Delos's death."

Ionescu made a sound that might have signaled agreement.

Philly leaned forward in her chair. "Whatever is going on, that cave with the surveillance camera is at the center of it. I also believe that my cousin's cat Caliban is lying on a rock ledge in that same cave. His leg is injured. That's why he can't get out."

"And you know that because?" Ionescu asked.

She glanced at Roman and then back at the inspector. "I have a special connection with animals, an ability to communicate with them."

Ionescu leaned back in his chair. "You talk to animals?"

Philly straightened in hers. "Not usually in words. They sometimes send me images, colors, feelings. I've seen the rock ledge where Caliban is lying. And that fits with what Delos told Alexi—that he'd seen Caliban in one of the caves. I'm betting it was the cave Roman and I found the surveillance camera in. And when Delos came out, he was shot. And minutes after Roman and I came out, we were shot at. I'm betting the jewels Delos was looking for are in that cave, too."

"It's an interesting theory," Ionescu said.

"Well, why don't you go up to the Castello and check it out?"

"On the word of a woman who claims to be able to communicate with cats?"

Roman could see Philly's temper bubbling to the surface, so he put a hand on her arm and said, "When we leave here, Philly and I are flying to Athens. Gianni Stassis has sent his private plane. He's made arrangements for us to talk with Carlo Ferrante."

Ionescu set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "You work fast, Mr. Oliver."

"When I'm properly motivated. By the way, I agree with everything Philly has said, and I think Andre Magellan is involved. If he didn't steal the jewels, he may be using this party to fence them."

"That's an interesting theory also."

"The cave we're talking about is at the foot of his estate, and according to Ariel there's a second, very convenient entrance to that cave right on the grounds of the Castello," Philly said.

"So you believe there is a second entrance because a cat has led you to believe it." Expressionless, Ionescu turned to Roman. "When will you return from Athens?"

"Tomorrow sometime. It will depend on exactly when we can meet with Mr. Ferrante."

"I'll be interested in the results of your meeting."

Philly leaned forward in her chair. "When are you going to release my cousin? Surely you must see that he's not behind these incidents. He was here with you when those men tried to kill us. You should be questioning Andre Magellan."

"I'll get around to that when I have more evidence."

"More evidence?" She began to tick items off on her fingers. "He has a security camera on one of his caves."

Ionescu shrugged. "There's no law against that."

"He ordered his men to shoot at Ariel. That's attempted murder."

"Of a cat."

"What about getting a warrant or whatever it is you have to get to search the grounds for the second entrance to the cave where Caliban is trapped? Surely you can do that."

Ionescu's brows shot up. "Ms. Angelis, even if I believed you—and I'm not a complete skeptic...my mother swears her father had the gift of clairvoyance—I can hardly force Andre Magellan to let me search his estate for a cat, especially on the eve of his party. All the people who would have to approve such a warrant will be attending the party. And if I go search the area where you were shot at, it may only alert the shooters that you are still alive. I'd prefer to wait and see what you learn from Carlo Ferrante first."

"What about the two men who trapped us in that cave? They have to be working for Magellan."

Ionescu turned his hands over, palms up. "I don't have any proof of that."

Philly frowned. "And just what kind of proof do you have against my cousin?"

"The bullet that killed Antony Delos came from the gun we found in Alexi's room."

Philly whitened at the news. "He didn't do it. The shooter that I saw was high up near the Castello. Alexi wouldn't have had time to get all the way up there."

"I'm not so sure of that. He knows that cliff very well. He's been climbing it since he was a boy."

Philly shot out of her chair. "What's his motive? You surely don't suspect that he's involved in the jewel theft Mr. Delos was investigating?"

"I suspect many things, Ms. Angelis. One of them is that if Alexi is innocent, someone has gone to some trouble to frame him. Also, judging from your experience this afternoon, I think he's safer here than he would be running around searching those caves."

Recognizing the truth of that statement, Philly subsided and sank into her chair.

Ionescu shifted his gaze to Roman. "I had to work hard to convince Mr. Andros, the legal representative your Mr. Stassis sent, to see it my way. But he finally agreed. I've been seeing Miranda Kostas for the past year, so I've had some time to get to know Alexi. Miranda does her best, but he's a headstrong young man, and he's grown more so since his father died. And he's very close to those cats."

He returned his gaze to Philly. "I'm worried for your safety, too, Ms. Angelis. You might consider spending the rest of your holiday in Athens instead of returning to Corfu."

"I can't leave Corfu until I find Caliban, and Alexi is out of jail."

Roman rose then and extended his hand to Ionescu. "Would it be possible for us to see Alexi before we leave? Miranda sent some food for him."

"Of course. One of my men will take you to him."

IT TWISTED MY HEART to see my cousin sitting in a cell, holding his head in his hands. I was very grateful that Miranda had been too busy with her guests to pay him a visit yet.

"Alexi?"

When he glanced up, he looked much younger and more vulnerable than the angry man I'd first seen arguing with Antony Delos on the beach. "We're your cousins, Philly and Kit, and we've brought something from your mother."

He rose immediately and came to the bars that caged him in. "How is she?"

"Worried," I said. "It helps that she's busy. How are you?"

"I want to get out of here." He turned to Roman. "Thank you for sending Mr. Andros to represent me. He said he was going to work on getting me out of here."

"He's still working on it."

For the first time I saw fire flash into Alexi's eyes. "I need to find Caliban. He's in one of the caves. Delos told me that much."

I saw then that Inspector Ionescu was right. If freed, Alexi was hotheaded enough to go back and search the caves beneath the Castello, one by one. And he'd meet the same fate that Delos had.

"Alexi," I said, "we believe that Antony Delos was killed because he'd been looking through the caves for some stolen jewels. Do you know anything about them?"

"Jewels?" He ran a hand through his hair. "What are you talking about?"

Whatever doubts I may have harbored about my cousin vanished as I saw the complete bafflement on his face. I told him about what had happened to Roman and me that morning right after we'd come out of the cave where I thought Caliban was trapped.

"Ariel saved you?"

I explained to him about my ability to communicate with animals. He was more accepting of the possibility than Ionescu had been.

"Caliban's all right then?"

"For now." I wouldn't have agreed to go to Athens with Roman if I hadn't believed that.

Roman spoke for the first time. "You wouldn't be able to do anything more than you're doing right now. You've tried before to get inside the Castello grounds and failed. And if you got yourself killed, that wouldn't save Caliban."

Alexi met Roman's eyes and something passed between the two men. Silent guy talk. I'd seen the same looks pass between my brothers. Finally my cousin nodded. "Right. You're right."

"Philly and I have talked to Ionescu, and there's nothing he can do to help. He doesn't have anything he can use as a lever on Magellan to force his cooperation. But Philly and I are flying to Athens when we leave here. We hope to find that leverage before we return."

After a long moment, Alexi nodded again. "All right."

I had the satisfaction of seeing that he looked a great deal better as we left.

## 10

I'D NEVER FLOWN in a private jet before. I'd seen them in movies, of course. But Gianni Stassis's private jet was a definite step up from anything I'd seen or imagined. It boasted a bedroom, a bathroom with a shower and a galley that was about the same size as the kitchen in my apartment back in San Francisco. The main cabin had leather-covered sofas instead of regular airline seats.

The pilot had offered us a quick tour before takeoff. There was wine and a selection of food in the galley. We were to make ourselves completely at home. He'd indicated he expected to touch down at the Athens airport in about an hour.

I couldn't quite explain it, but enclosed in the small plane I felt somehow distanced from everything else that had happened that day.

I'd been too nervous—and too impressed—to help myself from the selections in the galley, but Roman seemed to take it all in stride. He'd poured himself some coffee and settled on one of the wide leather sofas.

I supposed that Oliver Enterprises had its own jet, too. There were a lot of things about Roman's life and his work that I knew nothing about—or hadn't thought about before.

He sat across from me, reading a file he'd taken from his briefcase. In the black slacks and white shirt he'd changed in to at the villa, he looked every inch the CEO. And he was totally caught up in what he'd spread out on the sofa. I'd noted his ability to focus completely on whatever held his attention at the moment many times before when I'd watched him play tennis or shoot pool with my brothers. The quality made him an excellent listener. And an extraordinary lover.

I was almost getting used to the little shiver of excitement that moved through me whenever I thought of making love with Roman. And I thought about it a lot. I recalled the quick, hot bout of sex we'd had in that cave, the desperation I'd felt in the press of his hands, in each thrust of his body.

How was I ever going to walk away from him once our stay in Greece was over? It had been hard enough before, thinking about him, wanting him, wondering how it might be. But now that I'd touched him, tasted him. Now that I knew what it was like to have him moving inside of me, how was I ever going to live without him?

The plane took a little lurch.

Roman's eyes met mine. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I lied.

He went back to his file.

It occurred to me then, with the same clarity I'd experienced when I'd seen that white bird fly out of the Castello's tower, that I didn't have to live without Roman. The old Philly would. She'd given up in that hospital room the instant he'd fed her that line about his feelings for her being brotherly. She'd just walked out with a dent in her heart and wasted a whole month trying to forget him.

But he'd been lying.

Well, so had I. Everything I'd told him at dinner last night—that I only wanted an affair, one that would end once we left Corfu—was a total crock. I was just as big a liar as he was. I'd always wanted more than an affair with Roman.

The difference was that the old Philly would have made do without what she really wanted. But not the new Philly—not the Philly I'd become since I'd made love with Roman Oliver. The Fates had brought us together here in Greece, and I was going to take everything they were offering and maybe more—whether Roman liked it or not.

Roman met my eyes then. "You're distracting me."

"From what?" I smiled at him.

He set his pen down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mentioned at dinner last night that Gianni Stassis and Oliver Enterprises are negotiating an agreement to invest in a select group of small hotels in Greece—both on the mainland and on the islands. We're not looking to buy or develop new properties at first, but if we work well together, our business plan will expand."

"You said at dinner that the Villa Prospero is a good example of the kind of hotel you'd be approaching."

He nodded. "It's small, family operated and it has a great location. It's filled to capacity right now because of the party at the Castello Corli, but according to Demetria, they're often only booked at around seventy percent. If Miranda is willing to sell us part interest, Oliver–Stassis could offer her ways to cut her workload and increase her profits. If Stassis and I can come to terms, I intend to approach Miranda."

"What will you offer her?"

"Right now, the Villa Prospero is very low-tech. One of the first things that Oliver–Stassis would do would be to nudge the operation into the twenty-first century. It doesn't even have a Web site. I was thinking that Alexi might very well become more interested in the family hotel if he were able to participate in that side of the business—depending on what he's capable of."

I thought he might be very right. "You've been very busy. This will be your first venture out of the States, right?"

"Yes."

"Why did you choose Greece?"

Roman's smile held a hint of ruefulness. "My father asked the same question. He wanted to know if I was thinking of taking the company global why I hadn't chosen Italy. But your father had been singing the praises of Greece ever since he made that trip a little over a year ago and brought back Helena."

That was certainly true. Everyone who'd sat at the bar of the Poseidon during the past year had gotten an earful of how great my dad's trip to Greece was, and he'd added even more stories since he and Helena had honeymooned there.

"It was Helena who actually mentioned Gianni Stassis to me. He owned the five-star restaurant where she was the head chef, and he dined there frequently when he was in Athens. She mentioned that he'd come into the kitchen each time he was there to compliment her on the dishes she'd prepared."

"So he's a man who likes to keep in personal contact with his investments," I observed.

"And he values and treats his employees well when they do a good job."

I imagined that Roman oversaw his own business ventures with the same care.

Roman sipped coffee. "It was your aunt Cass who gave me the final push. About a month ago, right after I got out of the hospital, she came to my office and told me she'd seen something in her crystals about a business opportunity in Greece."

"Aunt Cass does readings for you?" That was something I didn't know.

Roman shook his head. "No. I was surprised that she came to me. But I've known your family too long not to have great respect for the work she does. Besides, I'd had this idea playing around in the back of my head for a while. So I did some research on Gianni Stassis and made a phone call. The bottom line is that I like him. All three of your brothers checked him out for me, and he seems to have a Midas touch when it comes to business ventures."

I raised my eyebrows. "And Oliver Enterprises doesn't?"

"We do when the chief negotiator is prepared." He gestured toward the files spread out on the table. "I'm sure Stassis will want to discuss business at some point. I've already postponed him twice."

I couldn't say that I felt sorry for keeping Roman from his business. In fact, the idea that I could distract him thrilled me.

"Sorry," I lied. The old Philly would have meant it and shut up. But I found that I was enjoying being the new Philly and I was enjoying talking to Roman. In the seven years that we'd known each other, we'd seldom conversed one-on-one.

"What did my brother Kit tell you when he phoned?" Kit had called Roman's cell during the ride to the airport. I'd spoken with him briefly, and he'd done the brotherly thing with me—was I all right? Was I behaving myself? But then he'd talked to Roman until we'd arrived at the airport. "He dug up some stuff on Carlo Ferrante and Andre Magellan, right?"

Roman rubbed his eyes, then leaned back against the leather couch. "The two of them have a history that dates back to their college days at Oxford. They were supposedly best friends, but they were always in competition with one another. According to Kit, the men might as well be clones of one another. Both come from money—scads of it. The Magellan family made its money in banking while the Ferrantes made their fortune in shipping. In spite of the fact that they're both in their midthirties, neither has worked even one day for their family's respective businesses."

"What do they do?"

"That's the only thing they seem to differ on. Magellan lives the extravagant life of a playboy. He usually has a significant piece of eye candy on his arm. Ferrante, on the other hand, leads a more reclusive life. He raises horses and makes a nice profit on that little sideline. He's rarely seen in public and doesn't have the womanizing reputation that Magellan does. They each have a penchant for collecting things that only the rich can afford—rare artifacts, priceless paintings, jewels, estates. Curiously enough, Kit says that whenever one of them acquires a new house, the other follows suit within months. When Magellan's parents gave him the Castello Corli, Ferrante picked up a medieval castle in Scotland."

"They're still rivals?"

"It would seem so, but they're no longer friends. Something happened their junior year at Oxford. Kit hasn't been able to get the full story yet—only that they both kept horses at a nearby stable, and the falling-out occurred after Ferrante's horse broke his leg and Ferrante had to shoot him. After that, their days at Oxford were marked by bitter rivalry."

"Interesting. Then this robbery may have personal implications."

"And the jewels have been stolen twice now. That's got to gall the hell out of Ferrante—especially if Magellan was behind both thefts. Kit's still digging into the museum heist and the mysterious return of the jewels. And he thinks there was more to their falling-out than a horse. He's tracking down a lead that has to do with a woman. Stassis put some investigators on it also, so we may know more after we get to his yacht."

For a moment, silence stretched between us, and we continued to look at each other. The air in the cabin seemed to grow thicker, the space smaller. All he had to do was look at me, and I wanted him. It was just that elemental. I was revving up the courage to say, "Want to fool around?" or something equally corny, when Roman said, "Why don't you take a nap while I finish with this file."

Talk about a dash of cold water!

He shifted his gaze to his briefcase, reached in and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. When he put them on, I was hit by a wave of pure lust. I hadn't thought Roman could look any sexier, but I was dead wrong.

Take a nap? Not a chance.

Something impish and reckless moved through me. In terms of how we were going to spend the rest of the time on our short flight to Athens, Roman and I had reached an impasse of sorts. He wanted to work and I—didn't. I recalled how he'd convinced me to come to Athens by telling me that sometimes what one needed to solve a problem was a different approach. I had one in mind.

I stretched, taking my time. Then I rose and idly walked toward the galley. I was wearing slacks, too, and I'd paid a week's worth of pet-consulting fees for the designer fit. Even with my back turned, I knew the instant his eyes skimmed over me. Every inch of my skin heated.

Halfway to the galley, I stepped out of one of my shoes, then the other. Pausing in the doorway, I took my time selecting a strawberry and then I turned back toward Roman. He was watching me now, and I held his gaze for five pulsing seconds before I bit into the fruit.

This time he didn't go back to the file. Feeling like Eve, I held the half-eaten fruit out. "Want a bite?"

"What are you doing?"

"Watch." Encouraged by the ragged edge to his voice, I put the strawberry down and began to unbutton my blouse.

When it slid to the floor, he said, "Philly..."

"Hmm?" I stretched again, lifting my arms over my head, then slowly lowered them to unfasten my belt.

Roman didn't speak again, but his eyes had shifted to my hands. I'd never stripped for anyone before, never even fantasized about it, so I was surprised to find that I was arousing myself as much as I was hopefully arousing Roman. I pulled the belt slowly from its loops and dropped it.

The button at the waist of my slacks came next. As I freed it, fire licked along my nerve endings and my heart raced. The zipper made an erotic sound in the stillness of the cabin.

WHAT WAS SHE DOING to him? He'd vowed to himself that he wasn't going to touch her on the plane trip to Athens. She'd had a roller coaster of a day both physically and emotionally. They'd been shot at, and had escaped from a narrow cave that would have challenged even the great Houdini's skills. And seeing her cousin in that cell had taken its toll on her.

But when the slacks hit the floor and she stood in the doorway to the galley wearing nothing but wisps of white lace, he heard something deep inside of him snap. It shouldn't have. He'd never encountered another woman who could shred his resolve this way. But all Philly had to do was smile and crook her finger at him, and he was helpless to prevent himself from rising and striding toward her.

When he grabbed her shoulders, pushing her far enough into the galley to shut the door, her throaty laugh shot his blood well past the boiling point.

"Want something to eat?" she asked.

"You know what I want."

She rose on her toes and touched her mouth to his chin. "I think I do."

"I promised myself I wasn't going to do this." But his hands were racing over her while he rained kisses on her eyelids, her cheekbones. "You should rest."

"You know what they say about no rest for the wicked. And you make me feel very, very wicked." She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and slid her hands beneath it. Her fingers sent tremors running along every nerve ending.

Drawing in a deep breath, Roman fastened his hands at her hips and set her away from him—or at least as far as he could in the cramped space. When she was standing at the far wall of the galley, he backed against the door. Even then, they were less than five feet apart. He took another breath. If he didn't slow down, he was going to take her like a madman. His usual technique with Philly, it seemed.

She was still wearing a bra, a thong and those lace-topped stockings she seemed to favor. "Finish what you started. Take the rest off."

She slipped the bra off first, twirling it around her finger before she dropped it to the floor. The sight of her nipples—tight and red as raspberries—had his mouth watering. He kept himself from reaching out only by putting his hands behind his back and gripping the handle of the door.

She moved her hands to the first stocking. It gave him some satisfaction to see her fingers tremble as she slid them beneath the band of lace and then slowly rolled it down her leg.

The movement was more than enough to have his control slipping again. Dropping to his knees, he took care of the second one himself, tracing its path downward with his mouth. The stockings were sheer and shades lighter than the creamy smooth skin they covered. Removing them was like unwrapping a present. He took his time, lingering on the softness of her inner thigh, enjoying the scent at the back of her knee, nipping her ankle. When the bit of lace and silk was finally off, he lifted her foot, and easing back so that he could see her face, he licked and kissed each one of her toes. Her eyes went beyond dark to opaque.

"I love your taste," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to the sole of her foot before he set it on the floor. Then using teeth and tongue, he journeyed back up to where a lacy, white thong still covered that most intimate part of her. He lowered it, keeping his eyes on hers. Her hands were gripping the counters on either side, and her knuckles had gone white.

"I have to taste you here, Philly." He spread her thighs and used his thumbs to part her folds. Finally, he leaned forward and feasted. Her flavors streaked through him, each darker, more secret and more dangerous than the last. When she arched toward him and cried out his name on a ragged breath, he continued to ply his tongue on her until she rode out the climax.

Still on his knees, Roman drew back and watched his own hands tremble as he dealt with his trousers and the condom. There was only one thought in his head. He had to be inside of her. He had to lose himself in that wet heat. He glanced around, but the space was cramped and everywhere he looked there were sharp edges—the counters, even the door.

"Roman, I want you."

"Working on it." He gripped her hips and turned her round, then as he inched his way backward, he pulled her down so that the were both kneeling and facing the back wall of the galley.

"Let's try this."

I DID WHAT HE ASKED as I felt his erection pressing against me, hot and hard. But it wasn't quite in the right spot. Pushing against the side of the plane, I tried to wiggle backward. In one smooth movement, Roman filled me.

I gasped. The pressure was huge, the angle so different.

"Are you all right?"

I wiggled again, pressing myself back against him. "I will be once you start moving."

His hands tightened on my hips. "I'm going to try to go slowly." As if to demonstrate, he pulled almost all the way out of me, then pushed back in. This time he seemed to sink even deeper.

"No promises," he said.

I didn't want any. "Just don't stop."

He didn't. But he kept the rhythm slow. Too slow. Each time he withdrew, he left an aching emptiness behind. And each time he thrust in, he increased the incredible pressure building inside of me. But it wasn't enough.

"Go faster," I demanded.

"Soon," he promised and sank his teeth into my shoulder.

Pleasure and pain spiraled through me. "Roman, please."

"You were teasing me before. I'm just returning the favor. How about this?" He moved one of his hands to cover my breast. "Does this help?"

"No." But when he used his thumb and forefinger to pinch my nipple, I cried out, and the first wave of my climax moved through me.

He began to move faster then, and harder.

My first climax had barely subsided before the second one slammed into me, carrying me into a tight dark world that shattered around me.

## 11

"MS. ANGELIS." Gianni Stassis raised my hand to his lips. "Would you mind terribly if Roman and I leave you alone for a short while?"

"No. Not at all." After giving us a tour of his yacht, Gianni had invited us to enjoy iced coffee and a selection of fruit and cheese on the aft deck.

"I'm sure you would be bored with our business discussion. And we won't be too long. I'm expecting Carlo Ferrante shortly. If you want anything, just press the button for my man, Kyros. He takes care of all my guests' needs, and he's standing by."

"I'm fine," I assured him. "I could stand here for hours and just enjoy the view."

When he and Roman had left to go belowdecks, I did just that. I'd been impressed with Gianni Stassis's jet, but I was overwhelmed by the luxury of his yacht. It occurred to me as I stood at the railing watching the late-afternoon sun shoot blinding sparks of light off the Mediterranean Sea that I'd met a genuine Greek tycoon. And he was charming. No wonder Helena had been impressed and I could see why Roman liked him. I did, too.

From the airport in Athens, we'd boarded a waiting helicopter that had set us down at the edge of the harbor where Gianni's yacht, the Alexander, was moored. Kyros, who I figured was a sort of a butler, had met us and ferried us to the yacht. I guessed Gianni's age to be somewhere in his late thirties—young for a tycoon. He was dressed casually in khaki slacks and an open-necked knit shirt, and wore his almost black hair pulled back into a ponytail. While he wasn't handsome in a movie-star kind of way, Gianni Stassis had a way of smiling that would make a woman forget that.

He also had the same kind of focus on business that Roman had. It had only taken him fifteen minutes before he'd whisked Roman away, and Roman hadn't made any objection.

I didn't mind at all. In fact, I welcomed a chance to just be alone. Being with Roman had a strange effect on my brain cells, not to mention my body. Following our session of hot sweaty sex in the galley, Roman and I had showered together, made love again and still managed to dress and get into our seats before the copilot had entered the cabin to tell us that we were about to land. The moment the man had returned to the cockpit, Roman had whispered, "Perfect timing." Then we'd both laughed like idiots as the plane had bumped down on the Athens runway.

A fishing boat cut across our prow heading out to sea. I waved and one of the men on deck waved back. We weren't actually moored in Athens, but just below the city along the Attica coast. So the ruins of the temple I was looking at high on a hill to my right wasn't the Acropolis, which we'd flown over in the helicopter.

To my mind it was close enough. Looking at those ancient, larger-than-life columns shooting up into the clear blue sky reminded me of the Greece I'd studied in textbooks. And Gianni had said that if we had time for a sail tomorrow he'd take us to see the ruins of the Temple of Poseidon. I wondered if Roman had mentioned my family's restaurant in San Francisco, or if Gianni Stassis had run a background check on me once he'd learned that I'd be coming with Roman. I'd bet on the latter. He'd impressed me as a thorough man; I thought he and Roman would make good business partners.

Closer to the harbor, more fishing boats were anchored. My father's father had been a fisherman, and my brothers and father still were drawn to the sea. I was also, mostly when I needed to clear my mind and think. Which is exactly what I needed to do right now.

Leaning against the railing, I let my mind return to our frantic search of the caves that morning. We hadn't had time to check all of them, but I was still banking on the theory I'd proposed to Inspector Ionescu—that Caliban was trapped in the cave with the surveillance camera. It was too bad that I hadn't been able to establish a link with him. But some animals were more open to communication than others. My own Pretzels was much more communicative than his sister, Peanuts.

Roman and I might not ever have wandered into that cave—we might never have discovered the camera if it hadn't been for the storm. Providence? Fate? You couldn't be an Angelis and not believe in both.

The way I figured it, Magellan had to be the person watching that particular cave. It just made sense. The cave was on Magellan's property. Who else would have equipped it with a camera if not him?

Everything pointed to the fact that Magellan wanted to keep people away from that cave. I thought of the angry encounter he'd had with Miranda and how adamant he'd been that Alexi and his cats keep away from the caves and his estate. The question was why, and the answer had to be the stolen jewels. And the man had quite a temper. If he'd come across Caliban in the cave where he'd hidden the jewels, he was fully capable of striking out in irritation and injuring him with the butt of a gun. After all, I'd seen him order his men to shoot at Ariel.

Then there was Delos. He'd been hot on the trail of the stolen jewels, and he'd come upon the cave that Caliban was in. He'd told Alexi that much. And Delos had also found something in one of the caves that had sent him hightailing it back to the Villa Prospero to make a phone call.

Killing him and framing Alexi for the shooting had been a great way to eliminate two people who were poking around that cave. Excitement prickled along my skin. I still didn't have what Ionescu would call evidence, but my theory was more coherent. I wanted to talk to Roman about it. No, I needed to talk to Roman about it.

Before I'd come to Greece, I'd been too shy, too aware of my attraction to him, too hung up to talk with Roman about much of anything. Now I wanted to talk to him about everything. My heart didn't just drop this time. It took a huge bounce.

What if Roman didn't feel the same way?

Ripples of fear moved through me, but I ruthlessly shoved them down. If Roman didn't feel the same way I did, I would just have to convince him otherwise. No way was I going to give up as I had in his hospital room.

Suddenly, my attention was snagged by a seaplane making a neat landing about fifty feet off the prow of the yacht. Within moments, it had been met by a small boat, and a man climbed aboard. The man, a tall broad-shouldered figure wearing black sunglasses, black slacks and a black T-shirt, carried a small dog in his arms. I guessed he was Carlo Ferrante. The man piloting the boat docked and pulled out the stairs so that Carlo could board the yacht.

When he stepped onto the deck and saw me, he moved immediately in my direction. He carried the dog securely tucked under one arm. I was sensing a bubbly, happy female, and she was curious about me. I couldn't place the breed, but she had the size and look of a Havanese or a shih tzu.

"Ms. Angelis?" he asked as he reached me.

"Yes."

"Carlo Ferrante." He smiled as he held out a hand. "It's a pleasure."

I studied him as I shook his hand. The smile was as powerful as Gianni's, but Carlo Ferrante also possessed movie-star good looks. He reminded me a little of Antonio Banderas. I found the contrast of large man and small dog intriguing.

She chose that moment to speak to me. I'm Gemma.

"Gemma is a pretty name." I spoke aloud so that Carlo Ferrante could hear. "I'm Philly."

Carlo frowned. "How do you know her name?"

"She told me. I have an ability to communicate with animals. In San Francisco, I work part-time in a veterinary hospital and as a pet psychic."

"Yes, I learned about your business when I checked you out. The photo on your Web site is a very good likeness."

The dog began to wiggle in Carlo's arms, and when I held mine out, she scrambled into them and began to lick my face. "You probably thought it was all a scam."

He took his sunglasses off, and for the first time I saw his eyes. There was a hardness there, but it softened as he shifted his gaze to Gemma. "The thought did occur to me. She doesn't usually take so easily to strangers."

Gemma had settled, snuggling into the crook of my arm.

"So what is it exactly you do in your pet-psychic business, Ms. Angelis?"

"Most of my clients are referrals from the veterinarian I work for. Frequently, the animals are having some problem that isn't medical, and they want to solve it. When a session goes well, the animal can tell me what's bothering them."

"Just like that?" His tone was laced with skepticism, something that I ran into all the time—even from prospective clients. "Perhaps you discovered Gemma's name when your friend Roman Oliver ran a background check on me."

I met his eyes squarely. A man who valued his privacy the way I suspected Carlo Ferrante did wouldn't like the fact that someone had been able to probe that closely. "Perhaps I could have, but I didn't. Would you like me to ask Gemma if she has any problems?"

"A little test?" This time I heard curiosity in his tone. "Go ahead. She doesn't have any that I'm aware of."

I cleared my mind as I scratched Gemma under her chin. Is there anything that's bothering you, Gemma girl?

I received a vivid picture of food in a fancy china bowl.

"There's something about what you're feeding her that she doesn't like," I relayed to Carlo.

He frowned then. "I have my chef prepare it. But he did tell me that she's been turning her nose up at it lately."

"Have him experiment until he finds something she likes."

He glanced at Gemma, then back at me. "You couldn't have known that from any kind of background check. Henri only mentioned it to me this morning. It's been going on for a week, and he was worried. Is there anything else bothering her?"

I sensed that he was a man who sincerely loved animals, and that did a lot to gain my admiration. Gemma, are you worried about anything else?

An image flashed into my mind. Carlo Ferrante standing in a stable, his hand on a huge black stallion.

"It's not about Gemma," I told Carlo. "She's sending me an image of a horse—a black stallion."

Carlo frowned. "Lucifer. He's off his feed, too. He has been ever since his barn cat passed on. They'd been together since he was a colt."

"Since I'm not communicating with Lucifer directly, I can't say for sure what the problem is. But you might want to try getting him a new barn cat. He may be missing the companionship."

Carlo's eyes had narrowed. "You surprise me, Ms. Angelis. People rarely do."

I bet they didn't.

"What do I owe you for your services?"

I smiled at him. "This wasn't a consultation. It was a test, remember?"

"Ah, yes."

"Did I pass it?" Gemma had begun to snore on my shoulder.

He glanced at her and murmured, "With flying colors. If I wanted a consultation, could I send my private jet to fly you to Tuscany?"

My eyes widened a bit at that. "As lovely as that sounds, you wouldn't have to. All you'd have to do is pick up a phone and call me. The animal has to be near you, but I can do consultations over the phone as successfully as in person."

"If I can't pay you, I owe you a favor. I've been very worried about Lucifer."

A favor from a billionaire and I was on the yacht of a Greek tycoon. It occurred to me that I was traveling in very rarefied circles.

"Carlo." A voice from behind Carlo had us both turning to see Gianni and Roman climb up on deck. "Roman and I were discussing business and my man Kyros didn't tell us of your arrival."

"That's my fault," I apologized. "I didn't ring for Kyros when Mr. Ferrante boarded."

Looking toward me, he said, "Call me Carlo, please."

"If I call you Carlo, you must call me Philly."

"Philly then."

As he, Gianni and Roman went through the ritual of shaking hands, he continued, "And I must claim full responsibility for the delay in announcing my arrival. I was doing a pet consultation with Philly."

"I know we're all pressed for time," Gianni said, "so why don't we go below and discuss our business." Turning, he led the way.

Roman took my arm, easing me back from the other two men. "You're making quite an impression on Gianni and Carlo."

There was more than a trace of annoyance in his voice, so I studied him for a moment. Then it dawned on me that he was jealous. That had to be a good sign, and I couldn't prevent a little thrill from moving through me. "They're both very charming men."

"And ruthless as hell. I can handle Gianni, but don't let Ferrante fool you just because he likes animals. Gianni just warned me that Ferrante has the reputation of being a user. He'll use both of us and not mind the consequences to get what he wants. I'm considering canceling this meeting and taking you back to Corfu."

I stiffened then. "Whoa." I fisted my hands on my hips. "You're not taking me anywhere. And just what would we do back in Corfu anyway? Remember the impasse we've reached? You're the one who said we needed to explore taking a different approach. I'm not leaving until we find out what Carlo has to tell us about his old school chum, Andre Magellan."

"Fine."

But as we hurried to catch up with Gianni and Carlo, the new Philly was thrilled to realize that he didn't sound fine at all.

## 12

GIANNI STASSIS LED us into a state-of-the-art conference room. There were several flat computer screens nearly covering one wall that I supposed were for videoconferencing. Two of the other walls were paneled in a dark wood and lined with bookshelves and cabinets. The fourth wall was made of glass and offered a view of the sea all the way to the horizon.

Kyros was pouring coffee and setting glasses of ice water at four places. Still holding the sleeping Gemma, I took the chair next to Roman and we faced the two men across a gleaming table of inlaid wood.

"What can you tell me about what's going on at the Castello Corli?" Carlo asked.

Roman raised a hand. "Not so fast. I asked Gianni to arrange this meeting so that you could tell me what you know about Andre Magellan and the theft of your jewels, so let's begin with that."

Carlo's lips curved slightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Gianni warned me that you were a tough negotiator. You probably already know some of it. Andre and I went to school together at Oxford."

"You were friends," Roman said. "What caused you to have a falling-out?"

Carlo's eyebrows rose. "You have done your homework. Andre was responsible for the death of my horse, Michelangelo. We were having a race. Even when we were close friends, Andre always wanted to have some sort of competition. If I were a psychologist, I would say that he has a fundamental need to prove himself superior to anyone else. He would frequently challenge me to a horse race, and usually I won—Michelangelo was an extraordinary horse. This particular day, I should have suspected something as soon as I mounted him. He was jittery. And he reared up twice trying to throw me off before we started. It was when we got to the first jump that it happened. His front leg hit the fence, and he went over hard, tossing me and breaking his leg. I had to have him put down. The vet told me that it hadn't been an accident, that someone had put a steel burr beneath Michelangelo's blanket, and it had been digging deeper and deeper into him as we rode."

"Andre Magellan did that to your horse?" I asked.

"I couldn't prove it. But he did it. I vowed revenge." There was a coldness in his tone that had a sliver of ice shooting up my spine.

"Have you gotten it?" Roman asked.

Carlo smiled that frigid smile of his once more. "Not yet. But I will. I want it to be thorough and irrevocable."

I recalled Roman saying that Magellan and Ferrante could be clones of one another, and for the first time I was beginning to see that possibility. But Ferrante was more self-contained. I couldn't help but think that made Carlo Ferrante the more dangerous of the two.

"How did he get his hands on your jewels?" I asked.

Carlo hesitated for a moment, and his gaze shifted to Gemma who was still sleeping comfortably in my arms. That seemed to decide him. "I'm going to tell you more than I intended. Andre Magellan is a very rich man, but not because of his family's money. They cut most of it off years ago when they realized he'd never work in the family business. No, he runs a very lucrative side venture fencing stolen property. He stores the booty—sometimes artwork, sometimes priceless artifacts, often jewels—in an old smugglers' cave that runs from the sea to one of the towers of the old fortress. The parties he throws serve as a cover for his transactions. Among the guests will be several collectors who are there to bid on the jewels. The bidding goes on at the party. It's a silent auction. Magellan takes the bids on small pieces of paper that selected guests pass him as he makes his way among them. It's all done very discreetly. No one knows who else is bidding or what the actual bids are. The prize goes to the highest bidder."

"Wouldn't he get higher bids if he allowed the bidding to be competitive?" I asked.

"On the contrary," Ferrante replied, "if you only have one chance to get whatever it is he's selling, you tend to put in a very high bid in an attempt to win. The money is exchanged via electronic transfer from one numbered account to another. So there's no paperwork, no money trail. Then the winner will be escorted down to the cave to collect his newly purchased property."

"You're very familiar with his operation," Roman commented.

"I should be. Five years ago I was one of the bidders."

"Five years ago," Roman said. "That would have been just after your family jewels were stolen from the museum in Belgium. So this is the second time he's taken your jewels."

There were three beats before Carlo Ferrante answered. "I'm impressed, Mr. Oliver. But you're absolutely right. He was behind the museum robbery, and to rub salt in the wound, I received an invitation to his annual party at the Castello Corli. I was allowed to bid on my own jewels. And I lost. I expected to. But Andre offered me a tour of the smugglers' cave. He wanted me to see the jewels I wasn't going to get. I stored every detail away, and I even sketched some maps of the cave. It's quite large and is lined with rock ledges along the walls. Rainwater enters the cave from someplace above and the walls are always slick and damp. It's impossible to climb them. I tried."

I shot Roman a glance. What Carlo Ferrante was describing fit the images that Ariel had been sending me of Caliban. He had to be near the top of the cave. But Roman never took his eyes off of Ferrante. I noted that Gianni was watching the two men very carefully.

"There's a rope ladder you have to climb down from the opening near the tower. That's what we used to enter the cave. My jewels were wedged securely behind some rocks on the right wall. That way, they were protected from the tide that nearly fills the cave each time it comes in. It was while I was looking at the jewels and inspecting the recess that he hit me over the head and left me to die."

I gasped. Roman made no sound whatsoever.

"Fortunately, he'd only stunned me, so I pretended to be unconscious while he climbed back up the rope ladder. Then I discovered he'd taken it with him. The tide was already around my ankles and I wasted precious moments trying to climb up the rock ledges. Finally, I decided to try my luck with the entrance to the cave. It was a battle, but I made it out, then almost died making my way along the cliff face to the beach. The waves were nearly up to my waist by that time, and each one nearly dragged me out to sea. Of course, I took the jewels with me. And I've had them until he stole them from my Tuscany villa a week ago."

"You wanted him to steal the jewels again, didn't you?" Roman asked.

Carlo's eyes sharpened on Roman.

"It only makes sense that you let him steal the jewels. You don't impress me as a man who wouldn't protect his possessions—especially after they'd been taken from you once before."

"You're very perceptive." He shifted his gaze to Gianni. "Be careful in your negotiations with this man." Carlo lifted his cup of coffee, took a sip, then leaned back in his chair. "I made him wait five years and then yes, I allowed him to steal my jewels back. Not that he did it personally. He works with a very fine craftsman who's never been caught or even charged."

"How did you set it up so that he wouldn't be suspicious?" Roman asked.

"Very carefully. Andre is not stupid. The man who stole them had to work hard to establish a relationship with one of my servants. She eventually gave the floor plans and the alarm codes to him. She played her part very well, and I've rewarded her appropriately."

"Then you sent Delos to get the jewels back?" I asked.

"Oh, no, my dear. I hired Delos to confirm the location and to inform both me and Interpol. I wanted to make sure that Andre was still using the cave. But Delos was killed before he could confirm anything. I wanted Andre to be caught on the night of the party, so he could be charged with the theft. I intended to put a permanent end to his little side business."

"There's a surveillance camera on the cliff-side entrance to the cave," I said.

"Ah. That's some indication that he's still using it." Carlo took another sip of coffee. "Now I think it's your turn to share information. What is your interest in my jewels?"

"We're not interested in them," I said. "We believe that one of my cousin's cats is lying injured on a rock ledge in one of the caves. We know that Delos saw him, but he was in a hurry to get back to the hotel—probably to inform you and Interpol of his discovery."

Then I told him everything from the moment I met Ariel, including the fact that my cousin was suspected of shooting Delos. I even told him about our harrowing escape up the tunnel-like cave.

Beneath the table, Roman pressed one of his feet down on mine. I took it to mean that I was giving Ferrante too much information. So I shut up.

Carlo tapped the fingers of one manicured hand on the table. "It sounds as though the jewels are still in that smugglers' cave and that Andre is determined to keep everyone away until after the party. If he came across the cats on one of his visits, he wouldn't have liked it. Now the search for the injured cat is bringing too much attention to his hiding place."

For a few moments there was silence in the room. "So you want to rescue the cat Caliban and clear your cousin, and I want Andre to be caught with my jewels and his fencing operation exposed. Perhaps there's a way that we can both achieve our goals."

Roman frowned. "How's that?"

"I have a very distant cousin, Princess Melina Rinaldi, who received an invitation to Andre's party. She's going to bid on the jewels and gather evidence of what Andre is really doing at these parties. And then she'll turn the information over to Interpol."

Carlo met my eyes directly. "You look very like her. The hair and eye color is different, but that could be easily remedied. And getting you a proper wardrobe would be no problem."

"What are you suggesting?" Roman asked.

"I'm offering Philly a chance to get on the grounds of the Castello Corli as one of the invited guests. She should easily be able to rescue the injured cat. If she gathers evidence and recovers my jewels in the process, that will be a bonus for me, and she will have the satisfaction of putting the man who tried to kill her—and you—behind bars."

"No way," Roman said. "It's too dangerous."

I turned to Roman. Logic was what I would need to convince him. "It's a foolproof way to get on the grounds. If we smuggle Ariel in with us, she'll lead us to the entrance of the cave. She knows just where Caliban is. And if we can find evidence that Magellan is running a fencing operation and had Delos killed, then Alexi will go free."

"It shouldn't be difficult to rescue him," Ferrante said. "He must be on a rock ledge fairly close to the tower entrance. Otherwise the tide would have gotten him."

"It shouldn't take long then," I said to Roman.

"I don't like it, Philly, and I won't allow you to go to that party alone."

"You could go with her," Carlo said. "Melina always travels with a bodyguard. You'd be at her side every minute."

I kept my eyes steady on Roman's. "This is what we came to Athens to discover—an alternate strategy."

Roman turned to Carlo. "Has Andre ever met your cousin before?"

"Never," Carlo said. "And she's a lot like me. She normally doesn't go to parties. She hasn't been photographed in public in years."

"But he's expecting her to bid on the jewels."

"Yes. That's what got her the invitation."

"Does he have any idea she's related to you?" Roman pressed.

"No. I'm not a careless man, and I have an affection for Melina. Besides, the connection is so distant that even the princess and I sometimes question its validity."

"It's a good plan," I said to Roman.

"It's risky as hell." He turned to Carlo and his voice was clipped and frosty. "We'll need backup from the local police."

Ferrante frowned. "We can't be sure that they're not in Magellan's pocket."

"I can assure you that Inspector Ionescu is just waiting to get some hard evidence on Magellan. You'll have to call him and tell him much of what you told us."

Ferrante considered for a moment, then said, "I'll have Delos's contact at Interpol call him."

"Okay, then we'll go forward with the masquerade." As Roman turned to me, he looked like a man caught between a rock and a hard place. "But at the first sign of trouble, we're getting off the grounds whether we have Caliban or not. Agreed?"

Since I couldn't see that happening, I agreed.

"SHE MAKES a beautiful princess, does she not?"

"Yes." Roman shifted his gaze from Gianni Stassis to the mirror that ran the length of the wall in front of him. Philly was clearly visible five chairs down and behind him. Currently, she was receiving a pedicure.

The last place he'd expected to spend the evening in Athens was in a beauty salon. Since the place was one of Stassis's many diverse business interests, they'd had no problem staying open after nine to work on the owner's friends. Neither had the boutique they'd just come from where Carlo Ferrante had supervised the selection of several outfits for the fake princess's wardrobe. Stassis had also arranged for the tuxedo Roman would wear to the party.

Philly had enjoyed the shopping spree. Roman hadn't. He didn't care for the proprietary attitude Ferrante had developed toward Philly. He'd cared for it even less when he'd realized the hard, painful knot in his stomach was jealousy.

No woman had ever made him jealous before, but Philly seemed to have a knack for it.

"What do you think, sir?"

Roman glanced at the hairdresser who'd been working on him, then shifted his attention back to his own image in the mirror. He'd refused Ferrante's suggestion that he lighten the color of his hair. Although there was no way to tell how digitally accurate the pictures captured by the surveillance cameras were, Roman was betting that the storm and the darkness of the cave would keep Andre Magellan from recognizing him. But he had agreed to let Josef change his hairstyle, giving it a more severe look. Roman had to admit Carlo had been right. The image in the mirror looked tougher. More like a bodyguard.

"It's excellent," Roman said.

"Yes," Gianni agreed. "You do look rather intimidating."

"Maybe I'll wear this new look at board meetings."

Gianni threw back his head and laughed. While Josef brushed off his clothes and cleaned up his work space, Roman turned his attention back to Philly. Doni, the head designer of the salon, had transformed her with the help of hair dye and contact lenses, into a blue-eyed blonde. The change was playing havoc with his libido and had lust warring uncomfortably with jealousy. Carlo Ferrante stood near Philly stroking Gemma while they chatted.

Roman just didn't like the man. More than that, he didn't trust him. His mind kept circling back to Kit's assessment that Ferrante and Magellan were as alike as two peas in a pod. How much of what Ferrante had told them about the jewels and the silent auction was the truth?

On the other hand, Roman had a great deal of respect for Gianni Stassis. The moment Josef was out of earshot, he spoke in a low tone to Stassis. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble. What's in all of this for you?"

Gianni met his eyes. "I want to do business with you. I believe that we can make a great deal of money together. It's also to my advantage to have a man like Carlo Ferrante in my debt."

"What would you say if I told you I don't trust him?"

Gianni spoke very softly. "I'd say what I already know about you. You're a very intelligent man, and a good judge of character."

Having Gianni agree with him wasn't making Roman feel any better.

"Do you know of anything other than the death of his horse that has fueled this intense rivalry Ferrante has with Magellan?"

"My private-investigative firm is still digging. There were rumors about a woman Magellan was dating around the same time. She died in a tragic car crash, and there was speculation that Ferrante had something to do with it—to get revenge." Gianni shrugged. "But it turned out to be nothing more than gossip. If Magellan suspected something like that, he would have gone to the police, and he didn't. The woman's death was judged to be accidental."

"Have you ever done business with him?" Roman asked.

"Once." Stassis's tone said never again.

"How did you persuade him to meet with Philly and me?"

"It wasn't difficult. I assume he was curious about what you knew concerning his jewels. And he wants to do business again with me. If I were you," Gianni continued, "I'd go into that party with a couple of backup plans in mind."

Shit, Roman thought. He was going to need more than a backup plan. He was going to need real backup. Rising from his chair, he said, "Could you keep Ferrante occupied for a few minutes? I need to make a phone call."

"What is it you Americans always say? No problem." Gianni moved down to Philly's station.

Walking toward the front of the salon, Roman decided that he was liking Gianni Stassis more and more. He was not only an astute businessman, he had style. When he was sure he was out of earshot, he took out his cell, prayed for a strong signal and dialed Kit. The moment his friend answered, Roman asked, "How soon can you get to Corfu?"

There were a couple of beats of silence. Then Kit said, "How soon do you need me there?"

That was why Kit was his best friend. "Yesterday." Then he filled him in on what was happening and what he needed him to do.

CASSANDRA ANGELIS HURRIED along the garden path until she reached the bench where she often sat to clarify her thoughts at the twilight hour. All day long she'd been thinking about Roman and Philly. And worrying. The danger that she'd twice seen swirling around them would reach its climax tonight. But she'd had to put all thought of it out of her mind and deal with clients.

The huge house she'd inherited from her father sat on five acres of land atop a hill that offered a distant view of the Pacific. The garden had always been one of her favorite spots. Settling herself on the bench, she fixed her gaze on the blue water in the distance. The sky was streaked with shades of red and orange and the sun had just begun its descent into the sea.

Cass let her mind empty. Midnight, sunrise and sunset were when her visions were strongest. As the sun sank lower into the Pacific, the dimming light in front of her began to shift and swirl. This time it wasn't a sunlit beach that appeared, but a darker, colder place, filled with shadows. She could make out Philly. But the man who was grasping her arm wasn't Roman. He had his back to her so she couldn't see his face. But she sensed the stranger's emotions—greed, jealousy and a hunger for revenge that crossed over into the irrational. Laced through all of that, Cass sensed the purest evil she'd ever encountered.

Philly and the man weren't alone. She got a clear feeling about that just before the image faded. The shot that then rang out was so loud, so unexpected that Cass screamed.

"Cassandra?" Strong hands gripped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Otherwise, Cass was almost sure she would have fainted.

Instead, she gathered her thoughts, opened her eyes and found herself looking at Mason Leone.

"Are you all right?" Mason asked.

Cass drew in a deep breath. "Yes. How long have you been here?"

He was still holding her shoulders, and she was grateful for the strength she felt in his hands. "Just a few minutes. You looked as though you were seeing something, so I didn't want to interrupt."

"I'm not sure what I saw. But they're in danger—Roman and Philly." Cass paused to suppress a shudder.

"I know," Mason said. "Kit sent me to tell you that he's joining them."

Cass blinked. "Kit sent you."

"He called and left messages for you, but he asked me to come over and make sure you knew. Roman arranged for him to fly to Corfu on a private plane that Oliver Enterprises occasionally charters. He left this morning."

"If something happens to them, I'll never forgive myself."

Mason frowned at her. "Why would you blame yourself? Just because you can see into the future doesn't mean that you've played a part in it."

"But I have. I've known for a long time that Roman and Philly were meant to be together, but I didn't just let the Fates handle it. I nudged both of them to go to Greece. I even enlisted Kit's help."

Mason studied her for a moment. Then he pulled her slowly into his arms. "Maybe that's what you were supposed to do. Maybe what you saw for them required a little intervention on your part."

"I suppose that's possible."

"Did you see anything definitive—one of them lying still or something like that?"

This time she couldn't suppress the shudder and Mason's arms tightened around her.

"No, thank heavens. But I heard a gunshot."

"Well, Kit took a gun with him. I gave it to him. I also supplied him with some stare-of-the-art surveillance equipment. Roman has a plan, and he and Roman know how to handle themselves."

Everything Mason said made sense, and Cass found that the tension and fear that she'd been feeling all day was draining out of her.

"Do you want me to join them?"

She raised her head then and met his eyes. "You'd do that?"

"Yes. But I don't think it's necessary."

Cass thought for a minute. "Neither do I."

"One other thing."

"Yes?"

"I'm a patient man, Cassandra. You can go on seeing Charlie Galvin until you make up your mind. I know what I want, and I can wait."

Then putting the lie to his words, Mason covered Cass's mouth with his.

## 13

IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT before Roman and I were back on Gianni Stassis's yacht. Carlo Ferrante had taken off in his seaplane the moment we'd returned. Stassis had ordered a late supper and then explained that he wouldn't be joining us as he had to go back to Athens because of an early-morning business meeting. I sensed that was just an excuse to leave Roman and me alone. In addition to being a tycoon, Gianni was a kind and thoughtful man. Too bad his thoughtfulness was going to waste.

Ever since he'd agreed to my masquerading as the Princess Melina, Roman had distanced himself from me. I'd thoroughly enjoyed the shopping spree that Carlo and Gianni had taken me on. What woman wouldn't have? I'd felt just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, choosing a whole new wardrobe in that exclusive store on Rodeo Drive. Only—even better—I was in Athens. I'd modeled each of the outfits for Carlo Ferrante and Gianni, but Roman had stood on the fringes and hadn't joined in the fun.

Now I was seated alone at the table Kyros had set up on the deck inside a three-sided tent for privacy. Candles flickered in glass hurricane lamps, champagne chilled in a silver bucket and lobster was arranged with several dipping sauces on a china platter. The sea was black and calm, and millions of stars studded the sky. On a nearby hill, an ancient temple was illuminated.

I was wearing a sleeveless white sheath that fit like a glove from just above my breasts to midthigh. Ferrante had declared it too casual for Magellan's party, but he'd signaled to the saleswoman to add it to his order, saying it would do for the plane trip back to Corfu in case Magellan had some of his men checking arrivals at the small airport. Before we'd left the boutique, Princess Melina Rinaldi's wardrobe had been completed with shoes, lingerie, and Carlo Ferrante had even loaned me a diamond necklace and matching earrings, insisting that I needed something expensive for the party at the Castello. He said he'd borrowed the jewelry from a friend before coming to Gianni's yacht, and I had to wonder if he'd been that confident we'd agree to his plan or if he was a man who was prepared for every eventuality.

I felt every inch the princess, and a Hollywood movie producer couldn't have ordered up a more romantic setting.

Yet Roman stood at the railing still talking on his cell phone. From eavesdropping on his side of the conversation, I deduced that he was filling Ionescu in on the masquerade we were planning. I was pretty sure he'd talked briefly to Kit and then for a longer length of time to his father.

But he wasn't talking to me. He'd made it clear that he wasn't happy with what we were going to do tomorrow, and I didn't know how to make that right. When he closed his cell, he didn't turn back to me. Instead, he leaned one arm on the railing and stared out at the calm sea.

He looked...different. In the tux Carlo had purchased for him, he looked elegant, but somehow more rugged—especially since he'd pulled the bow tie loose and opened the top three buttons of his shirt.

Roman hadn't commented on my transformation into Princess Melina Rinaldi, and I hadn't commented on his into my bodyguard. But I liked it very much. The first time I'd gotten a good look at him in the salon, my mouth had watered. He'd looked tougher in a James Bond sort of way. I'd never thought of Roman as being dangerous before. I wondered if I looked different to him.

I experienced a sudden surge of impatience. Here I was dressed like a princess, and I had the perfect stage setting. Wasn't it time I acted as if I had royal blood? I rose and strode toward the railing. We were at another impasse of sorts, so either Melina or the new, improved Philly had to take an alternate approach. "You're upset with me."

The moon was behind him, throwing his face into shadow, but I could see the dark, angry gleam of his eyes when they met mine. "No. I'm upset that I agreed to this whole masquerade idea of Ferrante's. I don't trust him."

"Neither do I."

His eyes narrowed then. "You seemed to find him very charming."

I shrugged. "I wanted to go forward with the plan. So I let him think I was charmed. There's a hardness inside of him—except when it comes to animals. I wouldn't want to be one of his enemies. Did you buy what he told us about the jewels? Do you think they're really his and that he's waited all these years to use them to get his revenge on Magellan? The whole scenario he described about Magellan leaving him in the cave to die reminded me a bit of something right out of Edgar Allan Poe."

"'The Cask of Amontillado'?"

"Yes. Only, the victim gets to drown in a cave instead of being walled up in a catacomb. And if it's true, why didn't he go straight to the police?"

"I think the revenge part is true enough. What concerns me most is what Ferrante didn't tell us. Animal lover or not, he's going to a lot of trouble to set up this masquerade just to let us rescue a cat."

"Have you forgotten that I'm supposed to bid on the jewels? That will get both Ionescu and Ferrante evidence of what Magellan really does at his parties."

"Perhaps. But Ionescu pointed out it will be the word of a fake princess against Andre Magellan. And I have a feeling that the picture Ferrante painted of how easily we can get Caliban out of the cave and escape is way too rosy."

I agreed, but I didn't say so. "I know there are elements of danger, but I don't see another way."

He sighed then. "Neither do I. And you're not going to be able to walk away from this as long as your cousins are in trouble, and Caliban is lying injured on that rock ledge. I understand that. So does Kit."

"Kit? You talked with him again? Did he have anything else on Magellan or Ferrante?"

"No. But I didn't just talk to your brother. I asked him to join us on Corfu tomorrow."

"He's coming to Greece? But then..." My heart sank. That could mean the abrupt end of Roman's and my idyllic affair. In effect, San Francisco was coming to us. What if Roman was reluctant to continue our relationship under the watchful eyes of my older brother? My temper bubbled up. I grabbed his shirtfront. "Why did you invite Kit here without telling me?"

He took my wrists and stilled my hands. Then he grinned at me. "Now you don't look like the cool Princess Melina. You look like my Philly."

His use of the word my slammed the brakes on my temper, but still I lifted my chin. "I didn't think you even noticed my transformation."

His eyes gleamed again, this time with heat instead of temper. "Oh, I noticed. The blond hair is very attractive."

My mouth went dry. "So is the thug look. You called me cool. Why do you say that?"

He released one of my hands to run his knuckles along my cheekbone. "With the blond hair and the blue contacts, you remind me of an ice princess." Then he dropped his hand. "Philly, about Kit—I had to call him. Gianni doesn't trust Ferrante, either. He advised me to have a backup plan. That's where your brother comes in. I haven't had body-guarding experience. He has. If Ferrante or Magellan tries something unexpected, Kit's our ace in the hole."

I understood what Roman was saying but the question that nearly popped out of my mouth was: What about us? At the last minute I pressed my lips together. That was a question the old Philly would have asked. And I wasn't that woman anymore. I knew what I wanted the answer to be. And I was going to find a way to make it happen.

In the meantime, tomorrow was a long time away.

I glanced over at the table that Kyros had so carefully set for us and an idea came to me. I met Roman's eyes. "You probably never played pretend games as a kid. The kind where you act out a story—like Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast?"

"As a matter of fact, Sadie used to nag me to play that kind of thing sometimes. After my mother died, my dad would occasionally put me in charge of both of my sisters on the nanny's day off. But I drew the line at acting out fairy tales. We used to play action-adventure movies. Indiana Jones, Star Wars—that kind of thing."

His answer surprised me. But I found I liked picturing Roman running around with his sisters. "Were you Luke Skywalker?"

"Only when I lost the coin toss. Sadie and I both wanted to be Han Solo."

"I knew there was a reason I like your sister. What roles did Juliana get?"

"Villains. She was the youngest." He released my hands and ran one finger along the line of my jaw. "Where are you going with this, Philly?"

"First of all, I'm not Philly. I'm Princess Melina Rinaldi, and you're my bodyguard, Marco. You call me Lee, and I'll call you Marc."

I reached up and pulled off his tie. "This is going to be a little different than acting out a fairy tale or a movie. I'm going to tell you the beginning—but we'll have to discover the ending together."

Actually, since I was making this up as I went along, I was going to have to discover the beginning also.

I held his gaze as I dropped the tie and drew his jacket off. "You've been working for me for six months now, and there's been this steadily growing attraction between us." I began to free the buttons of his shirt. "We don't talk about it, but it's there. Sometimes, I catch a hint of hunger in the way you look at me. And every time you touch me—even in the most casual of ways—a hand at the small of my back, an accidental brush of your finger on my skin, my insides go into a meltdown."

The fact that the story I was spinning was close to what had been happening between me and Roman for the past few days in reality had flames leaping to life inside of me.

"Your problem, Marc, is that you're too controlled. But I'm not. I like to reach out and take what I want." I ran my hands up his chest to his throat. Beneath my fingertips, his pulse pounded fiercely. I felt my own leap in response.

"So tonight, I've decided to make my move. I'm a bit spoiled and used to getting my way. Part of the whole princess package. But I've chosen you as my new boy toy, and before we make love, I'm going to play with you. That's what toys are for, right?"

As I continued to talk, I began to feel my way into the role. Melina was a lot like me—impulsive—but she was spoiled, and bolder. The way she would make love to a man would be different.

"I've given the crew the night off, and I've commanded you to be here. You really have no choice if you want to keep your job." I slipped his shirt to the floor, and reached for his belt. "Now the pants. Do you know how many times I've undressed you in my imagination?"

"I'll bet not as many times as I've undressed you."

The rough edge to his voice had my fingers fumbling with his zipper.

"Just a minute." He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out condoms and offered them to me.

I took them and thinking quickly, stuffed them into the bodice of my dress. Then I met his eyes again. "Marc, you naughty boy. You must have anticipated why I invited you here tonight."

"I know that you want me." The heat in his eyes reminded me I was playing with fire.

"And I so wanted to surprise you. I'll have to think of something else."

Once the trousers had pooled at his feet, my throat went dry as dust. The black briefs were made of sheer silk and revealed clear evidence that he was ready for me. I was suddenly ready for him, too.

Not yet.

As he stepped out of the trousers, I focused on getting back into character.

"Lee."

The thrill that shot through me when he used the name was enough to curl my toes. But when he gripped my upper arms to draw me closer, it was my turn to still his hands. I smiled up at him. "I forgot to mention one little thing. You can't touch me or kiss me until I give you permission. But I can touch you." And I did. I trailed my hands down to his waist, danced them along the waistband of his briefs and kissed his throat just where the pulse was beating.

"I've waited so long to do this." I wasn't sure if it was Philly or Lee speaking. When I inhaled his scent—so strong, so male—I nearly lost my train of thought for the second time. Before I did, I closed my fingers around his wrist, then turned and walked toward the table. "Let's have some champagne, shall we?" I didn't want this to end too soon—at least not until I figured out what Melina would do next.

I urged him beneath the canopy and onto the cushioned bench that ran along the side of the boat. We were screened from the shore, facing a wide expanse of sea. The candles were half burned down so I blew them out before I knelt beside...Marc. While I filled a glass with the champagne, I rested my hand on his thigh, then let it slide until I felt the hard length of his erection beneath my palm. Oh, yes, Lee was much bolder than I usually was.

When I felt him grow even harder, heat pooled in my center, and overflowed, along with the glass. I lifted it to offer him a drink, and some spilled on his shoulder.

He took a sip of the champagne, and so did I. After placing the glass back on the table, I hiked up the skirt of my dress around my waist and straddled his thighs. His entire body bucked as he became aware I wasn't wearing panties. Angling my hips I felt his penis press against my center. Immediately, I wanted more. And I could have more. All I had to do was give my permission. But not yet. How far could I push him before he decided to break the rules I'd made?

Rubbing against him, I leaned down to lick a drip of champagne off of his chin. The flavor was darker, more potent than it had been from the glass.

Curious, I closed my mouth over what I'd spilled on his shoulder. There was a different flavor there, warmer, richer. His erection jerked and grew harder, reminding me that I wanted to taste that, too.

Lifting my head, I met his eyes. "You make the champagne taste so much better."

"How much longer are you going to play with me?"

"Just a little longer." I was amazed I'd gotten this far.

With a sudden movement of his hips, he pushed his penis just inside my entrance. I felt as if I were suddenly trapped in a furnace. The only barrier between us was the thin silk of his briefs. For a moment neither one of us moved. I even forgot to breathe. The temptation to lift my hips, shove down his briefs and lower myself onto him was huge.

But so was the temptation to play just a little while longer. I snagged the glass of champagne, wiggled off his lap onto the deck and found a position for myself between his legs.

ROMAN KNEW what she was going to do next even before she began to lower his briefs. Anticipation of the pleasure weakened him as her nails scraped his skin. Initially, the erotic story of the spoiled princess and her boy toy hadn't intrigued him. But it hadn't taken her long to stoke his desire to the flash point.

Perhaps it was the contrast between the ice-princess facade and the boldness of her touch. The memory of her wet heat rubbing against him had heightened every sensation—the scrape of her nails as she pulled down his briefs, the warmth of her breath on the tip of his penis. How could the woman kneeling between his legs right now be the same imp who'd stripped for him on the plane? And how could she make him want this much? Until his whole body ached and throbbed and threatened to shatter?

He dug his fingers into the cushioned seat as she finally grasped him in her hands. The splash of icy champagne had him arching up. Then his vision grayed as he watched her take him into her mouth. Sensations battered him—the softness of her lips, the murmurs of pleasure she made as she laved him with her tongue. And there was such heat. It exploded through him like a rush of lava, and he was sure he felt himself melting, sinew, blood and bone. In another moment...

I WAS UNDER HIM on the deck floor with such speed that I couldn't recall the motion—only the hard press of his body on mine.

"Rules suspended," he gasped as he dragged the condom out of my dress and tore it open with his teeth.

"Hurry," I said. The movement of his fingers against me as he sheathed himself had me arching, aching. "I need you..."

He plunged into me and tossed me into a world of sharp sensations. I felt everything—the planks of the deck beneath me, his ragged breath at my ear, those long fingers pressing into my hips. And most of all I felt Roman inside of me, thrusting again and again. That was all I wanted, everything I wanted.

"Come with me, Philly. I need you with me."

Caught in the world of pleasure he'd taken me to, I whispered, "Always." And then I shattered.

## 14

SHE SLEPT like an infant—hard and deep. Roman sipped his coffee and watched her. She was stretched full length on the sofa across from his, her hand tucked beneath her cheek as Gianni's plane carried them back to Corfu. For the trip, she'd changed back into her own clothes, slacks and a T-shirt. But the hair was still exotically Princess Melinda Rinaldi's.

It occurred to Roman that it was the first time he'd ever watched her sleep. They'd never given each other any time for that. The features of her face were so delicate, her body so slender. For once, she looked fragile to him.

Perhaps it was the blond hair, he mused. Philly always projected such energy, such enthusiasm, and a strength and courage that continued to amaze him.

Then there was the passion and emotion that simmered below the surface. He'd always been aware of it, of course. Passion ran deep in the Angelis family. But in the seven years he'd known her, none of the guilty fantasies he'd spun about making love to Philly had approached the reality. Each time they came together, she surprised him. Fascinated him. The erotic fantasy she'd woven for them last night was still playing at the edges his mind.

Later, he'd carried her downstairs to one of the bedrooms and held her close until sleep claimed them both. A little before dawn, she'd nudged him awake and climbed on top of him.

"One more time," she'd whispered in his ear. And then she'd made love to him as if she was sure it would be the last time. She'd teased him using her mouth on his flesh until he was shivering, aching. As she'd moved down his body, murmuring her pleasure, she'd drawn more from him than desire. She'd pulled all his emotions to the surface. His throat had stung with them.

When she'd finally taken him inside of her, it was his heart that had melted. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her. In the moonlight, with her white skin and bright eyes, she might have been a powerful goddess—Athena, Aphrodite. She could have asked anything of him, and he would have given it. When she'd arched back, taking more of him in, he was hers.

He'd watched her shudder with pleasure. Then they'd begun to move—not in a race, but in a slow journey. With one mind, they strove to hang on to each moment, each new thrill, and when they'd finally reached the summit, they'd tumbled over together.

Roman heard the change in the sound of the plane's engines and felt the shift in the cabin that signaled their descent. Still, he continued to study her. In and out of bed, he was beginning to know Philly as a woman of many facets. Just in the short time they'd been in Greece, he'd found her to be strong and incredibly brave. Braver than he was, perhaps. She certainly didn't seem to have any qualms about the masquerade they were going to act out tonight.

He'd taken every precaution he could think of, but he was still uneasy. One thing he and Kit had agreed on—at the least sign of trouble, their first priority would be to get her out of there.

When the jet hit a little bump, she stirred, then sat up. He watched the cloudy blue eyes clear and then focus. "How much longer?"

"We've started our descent. Kit and Ionescu will meet us at the plane."

Disappointment, then resignation flooded her eyes. "Big brother."

"Our backup," he reminded her.

"Is he going to introduce himself to Miranda as Roman Oliver, or will he turn us in right away?"

"We're not going to the Villa Prospero until after the party," he explained. "Our pilot has already reported a mechanical problem to the airfield. The inspector and Kit will come aboard as mechanics. We'll dress and leave for the party from here. Kit will replace Gianni's man as our driver."

Her brows shot up. "You're being very thorough."

He leaned forward then. "Yes. This isn't a game of Let's Pretend." He reached over and took her hand, needing the contact. "Ionescu has his agenda and so do Ferrante and Magellan. Kit's and my agenda is solely to keep you safe."

"Not one but two big brothers."

Something in her tone made him want to frown. And he thought then of the deal she'd made with him—that their relationship would only last while they were in Greece. Then, as she'd put it during that fateful dinner, they'd go back to "big brother, little sister" and she'd walk away.

Not bloody likely, Roman thought. But this wasn't the time or the place to talk about it. He promised himself they'd have that discussion as soon as they were safely out of the Castello Corli tonight.

The plane bumped down on the runway.

NERVES ALWAYS made me hungry. I located ham, cheese and rye bread in the galley and lined them up on the counter. Truth be told, I was a bit bored. For the last hour, my brother Kit, Inspector Ionescu and Roman had been playing with the surveillance "toys" that Kit had brought. He and the inspector had boarded the plane wearing work overalls and caps and carrying toolboxes.

I glanced over to see that the men were still huddled over the electronic equipment. To my way of thinking a microphone was a microphone. The fact that it was tiny enough that I could tape it between my breasts was convenient, but not particularly fascinating. I was going to be "wired" the whole time I was at Andre Magellan's party. Everything he said to me would be recorded.

After several minutes, I'd excused Ariel and myself to check on my wardrobe for the party and then she'd fallen asleep on the pillows in the bedroom.

Poor thing. Standing vigil over Caliban for the last three days had taken its toll on her. Ionescu had smuggled Ariel onto the plane in his toolbox, and she hadn't been happy with him. But she'd calmed down when I'd assured her that we were going to get Caliban out of that cave tonight. Roman and I were going to take her with us. He didn't want to take any chances that she wouldn't be around to guide us when we got to the Castello.

Having Ionescu bring Ariel to the plane was just one more example of just how thorough Roman was being. Because he was worried. The fact that I wanted badly to soothe his nerves was only making my own jumpier.

It was nearly seven—another two hours before we'd leave for the Castello. We were going to arrive fashionably late. Then we could rescue Caliban under cover of darkness. That was the plan, and I was anxious to put it into action.

A glance into the main cabin assured me that the men's fascination with the electronic equipment hadn't faded. They still had their heads together around one of the tables. Inspector Ionescu managed to look dapper even in work clothes. And my brother Kit—well, he managed to look incredibly handsome in anything he wore. Of my three brothers, he was the one I was closest to. And in spite of the fact that I'd originally had mixed feelings about his arrival, I was glad that he was here.

Turning back to my sandwich making, I found mustard in the small galley refrigerator and slathered it on one slice of rye bread. Then I piled meat and cheese on the other. I had just sliced my masterpiece in half when Kit joined me and snagged the bigger section.

"Thanks, sis."

"You could make your own."

He grinned at me. "Yeah. But yours always taste better. Anyway, you're just eating because you're nervous."

"Know-it-all," I muttered. But that was the thing about my big brothers. They knew me very well.

"By the way, I like the blond look."

"Thanks," I said around a mouthful.

He settled his hip against the counter and stretched out his long legs until the base of the other counter blocked him. "Close quarters."

My gaze dropped to the floor and I remembered just how "close" the space had been when Roman and I had made love on our flight to Athens.

I felt the heat flood my cheeks so I turned away to open a bottle of water for each of us.

"There's really no need to be nervous," he said.

"I know."

"We're going to have your back. Ionescu will have a couple of men stationed on the other side of the wall just a ways down from the gate. Once we have Caliban, Roman and I will rig something to get him over the wall. When that part of our mission is accomplished, we'll go on to part two."

I drank some of my water. "The inspector's very cooperative and eager to help all of a sudden. Yesterday, he wouldn't even go up and ask if we could search the grounds."

"He wants evidence that will prove that Magellan is fencing the jewels from these high-profile robberies. Roman has convinced him that with the wire you're wearing he has a good chance of getting it. Once you get the evidence he needs, Ionescu will send his men in."

Having her wear a microphone had been Roman's idea, too. Kit had merely provided the state-of-the-art equipment.

"Roman is worried. I wish I could do something about that." I glanced over at the table where Ionescu and Roman were studying what looked to be some kind of map. "What is that?"

"It's a drawing of the grounds and the first floor of the Castello."

"He's being so thorough."

"That's the way Roman always is. He's said to me many times that knowledge is power. He wouldn't walk into a business meeting unprepared—he's definitely not going to step foot on the grounds of the Castello Corli without knowing everything he can. Ionescu and I are just the backup in this little operation. Roman's in charge. If he weren't, I wouldn't agree to letting my sister run the kind of risk you're going to run tonight."

Something warm and sweet moved through me. "He's amazing."

"I've always thought so." Kit cleared his throat. "How are things going between the two of you?"

I shifted my gaze to his. "What do you mean?"

"Philly, when I went to Ionescu's office, I had to introduce myself to my cousin Alexi as Roman Oliver. I know all about the lie Roman told Miranda so that he could share your room. I'm assuming that you took advantage of what the Fates offered."

My eyes widened.

"In fact, I'm hoping you did."

I think my mouth dropped open. "How did you..."

He grinned at me again. "I'm a trained investigator, remember? For starters, there is so much sexual energy whenever the two of you are in the same room, it's a wonder that something doesn't ignite. Then there was the fact that when I told Roman that you were off to Greece to find your true love just as our mother and Aunt Cass had, he was on the next flight here."

"Because he felt he had to protect me—like a brother would."

Kit's grin widened. "Except that none of your real brothers hightailed it to Corfu. You should have seen his face. He turned white as a sheet when I told him about your plan. And it was the first time since I've known him that he was at a total loss for words."

I returned my gaze to Roman, and I began to see everything that had happened between us from a slightly different perspective.

THE MAIN HOUSE of the Castello Corli was lit up like the palace in a fairy tale as we drove through the gates. Kit was behind the wheel of Gianni Stassis's car, Roman sat beside me in his tuxedo, and Ariel was tucked beneath the long black cloak I was wearing.

As soon as we were out of sight of the guards, Kit pulled the car as far off the road as he could. Fortunately for us, the driveway to the Castello was circular and lined on either side with trees. Kit had been instructed by Magellan's men to proceed to the front entrance to drop us off and then follow the directions of the guards there for parking. Roman's plan was to delay our arrival until we'd rescued Caliban. We all exited the car.

The Fates were smiling on us in one sense because storm clouds had blanketed the sky. Darkness and the breeze rustling the cypress leaves masked our movements. But the threat of rain meant we had to work quickly or get caught in a sudden downpour. Using the trees for cover, Kit led us toward the tower where Ferrante had said there was a second entrance to the cave.

Getting past the guard shack was tricky. A limo stopped halfway through the gate was shining its headlights right across our path. Kit held up a hand and we waited until it passed us and moved up the driveway. Then we took our chance and dashed for the trees on the other side of the entrance.

I released Ariel and she took the lead.

We moved as quickly as we could, but each second seemed like an eternity. I stumbled once and Roman gripped my arm to steady me. When we were deep enough into the trees, Kit took out a pencil-size flashlight and played it back and forth in front of us. Overhead, the wind was picking up, and I'd lost sight of Ariel.

This way.

"She's still ahead of us," I said, searching the darkness for a flash of white.

Suddenly, the trees thinned, and there she was. The tower was about twenty yards ahead of us, and the walls of the old fortress abutted it on two sides. As we approached, Kit's flashlight illuminated a section at the tower's base that had crumbled. My heart took a hopeful leap when I caught a glimpse of the stone stairs descending into the darkness.

I squatted to be closer to Ariel. Show us where he is.

She disappeared into the opening.

Kit put the flashlight between his teeth. Roman couldn't risk messing up his tux, so Kit was going to go after Caliban. First we lost sight of him and then of all trace of the light.

"You okay?" Roman spoke softly into the microphone he was wearing.

"Yeah." I wasn't wearing a receiver, but I could just hear Kit's voice. "I've run out of stairs. Wait. There's a rope ladder."

Squatting again, I spoke into the opening. "Do you see any sign of Ariel or Caliban or the rock ledge?" I asked. I could picture all three in my mind.

Kit said nothing further for the space of five endless beats. Then we heard a grunt. I stopped breathing.

"Easy, fella." In the same soft tone, he said, "Philly, see if you can settle him. He doesn't look happy to see me."

I calmed my mind, pushing everything else out. Ariel, tell him we're here to help.

A moment later, Kit said, "Got him." Then he added, "Shit! I lost the flashlight."

I didn't let out the breath I was holding until Kit's head reappeared in the crumbled opening at the foot of the tower. My hands trembled as I held them out for Caliban. I could feel Ariel's anxiety. My own nearly matched it.

I checked the pulse at Caliban's throat. It was strong and steady. His eyes were open and on mine. I'm Philly.

For the first time, I felt a clear connection with him. Though he communicated nothing in words, I could tell the pain was centered in his leg, just as I'd envisioned. "His leg is injured, and he's cold." But overall, he seemed a lot calmer about his ordeal than Ariel was. If Ariel reminded me of my cat Pretzels, Caliban was more like Peanuts.

You're going to be fine.

His eyes gleamed at me. Then he let out a long breath and closed them.

Roman took my arm. "This way."

We felt our way along the wall until we could make out the lights of the guard shack through the trees. One of Ionescu's men was supposed to be posted on the other side about fifty yards from the Castello's entrance. Working quickly, we fashioned a sling of sorts out of my cloak, placed Caliban in it, and Kit slipped it on. Then Roman boosted my brother onto his shoulders, and Kit managed to muscle his way to the top of the fortress wall. The sky above was so black that I could only locate Kit's position when Ariel leaped from the branch of a tree to join him.

Seconds ticked by before I heard a noise I recognized as my brother's imitation of a birdcall. The only response was the rustle of cypress leaves overhead.

Then I thought I caught the faint sound of a man's voice and some kind of movement on the top of the wall. The wind had picked up, and I could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. Finally, Kit dropped lightly to the ground beside us. "Mission accomplished. Within minutes, Caliban will be on his way to a vet in Myrtos."

The relief that streamed through me nearly had my knees buckling. Roman gripped my arm, urging me deeper into the trees.

Wait.

The word came through very clearly and I whirled back. It was only because of Ariel's white fur that I saw she was still on the top of the wall. She leaped to the branch of a tree and then to the Castello grounds.

"Ariel's going to hang around," I explained to Roman and Kit.

Roman glanced back at the wall. "Tell her to stay out of sight."

I relayed the message to Ariel as Roman pulled me into the trees.

GLITTER. GLAMOUR. They were everywhere one looked in the ballroom of the Castello Corli. And Roman had spent the last thirty minutes looking very carefully. To his way of thinking, there were too many exits. The storm that had been threatening earlier had passed on, and the French doors that lined the room on either side had been thrown open to the terraces.

Inside the ballroom, light glimmered from crystal chandeliers and flickered from thick white candles. Masses of flowers surrounded the columns that edged a marble floor the length of a football field, and their scents mixed with exotic perfumes and the more savory aromas on the trays a small army of servants carried throughout the room.

Whatever one might say or suspect about Andre Magellan, the man knew how to throw a hell of a party. And how to cut a dramatic figure. He wore his long hair loose and it fell to his shoulders. His open-throated red silk shirt made a perfect frame for a diamond the size of a robin's egg. And the contrast of the shirt against his white tuxedo made him easy to locate and track in the crowd. Since each guest descended a marble stairway, Andre Magellan also had ample time to study new arrivals before they disappeared into the crowd that now filled the ballroom.

He'd been standing at the far end of the ballroom when Philly had descended the stairs, and for just an instant, Roman thought he'd seen surprise on Magellan's face. That worried him a bit. Ferrante had assured them that Princess Melina Rinaldi was an invited and expected guest.

So far Magellan had kept his distance, playing the good host by smiling at some guests and lingering longer with others. If he was accepting silent bids on a priceless cache of jewels, there was no outward sign of it.

But if Ferrante had been telling the truth, Magellan had had several years to polish his act. And there were many possible buyers among the guests who ran the gamut from politicians and rulers of small countries to several celebrities with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. One of them, an actor Roman recalled from a series of successful action-adventure movies, had been talking to Philly for the last five minutes. When he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, Roman moved closer.

"I've so enjoyed meeting you," Philly said. "But I really have to say hello to my host."

"Till we meet again," the young star said before moving away.

"Nicely done," Roman murmured.

"Thanks, Marc."

"Magellan is allowing you to come to him."

"Yeah, I got that. But there's nothing that says I have to rush." She snagged a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant.

"You're really getting into this, aren't you?"

"I'm enjoying being a princess."

It occurred to Roman that princess was only one of the many roles she'd decided to play since he'd joined her in Greece. And she played each one so well. Right now, she was giving every indication of having the time of her life. He wondered how much of it was playacting and how much was just how Philly Angelis met every new experience that came her way. There were so many facets to her that he'd never seen before—or never allowed himself to see. Once they left Greece, would he get the opportunity to discover any more?

He knew her well enough now to understand that rescuing Caliban and getting Alexi out of jail had been her main objectives. She wasn't nearly as worried about trapping Magellan into saying something incriminating. But that was the part Roman was worried about.

Since he wasn't the Princess Melina Rinaldi's escort but Marco, her chief of security, he kept a discreet distance of about two feet behind her right shoulder as she wove her way through the crowd. As they progressed, the backless, sequined dress captured more than one male eye, and several men stopped her to talk.

In the end it was Magellan who came to them. Roman noted that the hand that had trembled earlier when she'd taken Caliban from Kit held steady when she offered it to their host. Roman knew that she had the bid for the jewels with the amount that Ferrante had written in the palm of her hand. Andre had it in his by the time he kissed her fingers. She was handling everything like a pro.

The smile Magellan beamed at her held a practiced charm. "Princess Rinaldi, my apologies for taking so long to welcome you to my home."

Philly smiled right back. "Call me Melina, please. And no apology needed."

"You are most gracious." He took the glass of wine from her hand and passed it to Roman. Then he led Philly out onto the dance floor and swept her into the throng of dancers.

"He's made his move. They're dancing." Edging his way around other couples on the floor, Roman spoke into the microphone attached to his tie. "Where are you?"

"I'm just outside on the terrace, south side of the building. Want me to slip in?" Kit asked.

"No. Just hold your position."

Then it was Magellan's voice Roman heard in his ear. "I expected you to have an Italian accent."

"My mother was English, so I grew up bilingual."

"And you're much more beautiful than your photos."

"Then I'll have to fire the photographer."

Magellan laughed. "You're not only beautiful but refreshing."

He was grilling her, Roman thought. Ferrante had assured them that his cousin was camera shy. Where had Magellan gotten hold of photos? Had Ferrante lied or merely slipped up? Roman started to elbow his way more forcefully along the edge of the dance floor as Magellan moved Philly farther and farther away from him.

"Why is it that we've never run into one another before?" Magellan asked.

"I'm really a homebody. I only travel when something interests me. Jewelry always interests me."

"Ah, yes," Magellan said. "The diamonds you're wearing are truly breathtaking. I keep thinking that I've seen them before."

"I hardly think so. Since I don't attend many parties, they spend most of their time in a safe."

Roman saw him run one finger along the length of the diamond choker Ferrante had insisted she wear. "That seems such a waste. They were made to see the light of day—or evening."

"I agree. That's why I wore them tonight."

She was holding her own, Roman thought.

"How good is my bid?" she asked.

And she was doing her job.

"It's very good."

Roman was still the width of the dance floor away when Magellan swept her out through the French doors onto the terrace. Roman pushed couples out of his way as he crossed the floor. "She's out of my sight," he said softly to Kit. "He's got her on the north terrace."

"I'm on it," Kit muttered.

Precious minutes ticked by as Roman zigged and zagged his way to the opened doors. By the time he made it onto the terrace, both Magellan and Philly had disappeared.

## 15

ONCE WE REACHED the terrace, Andre Magellan took my arm and guided me to the left. I had to double step to keep up with him. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Just to my office. I want to discuss your bid."

"Excellent." That was Melina talking. As Philly, I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. I'd seen him deftly unfold the piece of paper and glance at it while we were dancing. But a private chat about it certainly hadn't been part of the scenario that Carlo Ferrante had sketched out.

I was wired, I reminded myself. Roman could hear everything Magellan or I said. Any minute he was going to step out of the ballroom and insist on accompanying me. An armed guard stood at the far end of the terrace. Andre passed right by him, stepped behind a potted tree and inserted a key into a small iron door. As he pushed it open, I took the opportunity to glance back. There was no sign of Roman or Kit. Nerves began to bubble in my stomach when I realized that the door wouldn't be immediately visible to either of them. In fact, it was very well camouflaged. Purposefully?

Andre touched a switch and ushered me into a large windowless room lined with bookshelves. A huge, carved wooden desk looked as if it might have been among the original furnishings of the castle. The chair behind it resembled a throne. Light poured down from a large crystal chandelier. A quick glance around told me the only door was the one we'd entered through.

Persian rugs covered the stone floor, and there was a conference table that would have done King Arthur proud. The leather couches and chairs scattered throughout the room were more modern and looked to be quite comfortable. In spite of all the elegance, the room could easily serve as a prison. Someone locked in here would be at the mercy of her captor.

When I felt panic bubbling up, I slammed the brakes on the direction my thoughts were taking. Those were the old Philly's thoughts, and I was Princess Melina Rinaldi. I'd just handed Andre Magellan a bid on a priceless collection of jewels, and he'd brought me here to conduct business. I should be excited about that.

Plus, I had a job to do, I reminded myself. Up until Kit had jumped down from the Castello wall and assured me that Caliban was on his way to a vet, I'd been focused on rescuing Ariel's brother. I hadn't spent much time thinking about what Kit had referred to as "part two" of our mission tonight.

If I could get Andre Magellan to incriminate himself, Alexi would go free and I would have had a hand in punishing the man who'd hurt Caliban, and killed Ferrante's investigator Antony Delos.

Talk. You have to let Roman and Kit know where you are.

"This is a lovely room," I said. "And so surprising. Who would have expected it to be tucked away behind that potted tree. And the door—it was so small. It reminded me of the entrance to The Secret Garden. Do you remember reading that book as a child?"

"No." For the first time, I heard an undercurrent of anger in his voice as Andre walked behind the desk, opened a drawer and took out a file. He tossed it down on the desk, then turned and pressed something that had a wooden panel moving aside. Behind it was a fully stocked bar. "Would you like a drink?"

Melina would, I was sure. "Do you have white wine?"

"A very nice Italian one as a matter of fact. As I recall, you used to prefer Italian whites."

I used to prefer Italian whites? "What are you talking about? We've never met before."

He poured two glasses with practiced skill, then circled the desk to join me on the other side. He handed me one and raised his in a toast. "To games."

I let a puzzled frown appear on my forehead. "To games? I thought we came here to discuss my bid."

The smile he sent me didn't reach his eyes. "There's no need to discuss it. Yours is the highest. I knew the moment I saw you that it would be. Carlo would see to that."

ROMAN SWORE under his breath. The highest bid? Carlo Ferrante hadn't mentioned that little detail. Melina was just supposed to offer a bid and gather evidence. And it couldn't be an accident. Of all people, Ferrante would know what figure would top all the others in an auction of his own jewels.

Whatever the game was that the two men were playing, he knew that he had to get Philly away from Magellan as soon as possible. The doors through which they had exited had been in the center of the ballroom, so he had no idea in which direction they'd gone. There were armed guards stationed at either end of the terrace. After mentally flipping a coin, Roman headed to his right. He reached the guard just in time to see Kit approach from behind and knock the man out with the butt of his gun.

Together they dragged the body behind a potted palm. "And here I thought the P.I. business mostly involved tailing cheating spouses," Roman said. "I had no idea how talented you were."

"Necessity is the mother of invention. That's the first time I've ever had to do something like that."

"Philly said they went through a small iron door hidden behind a potted tree."

"Iron? Let's hope it's unlocked," Kit murmured. They searched behind several more trees, but found no door.

"AND JUST HOW did you know that my bid would be the highest without even seeing it?"

"Because Carlo sent you."

My stomach did a little flip, but I managed to keep my expression puzzled. "Carlo who?"

Andre set his glass on the desk so forcefully that the stem broke and wine spread over the surface. Ignoring it, he pushed the file closer to me. Then he flipped it open and pointed to a photograph. "This is Princess Melina Rinaldi."

The woman in the picture was a tall brunette who was at least ten years older and forty pounds heavier than I was. Okay. Not so good. I wished I could figure out who was lying—Carlo or Andre? All of the above?

I met Andre's eyes. "I'm Princess Melina Rinaldi. And since I've just placed the winning bid, I'd like to see the jewels."

"All in good time." He moved closer and once more ran a finger along my diamond choker.

I had to concentrate hard to suppress a shudder.

"You're nearly perfect." He circled the desk and took a framed picture off one of the shelves. "This is why I brought you here—so that you could see this."

When he handed it to me, I simply stared down at it.

"We had it taken shortly after we arrived at Oxford."

I was seeing Andre and Carlo as they'd appeared fifteen years ago. And standing between them, laughing at the camera—was a blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman who looked just like me.

"She's Isabella Carlini," Andre said. "And she was my lover until Carlo seduced her."

Oh my, I thought, and racked my brains for something to say. But I didn't need to say anything. Magellan was doing all the talking—to himself more than to me.

"He blamed me for killing his damn horse, so he destroyed the only woman I've ever loved. He killed her." He ran his hands through his hair. "And he sent you here tonight to rattle me. To prove that he can still play the game better than I can."

It looked to me as if Carlo's rattling plan was working. Andre had begun to pace, and his temper was bubbling very close to the surface. He moved to the bar, poured himself a fresh glass of wine and drained it.

"Carlo always plays the game so very well. I try very hard to anticipate his moves. I knew the moment that the real Princess Rinaldi contacted me that Carlo had arranged it. They're related, after all. But when you walked in...I didn't expect it."

Which was just what Carlo had wanted. My mind was racing. He must have seen the resemblance between Isabella and me when he visited my Web site. That was why he'd agreed to meet with Roman and me. And then he'd turned me into her.

Magellan stopped pacing and moved toward me again. "The diamonds are a nice touch. I gave them to Isabella. I was going to marry her, you see. They were never recovered after Carlo murdered her."

"He murdered her?"

"Oh, yes. He told me all about it. Bragged about it. After he had to put down that stupid horse of his, he wanted revenge. So first he seduced Isabella. More than that, he made her fall in love with him. Then when he was sure I knew about it, he invited her to his room and told her she'd served her purpose. He was through with her. What he didn't mention was that he'd sabotaged the brakes on her car, so when she ran out of his room and drove away, she had no idea her car was going to end up wrapped around a tree."

For a moment, I couldn't think of anything to say. I could see that Andre was back in the past, reliving a painful memory. But I had to say something. Just because I was unmasked and in the middle of some kind of game that Carlo and Andre were playing didn't mean that I could forget my job.

"So that's why you stole Carlo's family jewels? To exact revenge for Isabella's death?"

He came back to the present then. "Partly. I also stole them to make money. I had a bid that night that was almost as high as yours."

"So Carlo was right. You do use these parties to fence stolen property."

Andre shrugged. "It's a very profitable business and much more exciting than banking. Five years ago, I could have made a fortune on Carlo's family jewels, and he would have had to live with the knowledge that someone else possessed something that belonged to him. Just as I had to live with the knowledge that he had possessed Isabella who'd belonged to me. But in the end I decided to let Carlo have them back so that I could show him that I could steal them again. He's been waiting ever since for me to make my move. Revenge is better when it occurs slowly, over time."

The rage in his eyes was so cold that I badly wanted to make a run for the door. Where was Roman? "Carlo said you left him in the cave to die."

Andre's eyes narrowed. "He seems to have confided a lot in you."

"Is it true? Did you try to kill him?"

"No. I didn't hit him that hard. I knew he had a better-than-even chance of escaping. It's all about the game, you see. Someday, I will have to kill him, I suppose. But then I won't have anyone to play with."

The calm way he spoke chilled me to the bone. Kit had been right. Andre and Carlo were two peas in a pod. And they were both top-of-the-line loony tunes.

"I gave him better odds that night than he gave Isabella." He touched my necklace again. "To think that he's had them all this time. And he had the nerve to send you to me wearing them." His voice was controlled, but the cold rage in his eyes was so near the surface that I took a step back.

He ran his hand through his hair, then pressed fingers against his temples. "I can't let anger blind me. I can't let him win again. Not this time."

Drawing in a deep breath, he moved behind his desk and opened a drawer. The gun he pulled out was small but deadly looking. Think. Think. A dash to the door was out at this point. I stood watching in frozen silence as he tucked the weapon into his pocket.

Andre circled the desk and grabbed my arm. "Come, we'll finish this part of the game. I'll take you to see the jewels."

"SHE'S GOT HIM," Roman murmured to Kit. "He just told her that he's going to take her to see the jewels. Ionescu will be able to arrest him."

Roman kept his gaze fixed on the potted trees ahead of them. At any moment Magellan and Philly should be stepping out of the room he'd taken her to. "You take Magellan," he murmured to Kit. "I'll get Philly." There was no way he was going to let her climb down into that cave with a crazy man. Ionescu and his men could rescue the damn jewels.

But as the seconds ticked by, neither Magellan nor Philly appeared on the terrace. The fear that had settled into his system the moment Magellan had waltzed her onto the terrace kept growing. Then he spotted Ariel sitting to the right of the first potted tree. An armed guard stood to the left.

"Want to bet that's it?" Kit asked in an undertone.

"Yeah." Roman hoped to hell that it was.

"You got a plan?" Kit asked under his breath as they neared the guard.

"Follow my lead." Roman didn't stop until he was right in front of the armed man. Then without warning, he whirled and threw a punch to the guy's jaw, quickly followed with a jab to his belly. When the surprised guard doubled over in pain, Roman brought his knee up to the guy's chin and the man fell like a rock.

"I'm impressed," Kit said.

"Me, too." Roman located the small door behind the potted tree. He turned the handle and found it locked.

In his ear, he heard Philly's voice again. "Where are we going? What is this? A secret passage? Does this lead to the smugglers' cave?"

"Indeed. And Carlo knows nothing about it. But I'm sure he's waiting for us there. He will have accessed it by the rope ladder or made his way in by the sea. But he'll be there just as he was the last time. So we'll go to him. After you, my dear Isabella."

Roman threw all his weight against the door. Then Kit gave it a try.

"It's no use," Roman said. "He's taking her through a secret passage to the smugglers' cave. We'll have to use the tower entrance. Magellan believes that Carlo will be waiting for them."

Together, they raced off the terrace and across the grounds. A couple of guards called out to them, but they paid them no heed. Roman was banking on the fact that the guards would stop short of gunning down guests during a party.

When they reached the tower, Ariel was already standing at the entrance.

Roman quickly turned to Kit. "You go signal Ionescu's men. Tell them that Philly's got Magellan recorded admitting to fencing jewels and he's taking her to the cave. We need backup."

"Will do." Kit was already moving. "Then I'll come back."

As soon as he'd disappeared into the trees, Roman squatted in front of Ariel. Philly always said that first she calmed her mind, so he tried to do the same. Hell, he wasn't a pet psychic, but maybe the cat would understand anyway.

"The bad man who hit Caliban with the gun has Philly. She's in trouble and he's taking her to the cave."

Ariel turned and disappeared into the opening.

Roman followed, pressing his hands to the granite walls as he made his way down stone steps. It was pitch-black inside. He remembered that Kit said the stairs ended abruptly, so he made his way slowly, feeling for each slab of stone. Sure enough, after ten steps, his foot felt nothing but air. Still keeping one hand braced against a wall, he squatted and located the rope ladder.

It was then that he heard the cat. Not in his head the way Philly would have. Ariel seemed to be aware of his communication handicap and so she was meowing softly. He assumed she was on a nearby rock ledge.

As he descended farther and farther into the darkness, Ariel always seemed to be nearby, making known her presence with soft, deep-throated purrs. It was slow going, mostly because he couldn't see a thing. Each time he lowered his foot he had to waste precious minutes feeling for a secure toehold on the next rung.

Urgency churned inside of him. He couldn't shake off the fear that Philly was in mortal danger. It wasn't so much anything Magellan had said to her. He hadn't made any overt threat. But Philly's resemblance to Isabella had obviously stirred memories in Andre Magellan. There'd been something in his tone when he'd been speaking of his former lover that had Roman wanting to hurry.

His right shoe slid off the rope, and for three breathless beats, he hung dangling in space before he found another rung.

Ariel purred softly.

"I'm okay." For the next few minutes, he focused his mind totally on the job. Gradually, he got a sense that the cave was widening. When he reached out with his hand, he could only feel the wall to his right. He took that as a sign of progress. He also thought that the space below him was growing lighter. But that could have been wishful thinking. The strongest feeling he had was that Ariel was growing impatient with him.

"I have to go slowly here," he explained to her in a soft voice. "If I make a misstep, I won't be of any use to Philly."

"Meow," Ariel said.

"I'll bet you're going to be happy to talk to Philly again." Roman knew he would be.

"Meow."

## 16

AS ANDRE HALF DRAGGED me down a slippery stone floor to the smugglers' cave, I began to feel as if none of what was happening was real. I had to be caught up in some kind of nightmare. Even under other circumstances, I doubt I would have enjoyed my little tour of a dank secret passage in an ancient castle. However, I would have awarded it five stars as a Halloween haunted-house experience.

The lantern Andre Magellan carried allowed us to see about three feet ahead—far enough that I saw rats scurry out of sight more than once. To add to the spooky atmosphere, there were the occasional cobwebs I had to brush off my face. Once, I was sure that an upset spider skittered across my shoulder and down my arm. But when I let out a scream, Andre's grip on my arm tightened, reminding me that rats and spiders were the least of my worries. What was happening to me was very real. I was on my way to a cave with a madman, and chances were good that another madman awaited us there.

I had to wonder if Roman had heard me say our destination.

Even more worrisome was what was going to happen when we reached that destination—especially if Carlo was waiting for us as Andre was predicting.

I was beginning to think that the passage would never end, when a slab of stone blocked our path. Andre pushed against a panel and it slowly slid open. He tightened his grip on my arm and pulled me into the cave. The air was cold and damp, and I felt a sense of disorientation. The circle of light thrown by the lantern Andre was carrying offered little help. I had no idea where we were in the cave. Which way was the rope ladder Kit had used? Which way was the sea?

"This way." Andre pulled me with him to the right. We hadn't gone more than a few yards before a large boulder again blocked our path. There seemed to be some light on the other side. Andre shoved me ahead of him, and when I stepped around the rock, there was Carlo Ferrante.

Ferrante had staged the scene perfectly. But then I suppose that was part of the game. Dressed all in black, he sat cross-legged on a large flat stone. There was a lantern on one side of him and a package on the other. Carlo had slit the top open and a diamond necklace that made the one I was wearing look as if it had been created for a Barbie doll was draped over the side. He also had a large, deadly-looking gun in one of his hands.

Andre tightened his grip on my arm and pulled me with him toward Ferrante.

"Surprise," Carlo murmured.

"Actually, it's not a surprise at all." Andre's voice was tight but cool. "Tell him, Princess."

I had to swallow once hard to get rid of the lump of fear in my throat. "He said you'd be waiting for us."

"But the princess here—" Carlo paused to gesture with the gun in my direction "—she was a surprise, wasn't she?"

"Yes," Andre said. "Very clever of you. And having her wear the diamonds was a nice touch."

"I've always been better with the details. Admit it."

"I've always preferred to look at the big picture."

"If you'd been looking at the big picture, you never would have caused Michelangelo's death."

Andre sighed. "You're always harping on about that stupid horse. I offered to buy you another."

The two of them might have been talking about the weather or the score of their latest tennis or golf game. In the meantime, I was letting myself be trapped by a feeling of unreality again. I couldn't let that happen. I had to come up with some kind of escape plan. If Carlo had come here to kill Andre, then he wouldn't leave a witness behind. He'd kill me, too.

And since Andre had anticipated that Carlo would be in the cave, he must have a plan also. Plus, he had a gun tucked in his pocket. Think.

I'm here.

I blinked. Ariel?

Over here.

After checking to make sure that Carlo and Andre were still involved in reminiscing about their one-upmanship, I shifted my gaze into the darkness beyond the lanterns' glow. She was about fifteen feet away partially concealed by the boulder Andre and I had just circled around.

She sent me an image of Roman and I saw the darker shadow behind her. My heart leaped and then sank. He was facing two crazy men with guns who would spot him the minute he stepped into the light cast by the lanterns. If he was going to rescue me, I was going to have to help him.

"Where did you find her?" Andre asked.

Carlo laughed then, and the sound was as cold as the air that surrounded us in the cave.

"It was fate, I'm sure. But you had a hand in it, Andre. You hurt her cousin's cat. Her boyfriend got in touch with me because she wanted to save the animal. I know that you must find that hard to believe since you have no love for God's furry creatures. But she's here because you beat a cat named Caliban with a gun and left him trapped in this very cave. So you've played a part in your own downfall and in my perfect revenge. You have to appreciate the irony of that."

It was Andre's turn to laugh. It was a tight sound laced with anger. "Perfect revenge? Hardly. Do you think you've won this round merely because you sent someone here who looks like Isabella?"

"As a matter of fact, I know that I've won this round."

"How?" Andre's voice was becoming agitated now in direct contrast to the cool amusement in Carlo's voice.

He dropped my arm so that he could pace back and forth. Keeping my eyes on both men, I began to quietly inch myself toward Roman and Ariel.

Andre ran his hands through his hair.

Carlo watched him, an amused, complacent expression on his face. I had the distinct impression that his goading of Andre until the man's temper surfaced was part of their regular routine.

"You only gained access to this cave because I allowed it," Andre said. "My men have orders to use deadly force if you try to leave with those jewels."

"But I don't intend to leave with them."

Andre paused in his pacing, but his attention was riveted on Carlo. I risked taking a big step toward the back of the cave.

"What do you mean?" Andre asked.

Carlo gestured with his gun again. "Ask her."

I froze as both men turned toward me.

"She's working with the local police and Interpol to find evidence of your little fencing operation. I assume she's wearing a wire and the local police are already closing in. So you see, Andre, you're going to go to jail, and I am going to walk away with my recovered jewels."

"Bitch!" Andre drew his gun and aimed it at me.

Everything happened at once. Roman and Ariel raced into the light and Andre shifted his aim to Roman. The shot rang out just as Roman took me down in a hard tackle and Ariel leaped at Andre Magellan. Even though my ears were ringing from the shot, I heard Andre scream.

"Are you all right?" Roman asked. "Did he hit you?"

"I think I'm fine."

Roman scrambled to his feet. Andre Magellan was lying on his back, his hands over his face. Ariel stood next to him, licking her paws.

He hurt Caliban.

Roman dragged Andre to his feet and said solicitously, "Let me look at what she did to you."

When Andre dropped his hands, Roman punched him right in the face.

"Bravo. Well done."

Carlo had lain down his gun to applaud Roman. Roman whirled, dragged Carlo off the boulder and punched him in the face, too.

I was still staring, speechless, when Kit stepped into the glow of the lanterns with two uniformed policemen. "Damn! Looks like I missed all the fun."

DAWN WAS BREAKING when Inspector Ionescu joined our celebration on the terrace of the Villa Prospero. Demetria had shoved three tables together and we'd gathered around as a family. Ariel had a seat of honor at the head of the table flanked by Miranda and Alexi.

We greeted the inspector with the good news that Caliban was going to be all right. He had a simple fracture of his right front leg. The vet was going to keep him under observation for a few days, but he expected Ariel's brother to make a full recovery.

Ionescu had released Alexi at midnight when he'd taken Andre Magellan into the station house in Myrtos to book him.

"I also have some good news," Ionescu said as Alexi rose and added a chair for him right beside Miranda's. The inspector's tie was loose, his shirtsleeves rolled up. It was the only time I'd ever seen him look rumpled. But that meant he fit right in with the rest of us. Even though Kit and Roman and I had showered and changed when we'd returned from the Castello, we were still looking pretty bedraggled. The only exception was Miranda, who was, as usual, neat as a pin. And she had her glow back now that her son was home.

Kit, ever the diplomat, had chosen a time shortly after her reunion with Alexi to end our little masquerade and set Miranda straight about his and Roman's real identities. She'd surprised me by taking the news in stride, hugging both men and me. But perhaps Kit's presence had lifted the pressure on her to stand in for my family. I just felt relieved that one more lie was over.

I'd decided at some point during those frightening seconds in the cave when I'd seen the barrel of Andre's gun shift from me to Roman that I wanted to end all the lies.

Demetria poured the inspector a glass of wine, and I passed the plate of sandwiches.

"Do you have enough evidence to send Andre Magellan to jail?" I asked.

Ionescu spared me a small smile. "Thanks to you and your brother's state-of-the-art equipment—" he nodded toward Kit "—even the army of attorneys Magellan's parents will hire won't be able to keep him out of prison. I'm not sure that we can pin Delos's murder on him. But I'm satisfied that he was behind it and that he tried to frame Alexi to keep him away from the caves."

Ionescu paused to sip his wine and then continued. "I'm hoping that when he faces the reality of prison, he'll give up the master thief he's been working with. Interpol wants to talk to him about that. But I advised that they wait until he's spent a few nights in one of my cells."

"It won't be the kind of five-star accommodations he's used to," Alexi said. "I can attest to that."

"You had five-star food, thanks to your mother," Ionescu pointed out.

"What bothers me," Roman said, "is that Carlo Ferrante is going to go free. It seems to me that he belongs behind bars, too."

This time Ionescu's smile wasn't small at all. "He may very well end up in jail for murder."

We all turned to stare at him.

"Who did he kill?" I asked.

"According to Magellan, Carlo Ferrante killed Isabella Carlini."

"But the police ruled her death an accident," Kit pointed out. "I had a contact in Scotland Yard check it out."

Ionescu sipped his wine. "It seems that bragging rights was a part of their game."

"That's exactly what they were doing in the cave before all hell broke loose," I said.

"After Isabella's fatal car crash, Carlo visited Andre's room to give him a blow-by-blow account of what he'd done. In addition to breaking the girl's heart and tampering with her brakes, he bragged to Andre that he'd slipped an overdose of a sleeping medication into her wine. Everything burned in the crash, but he'd hoped the police would find the bottle in her purse and rule it a suicide to torture Magellan even more. That confession will justify a charge of murder."

"But it will be just Andre's word against Carlo's," Kit said.

Ionescu shook his head. "It would have been except that Andre taped Carlo's confession."

Roman frowned. "Why didn't he turn it over to the police at the time?"

"Because of the game. He held it back so that he could use it at a time like this to prove that he was the superior game player."

"That's sick," Alexi commented.

Bad man.

"Ariel says that Carlo was a bad man, too," I said.

"Hear, hear." Roman raised his glass. "To Ariel who has saved Philly's and my life twice now."

We all toasted Ariel.

Ionescu rose. "I have to get back to the station."

"I'll walk you out," Miranda said.

Kit rose, too. "Alexi, can I bunk in with you?"

"Absolutely." The young man's face lit up. I'll show you the way."

The moment they exited the terrace, I turned to Roman. "I know you have to be exhausted..."

"And you're not?"

"I need to talk to you. But not here." If I was going to do this, I had to do it right.

"Would you walk with me on the beach?"

THE CLIMB DOWN to the beach seemed to take forever, giving Roman time to try to figure out what Philly wanted to say to him. But they'd nearly reached their destination, and he still wasn't sure.

He was a successful businessman. He knew how to read people. There was an energy and determination in her stride that told him she'd come to a decision. And he knew her well enough now to be fairly certain it had to do with the deal they'd made. Now that Kit was here, and he'd already relayed information about their adventure to the rest of their family back in San Francisco, Philly would want to clarify and settle things between them.

They were both on the same page there. He wanted to settle things also. He just hoped that they wanted to settle them the same way.

When they reached the promontory that separated them from the sandy white beach, Roman took her hand and they climbed over the wet rocks together. The sun hadn't risen far enough in the sky to dry them.

"I'm sorry for dragging you down here," she said. "This has to be the third time I've done it—first to show you Delos, then to try to find Ariel. It's just important that I tell you what I'm going to tell you here on the beach."

"No problem." But something in the seriousness of her tone had the nerves in Roman's stomach tightening. He made it a point to know his opponents in business. He could usually predict their reactions. Often he would even be able to foretell what their next move would be or what they would counteroffer. But Philly had been surprising him from the get-go.

First, she'd marched into his hospital room and proposed that they act on the attraction they felt for each other and have sex. Then she'd hightailed it off to Greece to find a lover. And she'd followed that by making him that other proposition on the terrace—the no-strings fling that would end once they returned to San Francisco.

So far he'd had a little trouble keeping up with her. But that was going to stop. If she'd dragged him down here to throw him another curveball, he was going to catch it and throw it right back.

There had to be a way to figure out what was going on in her mind right now. Logically, they had two choices. One was to honor the deal they'd made, end their temporary sexual fling and try to go back to their old relationship.

Fat chance of that. Neither of them was going to forget what they'd shared together on Corfu. There was a magic here and it had ensnared both of them.

He knew what he wanted. The feelings that had been growing in him from the moment he'd run into her on that path and kissed her for the first time had come to full bloom. At some point he'd fallen in love with Philly Angelis. He just wasn't sure when.

Memories poured into his mind. Had it been when she'd shoved him on his ass? Or had it been on Stassis's jet when she'd turned into an imp and stripped for him? Another possibility was the time they'd escaped from that cave and she'd told him how terrible he'd looked and they'd lain there on the ground laughing like a couple of fools.

Or perhaps he'd been a goner ever since she'd walked into that hospital room and proposed they make love.

One thing he was clear about. He didn't want what they'd begun here in Greece to end. And Roman hoped she didn't want that, either. As she stopped and turned to face him, he thought he knew what she was going to say. She had that same look in her eyes that she'd had on the terrace two nights ago. She was going to tell him that she wanted to continue their sexual relationship.

"I don't want to lie anymore. And I think I've been lying to you from the beginning." She drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I don't want to have an affair with you."

If she'd intentionally meant to sucker punch him, she couldn't have been more successful. But this time Roman found his voice. "The hell you don't. Do you want me to prove you a liar?"

When he took two steps toward her, she backed away and held up her hands. "Wait. Let me finish. I figured it out while we were on Gianni's yacht. I never wanted to just have sex with you. It was all a lie—even when I said it in your hospital room. My mother and my aunt Cass met their true loves—the men they were meant to be with—on a beach in Greece. That's why I asked you to come here with me this morning. Even though we met before we came here, it's here in Greece that I figured out you're the one meant for me. I knew it the first night you made love to me. I love you, Roman, and I want much more than sex—even though it's been fabulous. I want to share a life with you. I want you to marry me."

This time the curveball hit him square in the chest, causing his heart to go into a free fall. His Philly was standing on a beach in Greece calmly proposing marriage to him. If he hadn't already fallen in love with her, he would now.

"I know marriage and commitment aren't what you want. You were clear on that. But I just don't want to lie to you anymore. I want you to know where I'm coming from."

"Philly..."

She held up her hand again. "You don't have to say anything. I just want there to be truth between us."

"Yes."

Now it was her turn to stare. He felt some satisfaction about that.

"Yes?"

Roman moved to her then, lifting her into his arms and swinging her around. "Yes, I'll marry you. Where's my ring?"

"Your ring?"

"I've never been proposed to before, but I've heard there's usually a ring involved."

She threw her arms around him and they were both still laughing when they spotted a large white bird soaring into the sky.

"Look!" She pointed at it. "I saw that bird the day I arrived and I knew it signaled the beginning of an adventure."

Roman set her down and framed her face in his hands. "We're about to begin another one, Philly. I love you, and I know that you're the one for me, too."

He kissed her as the white bird spiraled upward in the clear morning air.

## Epilogue

"TWO BEERS," Roman said to Spiro Angelis as he and Kit joined Nik and Theo at the bar of the Poseidon restaurant.

"Ah, Roman!" Spiro reached over the bar and thumped him on his shoulder. "Welcome back. We've missed you."

It felt good to be back, Roman thought. And coming to the Poseidon always felt like coming home. But it would feel better the next time he came—when he wouldn't have nerves knotted so tightly in his stomach. And a small box burning a hole in his pocket.

He shifted his gaze to the lobby of the restaurant, which was on the upper level overlooking the main seating area, but there was no sign of Philly.

When Spiro pushed a bottle of beer toward him, Roman took a long drink, then glanced around the large dining room. The women, including his two sisters, Sadie and Juliana, Nik's and Kit's fiancées, J.C. and Drew, as well as Cass and Helena Angelis, were already seated at one end of a long table, studying lists and what looked to be sketches.

"Wedding business," Kit explained. "Now that they've pretty well organized Nik and J.C.'s Thanksgiving extravaganza, I think Drew is sketching designs for Sadie. Theirs will have a Christmas theme."

"What about a dress for herself?" Theo asked.

Kit grinned. "All taken care of. It was her first design. She fell in love with it, and now that she's fallen for me, too, she gets to wear it on Valentine's Day."

All the talk of weddings was just making Roman more nervous. At the other end of the table, about as far from the women as they could get, sat Roman's father, Mario, Juliana's fiancé, Paulo Carlucci, and Mason Leone. Roman had invited them all. And in spite of the fact that everyone seemed occupied, they knew something was up. He and Philly had only been back from Greece for a day, but he'd felt an urgent need to take care of this.

Everyone was here except for Philly. She'd left a message on his cell that she'd be a little late. Roman took another swig of his beer, then he turned to face Philly's father.

"I have something to say."

Spiro grinned at him. "So, say it."

Dammit. It shouldn't be so hard to get the words out. He'd had less trouble when he and his father had negotiated a very tricky land deal with the Carluccis, who had been the Capulets to their Montagues since both families had come over from the old country. But then he'd never envisioned himself in this situation. This wasn't supposed to have been in the cards for him.

Roman cleared his throat. "I want permission to ask your daughter to marry me."

There was a beat of silence before Spiro circled out from behind the bar and enveloped him in a huge hug. "It's about time. She's been waiting for you for a long while, I think." He turned and waved the rest of the family over. "We're going to have another wedding."

Roman glanced at Kit and his brothers. They, too, were grinning from ear to ear.

Kit raised his glass. "To more weddings."

"It was the trip to Greece, wasn't it?" Spiro asked. "We Angelises have a weakness for falling in love in Greece. It's the equivalent of Cupid's arrow." Spiro thumped his chest with his fist.

There was a sudden commotion at the head of the stairs and Philly barreled down them. When she reached Roman at the bar, she was out of breath. But she threw her arms around him and hugged him hard.

"I've got something for you. That's why I was late."

"Philly, I—"

"No." She raised a hand to cut him off. "Let me finish first." Then she pulled a small box out of her pocket and opened it. "Here's the ring. Now we can make it official. Will you marry me, Roman?"

He should have known she'd do this. Maybe when they were married thirty or forty years, he'd be able to predict her.

"That's my girl," Spiro said proudly.

Roman took the small box out of his pocket and opened it. "I'll marry you if you'll marry me."

She kissed him then, and around them the entire family broke into applause.

CASS STOOD on the fringe of her family and for once saw only the present—all four of her sister Penelope's children had found their true loves. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Perhaps her son Dino would be next. In his last letter he'd said that he might make it home for the holidays and Theo's wedding. Lord, how she missed him.

Mason slipped his hand into hers. "Do you want me to take you to Greece, Cassandra?"

She turned to him then. "No. I don't have to go to Greece. I've made my decision, Mason. Or you've helped me make it."

"Good." He brushed his mouth briefly over hers, before they turned to watch Roman and Philly exchange rings.

## Pleasure to the Max!

## By Cami Dalton

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

## Prologue

Russian countryside, 1920

THE KING OF THE GYPSIES, Rajko Sanderzej, stared up at his bound hands and cursed under his breath as a drop of sweat dripped down the center of his naked chest. Of course, his entire body was naked. Naked and aroused. Give a female the ability to fulfill her every sexual fantasy and this was what happened...pure erotic torture.

"You look good like that," Stasi said, her voice with an undertone that made the muscles in his stomach pull tight.

Rajko smirked, afraid that if he spoke he'd give away just how affected he was by her shocking new game. His wrists were secured by a length of rope that had been looped over one of the thick wooden beams that ran above his head, just below the ceiling of the abandoned cottage. He didn't bother struggling to get loose. There was no point. There were powers at work far stronger than the tether that held him. Not to mention that he was too busy suffering through the most painful erection of his life.

He'd never been more excited. Either Rajko had a secret submissive streak, which he highly doubted, or the thought of his once shy and wounded lover turned bold tigress of domination had him twitching with lust.

Frankly, he should be annoyed rather than fighting not to spill his seed on the scuffed wooden floor before she even touched him. He was the recognized Rom Baro of the Gypsies, the leader of his band of people. He was the only Romani male ever to have been born with the gift of second sight and the ability to cast and quicken charms.

He'd kept his clan safe and fed through a world war, then led them across Russia in the midst of a revolution. His skill with a knife was unparalleled, and both his looks and prowess brought him any woman he wanted whether Gypsy or gadje.

Yet here he stood, twisting like a convict from the gallows, all at the whim of a mere slip of a girl who'd wound her way around his heart and whom he loved above all others. Or, rather, more like a sex slave bound and ready to perform his mistress's bidding. Oh, yes, with her newfound inner vixen, his Stasi would definitely prefer the latter comparison.

The little hellion trailed her hand over his hip and down his flank as she circled behind him then around to the front. Rajko rocked forward on the balls of his feet, his cock thrust brutally in the air. He swallowed, clenching his hands into fists. While he scrambled for an ounce of control, he could do no more than stare; Stasi's entire form was backlit by the fire. She'd started a blaze in the hearth to take off the early spring chill, and the flames crackled invitingly.

Her brown hair tumbled loosely down her back, and she was as bare as he except for the black silk scarf knotted sideways at her hip. The scrap hid nothing, merely accentuating her curving buttocks and the ruffle of curls at the meeting of her thighs. The tiny gold key that she wore around her neck glittered tauntingly. Just thinking about the kind of power she held, and what the key symbolized, made his blood pump in dark, thick pulses. She was only a step away. The small distance was killing him.

His breath slipped out. "You are so beautiful, my Krasili."

She placed her fingers against his lips, then jerked her head to look at the window over her shoulder, apparently to make sure the shutters were closed tight. They were, along with the only door.

"You shouldn't call me that," she said in quiet urgency. "What if someone heard."

Voice dry, he responded, "I'm standing here strung up like a gutted deer. I'm far more concerned about what someone could see rather than hear. Besides, in my eyes, you are a princess. My princess," he said, referring to the Gypsy term he'd just spoken. He shrugged his shoulders as much as the rope would allow. "It's just a word. Your reaction is what would trigger suspicion. Besides," he soothed, "you are safe. No one can hurt you now, and I will keep your secrets hidden."

Her cheeks going pink, she ducked her chin, then rose up on her toes to press her forehead into the curve of his chest. Her breasts molded to his torso. His flesh burned, and he shivered. The flickering light played over her skin, turning the scars that marred her back and torso silvery.

This time he did pull against his bonds, his arms aching to hold her. She'd come so close to dying. It had been almost two years since he'd found her, broken and bleeding on the forest floor in the midst of a revolution-torn Russia.

She'd been barely conscious, blood soaking her dress from a dozen wounds. On the cusp of womanhood, her wealth and nobility of great fame in the area, he'd recognized her immediately and known that those who'd attacked her would seek her out to finish their evil work. If for no other reason than to claim the czar's ransom of jewels with which she'd escaped, and that had glimmered from the torn lining of her clothes. Shushing her frightened whimpers, he'd gathered her into his arms and taken her back to his people.

Remembering that time, Rajko nuzzled the top of her head, smiling into her hair. Living and caring for his wounded angel, his feelings had grown beyond what he'd ever thought himself capable. But after her attack she'd become almost fearful, her demeanor quiet and shy. Trying to get more than the most timid of smiles from her had been a daily battle. Though his little mouse had furtively been every bit as fascinated by him, her eyes constantly following him around their camp.

Night after night he'd watch the beautiful young woman, who called herself Stasi, across the campfire as she wrote out her thoughts and secrets in a small diary. And, Rajko had believed, she wrote of her love and desire for him, knowing in his soul that she was a woman of deep hidden passions.

Hoping to win her heart, and release the pain that had crippled her with fear, he'd carved for her a lover's box and placed it under one of the Gypsies' most rare and potent charms. About the size of a cigar case, a lover's box had become a popular trinket among the young gadje women who kept love letters or a journal filled with amorous yearnings for their beaux locked inside. The key was worn as a charm on a bracelet or necklace, a seductive symbol to any male by whom it was seen.

He'd designed the powerful spell so that whenever Stasi wrote her sexual longings and fantasies in her diary, she had only to lock the slim book inside the lover's box and they would come true for her with the man she desired...none other, of course, than Rajko himself.

At the thought of just how well his gift had worked, his mouth slowly curved into what he had no doubt was an unholy grin and he chuckled wickedly.

Stasi lifted her head, and studied his amusement. She nipped his chin with her pearly little teeth. "Hmm, in my fantasy you were begging, not laughing," she said. "I'll have to do something about that."

Rajko grunted. "I think you've done more than enough, Krasili."

Stasi ran the curves of her nails down the inside of his raised arms, over his chest and down to the muscles that ran on each side of his lower stomach in a diagonal arrow to his groin. The air in his lungs hissed out in a rush.

Clearly fighting a smile, she assured, "You're just upset at how you arrived. Next time I decide to write out my bondage dreams, I'll be quite specific in the details," she said, referring to the idiosyncrasies of the lover's box.

Yes, the spell he'd created did indeed make her fantasies come true. This, however, left far too many options for fate to play with while getting all the key players into place. And fate seemed to enjoy riling up as much mischief and mayhem as possible along the way. There were times that, in spite of the spine-wringing benefits, Rajko wished she'd grow tired of his wildly successful gift and be happy to hide it away until some other poor woman needed its secrets.

"Next time you should try doing it the old-fashioned way. In a bed. Me on top. No frills. Just the basics. You don't know. You might like it."

Now it was her laugh that sounded wicked, and she slid to her knees before him. She laid her cheek against his thigh and her breath washed across him, stirring the dense hair at the base of his length.

"Oh, I don't think so, my beautiful Gypsy king," she said, pausing to give the skin between his groin and thigh a slow lick. He actually growled before cutting off the harsh noise escaping his throat. Her palms fit perfectly along the flat planes at the sides of his buttocks, rubbing and pressing, while her lips slipped beneath his heavy stones. She opened her warm, wet mouth impossibly wide then gently sucked as much of him in as she could take. He could hear her lips and tongue erotically working him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped back his head.

His heart banged against his ribs. He had to swallow twice before he finally found his voice and asked, "Why not?"

As her small fist worked its way between his thighs and she pressed two fingertips to the smooth skin behind his sack, her lips loosened their hold on his flesh, though they still touched and brushed against him as she said, "Because we have the kind of passion that legends are made of."

And with his gift of second sight, Rajko knew she was right and could only hope that the next poor man who found himself at the mercy of the lover's box understood its true value and discovered the ultimate secret within...that the magic of fulfilling a woman's desires was the only treasure worth having....

## 1

St. Petersburg, Russia, Present Day

MINERVA PARKER had done many things in her eighty years of life, but flat-out stealing a rather mediocre, inexpensive antiquity had not been one of them—until today. And damn if her theft of a few minutes ago hadn't been pure, glorious fun. The last time she could remember enjoying herself as much had been decades ago during an excavation in Cairo when she'd fought off a group of bandits who'd tried to rob a grave she'd uncovered, with nothing more to defend herself than her twenty-two caliber and a whip.

Minerva was a treasure hunter, and had been for the past fifty years. In other words, long before Lara Croft had ever dreamed of raiding her first tomb, Minerva had been on the scene, chasing relics and getting herself into the sort of hair-raising adventures that would make the fictitious video game character's exploits seem downright subdued.

Smiling to herself, though she made sure to make the expression suitably vacant and dotty, Minerva casually entered the lobby of one of the finest hotels in St. Petersburg, then crossed to the elevator and stepped inside. She didn't bother to check behind her to see if she was being followed. No one paid attention to old people and she'd just left the legitimate owner of her ill-gotten gains, Max Stone, none the wiser to the robbery and enjoying a drink at the Czar's Club, a seedy bar in downtown St. Petersburg.

Really, it was far too easy. Slip on a pair of reading glasses and hunch her shoulders a bit to give the appearance of being stooped with age, and people either completely ignored her or looked at her as if she'd just had her ticket punched for a one-way ride on the Alzheimer's express. However, she was quite disappointed in Max. They might not exactly travel in the same circles, but, as the saying went, it was a small world out there and the antiquities community was no different. After running in to her since he was a rascally teen accompanying his father—a professor in archeology—from dig to dig, the ridiculously handsome scoundrel should have known better.

She was a force to be reckoned with at any age and those who forgot did so at their own peril. Of course he'd been understandably distracted by a seemingly unimportant curio, one of the many second-rate artifacts that a small-time Russian fence had been trying to hawk to him and the other hunters thronging the Czar's Club. A quite normal occurrence for this time of year.

Every summer the International Antiquities League, or IAL, held a conference here in St. Petersburg. Though the weeklong convention brought together the leading experts from various universities and museums around the world, they weren't the only ones to take over the picturesque city.

The symposium also attracted every student with enough euros to nab a rail pass, every private collector, treasure hunter—or, as some preferred, antiquities hunter—black market merchant, and hobbyist who wanted to play Indiana Jones. And a person in the know could learn just as much in the Czar's Club, where the more nefarious members of the above list congregated, as she could in any lecture hall.

Which is why Minerva herself had been in the establishment, drinking a glass or two of vodka—freezing cold, no ice. She might be eighty, but she wasn't out of the game yet or about to miss all the action by going to bed early. Tonight, however, when she'd walked into the bar and gotten a feel of the room, she'd had the distinct impression that it would be better to slip into the background, watching and listening rather than charging into the action. From there, playing the little-old-lady card had been a no-brainer and had, as usual, worked like a charm.

Minerva entered her suite, then moved to the sitting area, shrugging her large tote bag off her shoulder and onto the coffee table. Sinking into the feather pillows on the settee, she smiled as she pictured the look on Max's face when he realized that he'd been robbed blind.

Of course, just picturing Max's masculinely beautiful face would be enough to make any woman smile, and she was no exception. Two or three inches over six feet, he had piercing blue-green eyes, the body for a man to have and the most unusual hair. Quite stunning, actually, with streaks of color from mink-brown to shining gold running through the too-long mass.

Yet Max Stone was more than handsome. He was dangerous and unpredictable. A scoundrel to the bone. His personality and presence were a combination of Han Solo meets Rhett Butler, crossed with that nefarious Sawyer character from the television show Lost, all rolled into one magnificent package.

Minerva had once had a lover like him and she almost sighed aloud at the memory. Every woman should have a thrilling and passionate love affair with an unrepentant rogue like Max Stone. Each moment in their company was exciting and they could usually back up their potent appeal with masterful expertise in the bedroom.

Nothing at all like the spineless idiots her beautiful young great-niece, Cassie, somehow managed to get herself wrapped up with. Especially the toad—as Minerva liked to call him—to whom Cassie had been engaged. Fortunately, the toad had broken it off all by himself before Minerva had been forced to do something drastic, such as have Cassie kidnapped and deprogrammed.

Sadly, though the young woman whom Minerva loved more like a granddaughter than a distant niece certainly tried to live up to the Parker legacy, things usually had a way of getting completely out of hand for Cassie. Which is why the blasted girl was back at home in Palm Shores, Florida, managing Minerva's shop, Den of Antiquities, rather than out living her own adventures. According to Cassie, she was merely taking a break and reassessing what she wanted to do with her life, or some such nonsense. In Minerva's opinion she was just plain hiding.

Minerva chuckled and eyed the items on the coffee table. If she was right, the chain of events that she'd just set into motion would more than launch her beautiful great-niece back into society. Wearing what was no doubt a smug grin, Minerva reached for her satchel and lifted out the fruits of her crime.

She stared down at the lover's box she'd liberated from Max. Opening the lid, she removed the diary inside, skimming through the pages and smiling in approval at some of the more interesting entries before setting it back.

After the other hunters had wandered off in search of better merchandise, unaware of what they'd overlooked as junk and left behind, Minerva had watched from a nearby table as Max Stone had swooped in and bought the lover's box from the Russian fence for less than fifty American dollars. The trinket was gaudily painted and in poor condition, but for those aware of its significance, this hardly decreased its value—a find that maybe fifty hunters and scholars combined would even recognize.

Few people were familiar with the Gypsy folklore and fables of almost ninety years ago surrounding the life of the last great Gypsy king, Rajko Sanderzej. Even fewer knew about the lover's box that Rajko had made for the woman he loved.

One tale claimed that the man who possessed Rajko's box held the secret to a treasure for which czars and kings would die. Another claimed that the woman who possessed Rajko's box held the secret to sexual ecstasies beyond those that only the most passionate of females dreamed.

Of course most historians considered it pure bunk, and even among the Gypsies, the existence of Rajko's box had taken on the status of an urban legend. But, great heavens, it boggled the mind to think about the possibilities a woman could explore if she had Max Stone and Rajko's lover's box at her disposal.

Ahh, Minerva remembered thinking wickedly to herself as she'd sat in the Czar's Club, what she wouldn't give to be fifty years younger like her niece, Cassie. It had been on the heels of this titillating thought that Minerva had realized the opportunity in front of her was just too darn good to pass up. And, she didn't have a single doubt that Max would chase after the lover's box.

Max needed the box in order to find Rajko's treasure. Though she might not know it, Cassie needed the box to have the sort of glorious sex that thrust a young woman out of hiding and forced her into the open where the stark light of fleshly pleasures illuminated and empowered her soul. Or at the very least gave her great screaming orgasms.

Minerva glanced at her wristwatch. Late, but at a hotel like this one the front desk staff always catered to guests. She needed packaging materials and tape sent up immediately. She walked to the phone and picked up the receiver.

She doubted that Max had yet discovered the theft. He was probably still slamming back the vodkas and riding out the high of knowing he'd found Rajko's box. Quite a feat since, for almost ninety years, no one had been able to conclusively prove its existence, let alone go after its mythical treasure.

Minerva had about twenty-four hours or so before Max pieced two and two together. Just enough time to express-deliver Rajko's box to Palm Shores. And just enough time to lay a trail for Max to follow, and to give Cassie a head start on using the box Rajko had designed for his woman.

Then it was up to Max Stone to decide just how badly he wanted a czar's ransom in treasure. And up to Cassie to decide just how badly she craved pleasure. Pleasure, as the youngsters would say, to the max...

## 2

Palm Shores, Florida, three days later

CASSIE PARKER could not think of a single sexual fantasy that didn't sound corny or clichéd. Or one that didn't require an immediate crash diet. All of which was a major bummer since, if Aunt Minerva's package that had arrived yesterday and the accompanying letter were to be believed, Cassie had just been given the key to making her most erotic and forbidden fantasies come true.

Ah, well, Cassie had always believed that Murphy's Law had been written expressly for her, so it was no surprise really that with complete sexual fulfillment within her reach, Cassie was either drawing a blank or worrying about whether she'd look too fat in a French maid's costume. It was just her luck that this magical opportunity would arrive after she'd spent the past seven months eating her way through the ugly breakup with her ex-fiancé, Satan. (His mother had named him Ron, but the woman had been way off on that one.)

Twelve extra pounds, and every ounce counted when one was five feet two inches tall, on top of an already, er, curvy body type tended to play havoc with a girl's vanity. Heck, she didn't even like shopping for bathing suits let alone conjuring up pornographic images where she played the starring role. Well, if she looked on the bright side, a lover's box that guaranteed life-altering nooky, yet with the potential for crippling self-consciousness and outrageous embarrassment on her part, meant that the whole thing was bound to come true and she'd better start writing.

Grinning to herself—hey, it was either smile or cry in the face of cellulite anxiety—Cassie lifted her wine-glass and took a sip. She leaned against the mound of pillows at the head of her bed. Her legs were crossed, and a brand-spanking-new diary rested on her thighs. The blank white pages gleamed up at her brightly.

Earlier, since Cassie had been at the store, anyway, and since her outrageous aunt would merely hound her until she tried out the lover's box, she'd bought the slim journal. After reading Minerva's letter it had seemed to Cassie that her wild and wacky Friday-night plans of eating chocolate chip cookie dough and giving herself a pedicure could only be enhanced by writing out exotic sexual scenarios and locking them inside an antique lover's box that, according to her illustrious great-aunt, was under a Gypsy love charm.

Then the ramifications had sunk in, and the wine had been brought out.

Cassie stared down at the blank page, suddenly feeling more than a bit stupid about the whole thing. Granted, it wasn't like she'd canceled a date with George Clooney, but what had earlier sounded like a fun way to pass an evening now seemed sort of dorky and desperate. Two adjectives that pretty much summed up her life.

Sighing, she tossed her empty book and pen down next to her on the bed. She picked up the original diary that had come inside the lover's box and had been written by the Gypsy king's lover, and started flipping the pages. For the most part, the woman had signed her entries as Stasi, though toward the end she'd started penning off as Krasili. Since the handwriting matched, this presumably was a nickname, though that was merely a guess.

In any case, good old Stasi had imagination and daring up the wazoo. She might have started out too shy to talk to her Gypsy king, Rajko, but, with the pages all but smoking, it was apparent that as soon as Stasi had gotten the hang of it she'd become a different woman.

Cassie had read Stasi's entire diary, and noting the other woman's transformation from a timid and fairly vanilla lover to a wild temptress of the night had been inspiring to say the least. Or rather, the general concept had been inspiring, rather than the specifics.

Before she'd started dating Ron, Cassie had been the sort of gal who'd really liked sex. Okay, really, really liked sex, and as long as she'd been aroused past her don't-look-at-my-fat-butt stage, she'd been able to swing from the chandeliers with the best of them. No, Cassie thought sourly, from the little she remembered of the act—pre-Ron era—she didn't need inspiration from Stasi's diary to let go of a few hang-ups so she could enjoy doing the wild thing.

Rather, she needed inspiration to change and grow for the times spent out of bed when, no matter what excavation she'd tagged along on, no matter what extreme sport she'd somehow been conned into trying by Minerva, no matter what exotic career she'd pursued in an attempt to live up to the legacy of her treasure-hunting aunt—not to mention, all the other annoyingly adventurous females in their illustrious family—things had consistently gone haywire and Cassie had always come out looking like a boob.

Oh, who was she trying to kid? Post-Ron she was pretty screwed up in the bedroom, too. Her ex-fiancé, through great stealth and passive-aggressive tactics, had turned her into a weight-obsessed mess who could barely glance at herself in the mirror let alone strut up to a guy as if she were Angelina Jolie and ask him back to her place for a little somethin'-somethin'. Although Cassie had high hopes that this would be a condition she'd get over rather quickly if the right man diligently applied himself to the cause.

Lost in her morbid thoughts, Cassie started when her great-aunt's cat, Creature, jumped up onto the bed. He stalked over to the quilts that she'd pushed into a clump down by her feet. His tail had been broken in a fight, and she watched it twitch back and forth in a disjointed pattern. Cassie liked to think of herself as someone who loved animals, but Creature—so named for his lack of resemblance to a normal feline—put a strain on her self-perception.

Since she shared the top floor of the house with her great-aunt, and the shop she managed for Minerva was downstairs, Creature came as part of the deal, and whenever Minerva wasn't around to keep him company he amused himself by biting and scratching Cassie and generally vandalizing the place to show his displeasure.

Creature dug his claws into the bedding, kneading the sharp little devils back and forth as he rhythmically lifted and lowered his patchily furred paws. The vicious beast stared right at her. Well, one of his eyes stared directly into hers, the other wandered to the left with the accompanying eyelid permanently fixed at half-mast. His personality matched his appearance and she could swear he shot her a look that said, "Lady, you might as well just write down the word intercourse, plain and simple, in that little diary of yours, because even a Gypsy love charm can only do so much."

Cassie flattened her mouth, but did nothing, not even shooing him off the bed as he snagged and snarled her blankets. She wouldn't dream of going up against the feral brute without a chair and a whip. Besides, despite being destructive and mean, at least he was company.

Eventually growing tired of his game, Creature plopped down and stretched himself out. Call her nuts, but that cat was clearly an alien life form intelligent enough to take over the planet: no animal should be able to convey so much disdain and mockery on his face. This time, he gazed directly at her diary before he flicked his attention away, obviously bored with such inactivity. Something about the feline's contemptuous expression reminded her of Ron.

Cassie narrowed her eyes and snatched up her pen. She opened her blank diary to the first page. A neurotic, unlucky mess she may be, but she was not about to be dissed by a damn house cat. Ron, the butthead, had been bad enough. She had her pride. She was a Parker. And Parker women lived life to the fullest and took no prisoners. If she needed to come up with a sexual fantasy, then, by golly, she was going to come up with the hottest, steamiest, wildest fantasy that was ever fantasized.

Ink to paper, she started writing. Cassie wanted power. Specifically, she wanted sexual power. She wanted a man to crave her as he had never craved another woman. She wanted him so filled with lust that whenever he saw her all he could think about was getting inside her before he came. A single glance at her and he was stone hard.

Writing furiously, she expounded on the general theme of her irresistible sexual allure, then decided, oh, what the hell, she might as well deal with all her issues in one fell swoop, and her pen was off again. She wanted excitement. She wanted danger. She wanted adventure.

While Minerva and her mother both thrived on the stuff, Cassie had secretly found the concepts annoying and overrated. And, with her track record, who could blame her? Well, Cassie had. Or did. Or whatever. But no more.

She was going to hold her own and be confident no matter what lay ahead. She didn't want to worry about getting hurt, or embarrassing herself, or making stupid mistakes. She was going to be tough. She was going to kick ass. And the whole time she made lesser mortals look like incompetent turkeys, the man in her fantasy was going to be so brutally aroused that he'd screw her brains out every chance he got. Bullets could be whizzing over their heads and he'd want her. She was going to be the ultimate sex object. Albeit, a tough and powerful one.

Cassie gave a lascivious chuckle. She dotted off the final punctuation mark with a dramatic flourish, then lifted her pen in the air, making a voilà gesture. After a moment, though, she sat up straight and frowned, wondering if she got to have any say as to how this paragon of manly prowess would look. The ever-mysterious Stasi had already had the hots for her stud muffin, Rajko, when she'd used the lover's box. Was Cassie allowed to write down her preferences? It wasn't like the darn thing came with an instruction manual.

Then Cassie shrugged—it was her lover's box and her fantasy; she could do what she wanted. All-righty then, she said to herself, what should he look like...? She tapped the pen against her bottom lip as she ran through the possibilities. One thing was a given. He definitely had to be well-endowed behind his zipper. Thick and large were the two most salient words that came to mind and she quickly jotted them down. A physique similar to a Calvin Klein underwear model's would be fabulous, so she added this specification to her list.

A few seconds later she also added the requirement, so hot he might as well be from a superior race of godlike beings. There, she thought, that should leave little to chance. Then she paused, and finished with, and a sexy killer tattoo!

Cassie could feel a huge smile spread across her face as she placed the diary inside the lover's box and closed the lid. She leaned over and carefully turned the miniature key, leaving it in the lock. She didn't have a charm bracelet or a spare chain. Short of hanging it from the small yet erotic little nipple ring that she'd gotten back when she'd been trying to spice things up with Ron (a cringe-inducing phase of her life when she'd been desperate for a successful relationship and would have pierced her hoo-ha if she'd thought it would have cranked Ron's motor), she'd have to wait until she could buy a ribbon or something.

Though surely it didn't matter if she wore the key or not as long as she locked her diary inside the box, right? Then again, maybe it did. What did she know? Cassie grinned. Decisions, decisions...

Not that she actually believed that the whoopee-making Gypsy charm would work, but it would be a shame if she actually could've gotten laid by a Calvin Klein underwear model look-alike, yet didn't because she'd screwed up over such a minor point.

Then she decided, Aw, what the heck. This was supposed to be for laughs so she might as well go for the triple-X gold medal. Surprisingly having fun, she took the diminutive key out of the lock, then walked over to her dresser. She rummaged through her accessories until she found the tiny hoop of thin, fourteen-karat wire hiding among her earrings. She bunched her shirt up under her neck and after a few minutes of fiddling, turned to the mirror and caught sight of the erotic adornment.

Wowzers. Talk about sexy. She flicked the key with the tip of her finger while a delicious tingle spread through her nipple. The tiny weight was an exquisite presence, subtle yet hard to ignore. She smoothed down her shirt. With the fabric on her bra fairly thin, only the barest hint was visible. She felt almost risqué, like she had a fabulous secret. For a girl with nothing but TiVo and snack foods on the horizon for the rest of the weekend, this was not a bad place to be.

Cassie laughed and stepped over to the bed, picking up the lover's box. It was made of wood and ornately carved, the outside intricately painted with gold-leaf swirls and a variety of hues that age couldn't completely diminish. The gaudy thing somehow reminded her of a treasure chest turned inside out with all the jewel-like tones decorating its exterior. Gypsies were said to love bright colors and flashy ornamentation, and it appeared that King Rajko epitomized the stereotype. Not exactly the most tasteful curio or collectible she'd ever seen, but she liked it and thought it added character to her room.

Her mouth curved into a wide grin, and with a bounce in her stride, she set the lover's box onto her bedside table, then put Stasi's diary in one of the stackable, plastic cubbies inside her closet for safekeeping. Wow, she thought, suddenly aware of her considerably elevated mood. Journaling out her deepest sexual longings had been downright cathartic.

Yes, yes, obviously none of that nonsense about her fantasies was going to come true even if she was wearing the sexy key on her breast. Still, not to have a total Dr. Phil moment here, but...by going through the process of recording her secret desires she felt downright empowered. Free, somehow.

Cassie couldn't stop smiling. She even beamed at Creature when he yowled his displeasure at having his nap disturbed. She'd have scratched the little booger's ear if she didn't think he'd take her hand off.

Laughing as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, Cassie strolled into the bathroom and started looking through the powders and gels in the cabinet under the counter. She decided to pamper herself, and deserved the treat. Fifteen minutes later, however, she had a moment's hesitation when she found herself generously waxing parts of her body that were only waxed when a girl planned on getting very, very lucky. For a second she feared that subconsciously she somehow believed that the lover's box was going to work.

Then she shrugged this off, and decided that her aggressive, nudist-colony wax job was really just a sign of her positive, proactive thinking and she should be proud of herself for moving on as if there was truly a chance of anyone seeing her naked before the year was out. The touch-up job to her Honey Hotness toenail polish, and the liberal use of the deliciously scented bubble bath were also signs of her healthy mental state. Or so she assured herself as she lounged back in the warm bathwater, her eyes closed, her feet with their newly painted toes propped on the opposite rim, and the saucy little key to the lover's box floating at her nipple.

Her mind, at the moment, seemed incapable of thinking about much besides sex and she indulged herself, playing out a variety of scenarios where an obscenely handsome man licked, fondled, then fabulously screwed her newly waxed and scrubbed body. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Cassie groaned.

Creature had no doubt sneaked into the shop downstairs. She was not in the mood to deal with his vandalism when she felt this happy and relaxed. She heard another thump float up the stairs and cursed under her breath. Creature was a porker, on top of all his other attributes, but considering that he weighed only thirty pounds, any thump that made its way up to her apartment suggested the vexing animal was wreaking a path of pure destruction.

Water and bubbles dripping down her body, Cassie jumped from the tub, grabbed the closest towel, then padded off to strangle Creature.

MAX STONE HAD NEVER run across a lock he couldn't pick, but when the damn thing was rusted shut there was only so much a man could do. He cast a quick glance around the moonlit backyard, then lifted his elbow and cracked the glass. That done, he took off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand, then pushed the bottom pane out of its frame. The glass chimed in little plinks as it broke against the floor, quieter than if he had just smashed his way through with a rock.

As he slid his arm inside the window, then broke open the latch, Max silently fumed. If he ever again saw that old battle-ax, Minerva Parker, he was going to throttle her. Just thinking about being ripped off by a woman who was eighty if she was a day made him want to knock out a few more windows. Anger, shock and plain old embarrassment made up a large portion of his present state of mind.

Seventy-two hours ago he'd been in St. Petersburg because that's where treasure hunters went during the IAL conference, and because Victor Hofford had planned to attend. Good old Vic had been a boil on Max's backside since Max had been a teenager dragged around the globe in his father's wake and Victor had signed on as the old man's assistant. Victor, of course, had been an amoral kiss-ass even back then, but Max's dad had been unable to see past his appeased vanity and recognize that the grad student who assisted him was a glorified grave robber and smuggler.

Max didn't necessarily have a problem with either of those job titles, but, at the time, he'd been young and hadn't enjoyed being set up to take the fall when Victor inevitably got caught. He might have been only seventeen, and a hell-raising seventeen at that, but if he was going to rob graves, then smuggle what he stole out of the country, he sure as hell wouldn't have left any tracks. A fact he'd proven a couple of years later when he'd taken up the profession himself.

His father had been dead more than a decade, and all that old crap with Victor, who was now a professor—one of those Ivy League, tenured thugs whose ethics were worse than most organized-crime bosses—should have become ancient history. However, Max had his reasons and it was usually in his best interest to keep an eye on the bastard.

Victor was all but a professional nemesis, and he'd thrown Max into the role of archenemy. The guy must have watched every James Bond marathon ever shown on the Spike TV channel. The only thing missing was the fuzzy white cat and the shifty accent. Although, staying current on whatever fresh hell Dr. Evil spent his time stoking wasn't all for Max's own protection. If he'd been the type of person to keep score, which he was, then he was well in the lead for screwing with Victor's finds and generally robbing relics right out from underneath the idiot whenever the opportunity arose. Immature, yes, but fun as hell.

Three nights ago, though, at the Czar's Club, Max had not been in the mood to deal with Victor's crap and had gotten rid of him with a story in the right ear about a Hindu statue that had supposedly surfaced. Complete and utter bullshit, but Vic had fallen for it.

A smart move as it turned out. Because when the small-time Russian fence had kept shoving his wares in Max's face, Max had caught a glimpse of something that had sent a queer rush of excitement spreading through his gut. One good look at the lover's box and Max had known what he'd found. Ironically, his father had been one of the few people to believe in the Gypsy king's treasure. Which meant that Victor, as dear old dad's one-time right-hand man, would immediately understand its significance if he ever learned of what Max had stumbled across.

Of course, at the time of his discovery, it had been all Max could do to get his mind around the reality that he was the lucky son of a bitch who'd finally found Rajko's box. And that Victor Hofford was off on a wild-goose chase. Unfortunately, it had been this euphoric rush of adrenaline and his false sense of superiority that had led to the mortifying downfall of being swindled by a senior citizen.

The woman was an evil genius. Hell, he'd seen professional cons with less finesse. If he weren't so damned pissed off, he'd be in awe. The whole sham was pure artistry and Max had found himself screwed over and abandoned before he'd even realized she'd gotten to first base. Infuriatingly, when he'd finally tracked Minerva down and accused her of theft (a beyond ironic moment, he admitted) the wily broad had merely waved her hand dismissively and claimed that she had no idea what he was talking about. Worse, she'd stressed that her lover's box had already been sent to her antique shop in butt-fun, Florida, and that it was too late because she'd given it to her great-niece as a present.

The type of guys who hung out in the Czar's Club didn't exactly hand out papers of sale or provenance records, and there had been little that Max could do short of calling out the eighty-year-old woman and challenging her to pistols at dawn. He had no idea what she was trying to pull with her niece, but he didn't really care since he planned to steal the damned thing back, find the treasure, then live out the rest of his life on easy street. Maybe a tropical island with two or three local women to keep him company.

And even more disconcerting than being the victim of such a farcical robbery was the strange sensation that he couldn't shake. A niggling itch prickling the back of his neck. As if there was something hazardous waiting for him, but not the kind of peril he was used to facing. Stupid, because nabbing the lover's box should be a no-worries retrieve and run.

But there you had it. The same rush of adrenaline that pulsed through him when he was on a dangerous hunt was right now surging through his nervous system. To Max, hunting relics was a game, the greater the risk the better. He always gambled, occasionally with his life. He preferred it that way. It made him come alive, the thrill real and palpable in a way nothing else could match, when he risked the ultimate price of failure.

Max challenged every damn odd thrown against him. He flipped fate the bird and got off on the rush of walking away unscathed. And, for some reason, right now his instincts were giving him a hit.

A killer grin curved across his face. Max Stone loved this shit....

Feeling cocky and riding the high—hey, anything was better than thinking about Minerva Parker—he silently climbed through the now-open window. He crouched down once he stepped inside, then pulled out his small flashlight and turned on the beam only to find himself face-to-backside with a stuffed water buffalo. That Minerva had such a bizarre item in the middle of her antique store came as no surprise, but when he stepped around the unfortunate animal and came face-to-breasts with something that was not stuffed and definitely alive, he was more than surprised.

Strangely, he wasn't overly concerned that, for all practical purposes, he'd just been caught. If he had to, he could take down the small, curvy bundle of woman in front of him in less than a second and Max found himself praying that he had to. He slowly ran the beam from his flashlight up the smooth, wet legs dripping water onto the oriental carpet beneath her dainty feet, and over the soaked, clinging towel that looked more suited to drying a pair of hands than wrapping itself around an adult's body. But damn if that's not exactly what the lucky little stretch of terry cloth was being forced to do.

And it was doing a damn poor job of it, he was happy to say, since the damp fabric barely hit the very tippy tops of her thighs, and just covered her small, enticing mound. Max's fingers itched to flick it away and see the exact color of those pretty feminine curls that were hidden from his gaze.

His mouth suddenly dry, he slipped the light up over the heart-pounding curve of her tiny belly clearly outlined by the clinging towel. The sight was enough to make him want to fall to his knees and push his tongue against the enticing dent of her belly button. Then he moved the light a little farther up, to the absolute sweetest, plumpest handfuls of breasts for which he'd ever sprung a boner.

Now, Max generally liked all breasts and had never really had a complaint with any pair he'd seen or touched, but the cherry-tipped duo in front of him looked beyond centerfold perfect. He'd found his dream tits and until this very moment, hadn't even known that he'd had this strong a preference.

Quite frankly, if he was even half as stunned by the rest of her, he was afraid he'd shoot off like a teenager on prom night. So far, every inch of her that he could see had suddenly become his absolute favorite: his favorite kind of toes that he liked to lift to his mouth, then kiss and nibble. His favorite sort of legs that he liked to stroke and caress, and feel wrapped around his torso. His favorite sort of belly that he liked to feel cushioned under his body while he rhythmically pressed his stiff cock into its plump softness as he mimicked the motion he'd re-create when he was deep inside her.

And his hands-down, all-time favorite pair of tatas that he liked to squeeze and suckle and bite until just the pressure of those erect little tips against his tongue was enough to make him come.

His instant, painful attraction to her was so strange, and he felt so damn good about it, that if he didn't know better, he could swear that someone had put a spell on him.

Then the woman said, "Oh...my...gosh..."

Max lifted his light to her face and almost dropped the damned thing. His heart started to pound, slamming against his rib cage. He stiffened his spine and willed himself to stand absolutely still, because he'd never wanted to mate with a woman so badly—there was no other word for the sheer lust-craved act he wanted to perform on her delectable body—and if he so much as twitched, he was afraid he'd nail her where she stood.

And then she said in a voice that he swore made a drop leak from his dick, "I can't believe it. It worked...."

## 3

CASSIE STARED MUTELY at the very embodiment of her fantasy, wondering if she should scream in terror or knock him out before he could escape. Holy...The lover's box really worked.

Yeesh. Even barely able to see him, his looks had her blushing hard enough to pass out. Yes, indeedy, the man certainly fit the from a superior race of godlike beings part of her description, and the phrase Come to Mama...flitted through Cassie's mind.

This vaguely surprised her since it would be more in character for her to start kicking herself for requesting someone so far out of her league. But she didn't feel like worrying about the sudden silence of the voice inside her head that liked to keep a running monologue of Cassie's faults, her past failures and the deadly combination of the two that seemed to make her constantly repeat them. Besides, the proper response to such masculine beauty brought via Gypsy magic to satisfy her carnal demands was the happy dance. She felt like jumping around the room and singing, "I get to do him, I get to do him." She restrained herself, just barely.

Instead, she took a big gulp of air. She'd sort of forgotten to breathe. She'd also forgotten that she was wearing a towel, and only remembered when she felt it heading south. She wriggled, trying to save the darn thing.

At her movement, the man's eyes went wide and he dropped his light. The room was thrown completely into darkness and the sound of his cursing floated in the air. Now that she couldn't see him, she tried to drag her thoughts back to reality, frantically telling herself that only a complete idiot would believe her stupid fantasy had anything to do with this freakishly attractive burglar. Her brain was having none of it.

She also decided that she couldn't stand here all night. She either needed to call the cops or have sex with him. She also needed to speak, say something, to figure out what the heck was going on.

And then his light came back on, and that's when she noticed that besides possibly being the sexiest man in existence, completely conjured for her own personal enjoyment, he wasn't wearing a shirt. He'd wrapped it around his hand, a few slivers of glass clinging to the fabric.

If she'd been staring at him before, her eyes were now devouring him. Perfection. Pure male perfection. Ripped and cut without any of that pesky body-builder bulk. All right. Who the hell was this guy? If the lover's box had worked, then it was time for him to get busy doing the job he'd been brought here for, chop-chop. If not, then she needed to screw him before he could figure out where the exits were.

Scanning every golden inch of his exposed skin, she suddenly noticed something was missing and before she could stop herself blurted, "You don't have a tattoo." Okay, so she sounded panicked. That's only because she was.

His head jerked back, and he said, "I beg your pardon?"

"A tattoo. I can't see one." Cassie felt like a complete yahoo but if Adonis here didn't have a tattoo, then the lover's box couldn't be what had delivered him to her house in the middle of the night. No-o-o-o-o! She was just about to throw herself down on the floor and wail at the unfairness of it all, when she saw that he was unbuttoning his pants.

"Uh...what are you doing?"

He grinned and her knees practically buckled. Yikes, the man had it going on. "You want to see my tattoo, right?"

Cassie nodded dumbly.

"Then I need to open my pants."

And while Cassie opened her mouth to object, somehow the words, "Give me the flashlight. You'll need your hands free," came out instead, and she didn't know which of them was more shocked.

He stilled, closed his eyes for a second, then handed her the light and went back to work on his zipper.

Well, this was certainly progressing nicely. It was all she could do not to yell out, Thank you, Minerva. Or wiggle the light and tell him to hurry up.

With the beam from the flashlight trained on the widening V of fabric at his fly as if he were a prisoner under police interrogation, she watched as dark lines of ink drawn into the writhing coils of a serpent, or maybe a dragon, arched over his hip bone. Cassie whimpered. Yep. It was a killer tattoo. Just as she'd written in her journal. Well, that settled that. The lover's box worked, and his ass was hers. Yippee!

She suddenly felt light-headed. Her mouth went dry and with each more inch that she could see of the beautiful design on his skin, the sensation grew stronger. Beneath her towel, the tiny gold key decorating her nipple became almost hot. She gasped, the tip of her breast an erotic burn. Something was happening.

His fly was halfway open, and his pants were pulled down on one side to show his hip bone. He stopped his striptease a heartbeat before he gave her the money shot and ran his finger over the portion of the tattoo he'd exposed. Cassie swallowed. The artwork looked almost alive, caressing his flesh.

He shook his head as if he was trying to clear it, then said, "This is so weird."

"You're telling me," she mumbled.

"No, I mean, it feels hot. My tattoo." At his words the tiny key at her nipple gave a responding pulse of heat.

"Oh," she gasped. She closed her eyes and swayed. She started to reach out to, well, grab him and jump his bones, but pulled the motion short. What was wrong with her? As much as she wanted to frog-march him upstairs to her bedroom and put him to work, she knew this wasn't right. Surely the man didn't just go throwing himself through glass windows whenever he felt horny. The lover's box had done this to him and it was her fault. She was taking advantage of the poor genetically superior thing. Great, in one evening, she'd gone from desperate to sexual predator.

This didn't upset her nearly as much as she knew it should.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to take a step backward, trying to put a little distance between them. She had no flipping idea what to say. Hello? How are you? I'm sorry that Gypsy magic brought you here tonight to satisfy my insatiable sexual demands?

Mercifully, he spoke, sparing her the first conversational gambit. He must have noticed her step backward, because he lifted his hands and said in the sort of voice used to talk a jumper down from a ledge, "Everything's cool. I'm not going to hurt you."

Cassie figured that whimpering out, "Hurt me, baby, hurt me," would be completely inappropriate and kept her big yap shut.

Besides, the only thing she was afraid of at the moment was her bizarre lack of anxiety or fear. Sure, she was a bit flustered, but what female wouldn't be if faced with the sort of pulling power this guy radiated in waves. Heck, he was his own magnetic field. He'd make a dominatrix feel gauche.

What on earth had she written in her darn journal? Truthfully, she couldn't drum up an ounce of concern. She knew because she'd tried, and if this is what people meant when they talked about being comfortable with themselves and their surroundings, then this self-confidence crap was some heady stuff. Like a year's worth of therapy with a Prozac chaser.

Okay, under normal circumstances, a person would run and call 9-1-1. (That was so-o-o-o not going to happen.) Or at the very least, ask a couple of questions, like, What the hell are you doing here? At this point she didn't have much of a conscience to wrestle with in order to justify wild, pagan coupling with a complete stranger, but making sure that he knew where he was and why he was here seemed like the least she could do before she had her wicked way with him.

Cassie cleared her throat. "What's going on? I mean, is there a reason you broke my window instead of knocking on the front door?"

"YES." IT WAS THE BEST Max could manage.

He opened his mouth, still drew a blank, then closed it. Okay. This sucked. Badly. He'd finally met the lust of his life and he couldn't think of a single lame-ass excuse for why he'd broken into the place. Usually he was the high king of BS but his silver tongue was too busy imagining how great it would feel rubbing and flicking against her own to fall back into his regular brand of shinola.

Truthfully, now that he'd clapped eyes on the curvy bundle of bliss before him, he didn't give a flying flip about Rajko's box. He'd get to it later, the whole treasure thing taking a major backseat to his new reason for breathing—slipping up the siren's skimpy towel, then slipping up inside her. It was as if the second he'd seen her someone had waved the ultimate relic, like the Holy Grail or the exact GPS location of Atlantis, right under his nose.

Cocky as it sounded, Max had bedded more women than any one man should be allowed to, and he could honestly say that he'd never wanted to bump friendlies with a particular female so much in his life. Damn. His whole body was one massive, pounding urge. He wanted her. And he meant wanted her. Right now. But he needed to play it cool. Not totally scare her off before he got his hands, and a few other parts, all over her.

So far, she hadn't run screaming from the room. Definitely a mark in the positive column. He just had to figure out a way to get her onboard with the program before he died from the most rapid onset of acute blue balls in the history of mankind.

"Oh, well then..." She'd let the silence stretch interminably as she'd waited for him to continue, and clearly didn't know how to take his one-word answer. Since nothing sprang to mind that wouldn't get his face slapped, he was sticking with his brief response. She added, "That's good, I guess."

She seemed pretty mind-whacked herself, because the only thing she did was give him a look that was one part dazed, one part confused and one part I-could-eat-you-for-days-and-never-get-enough. Obviously, it was this last one that he needed to cozy up to. But how, without freaking her right the hell out...?

All right. He was not without assets. As soon as he'd been old enough to realize that boys had tallywackers and girls didn't, he'd also noticed that the poor tallywackerless side of the species seemed to be mighty partial to the way God had made him. Had he mentioned that he was a lucky son of a bitch?

She'd also shown an unholy interest in his tattoo, which he was prepared to exploit mercilessly.

While he'd been trying to figure out a way to suavely approach her and hold her still long enough to rock their worlds, she'd gone back to staring at the heart of the dragon. And he didn't mean that as a euphemism. The dragon's chest happened to be the part of his tatt that twisted over his hip, and where her gaze seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

Excellent. He could work with this, he thought, and his libido gave him a high-five. He shifted his weight. His cargo pants cooperated and slipped to his pubic bone.

Her lashes hit her eyebrows, and she leaned closer. That's it, sweetheart, he said to himself, keeping a silent dialogue running. I've got something you definitely want to see. And touch. And wrap those little rosebud lips around.

She had to be almost a foot shorter than him, and when she bent forward, he got a clear shot right down the front of her towel. Beads of sweat popped out across his skin. Damn, she was a tiny little thing. Well, height-wise, that was. She was perfectly, fuckably proportioned everywhere else, both above and below her waist. A pocket-size Venus, with the longest stems he'd ever seen on someone so dang diminutive. He loved it. Made him feel macho as hell. All Viking marauder, and crap. Not a vibe he'd ever gone for until he'd spotted Miss Petite Playmate, but now, it flat-out did it for him.

She licked her Cupid's-bow mouth and lifted up onto her toes as if she were trying to peer down the open fly of his pants. The dragon sent a pulse of heat that throbbed everywhere it touched his skin, absolutely erotic and some majorly freaky shit, all at the same time.

Yep, this was so weird, and he gave not a rat's ass, just plain thrilled to be here. He could barely even think about the Gypsy king's treasure and it seemed ridiculous to him that he had ever wanted anything besides this woman.

She made a startled sound and her hand flew to her right breast, her palm pressing the terry cloth to her chest. Then she mumbled, "Why does that keep happening?"

"Why does what keep happening?" he asked, then let out a hiss of air. He slid his hand to his tatt, rubbing the orgasm-inducing spike in temperature. It was a lucky coincidence that this kept her attention exactly where he wanted it. "Damn, that's hot."

She gave a little start. "You feel it, too?"

He made a hum of agreement and sidled closer, playing off her distraction. His shirt was still wrapped around his wrist, and he flung it aside. Afraid that he was a nanosecond away from going berserk and consuming her whole, he huffed out a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair.

Now his scalp stung and he still didn't have an ounce of control. The tiny beauty followed the movement as if mesmerized. She clearly had a thing for his hair, too. Good. If it wouldn't have made him feel like a total dork, he'd have flipped the stuff in her face and hoped for the best.

"Oh, I'm feeling it all right. How about you?" He hardly knew what he was saying. She was only a handbreadth away and it was killing him. He hesitated, for the first time in his life afraid of blowing what had suddenly become the most important thing in his existence. He needed her to make the first move. Or at least give him some clue, some small signal that would give him the green light.

Then she reached out and ran her fingers over the lines of his tattoo, following the jut of his hip bone. Yep, that's what he'd been waiting for. He grabbed hold of her waist, his hands damn near meeting around the delicious curve, and maneuvered her until her back hit the asinine water buffalo in the middle of the shop. His lungs were heaving and his heart was a beat away from breaking through his sternum. He stared into her huge Bambi eyes. It was too dark to be sure of their color, but they seemed to be the same deep, warm shade of honey as the pieces of hair slipping from the knot on top of her head.

"This is going to sound crazy. But I have to. I mean, you have to let me—" He broke off and shook his head. He was stuttering. He'd lost it. Big-time. "I won't do anything that you don't want me to," he tried to assure her. "But I can't wait, and—"

She reached up and grabbed two handfuls of his hair, the flashlight that she still held clunking the side of his head, then said, "Kiss me. Please..."

Max groaned out, "Thank God," and did exactly as the lady requested. He licked deep into her mouth, chills spreading across his skin. He could have gotten off on her kiss alone. His cock felt like a living thing down the leg of his pants, straining and pushing against the fabric.

But she broke off aeons too soon, panting out, "You're sure that you're okay with this? I don't want to take advantage of you."

He frowned down at her. "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about. But I'm willing to beg, here. We on the same page?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, yes, yes..." Pulling him back into the kiss, she let the flashlight drop to the floor. It hit the carpet with a muffled thump, then flicked out. Moonlight poured through the windows in the room, brighter than he remembered it being before.

With an enthusiasm that matched his own, her hands started to move, running over his shoulders and arms. Just looking at her was like hours of amazing foreplay slammed into seconds. Her touch was freakin' overkill. He leaned in to her, trying to stop his muscles from trembling, but this only made it far, far worse. Steam was going to start rising off him. He undid the clip in her hair, sending the silken mass tumbling around her shoulders.

He pressed his face to her neck. "You smell like flowers and honey. Good. So good."

Her hands slipped lower, finding his tattoo again, and if the damn thing could have growled, it would have. Instead, he did, the sound an animal rumble.

"What is it? A snake?" she asked, still clearly fascinated with his ink job.

"Dragon," he answered, and she practically oohed in approval. "I got it years ago in Thailand—" He broke off, realizing that he'd progressed to full out babbling. And now was in no way the time for trivial details since he had a much better get-to-know-ya scheme in mind.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, running her palm along the design, though, from her angle, there was no way she could see it. She was probably following the warmth. He had a regular bonfire going on down there. A couple of them.

"And big..." Her voice was sluggish, blissed out.

He muttered, "It's not the only big thing down there." Corny, he admitted, but he was a guy, and he was beyond eloquent wordplay at this point. "You can look later. As much as you want. Promise."

She leaned back, making helpless little writhing movements. He had about ten seconds here, twenty tops, before he was gone. Completely. Past the point of no return. "Do you want me? Are you cool with this?" If she said no, he had no idea what he'd do. Possibly kill something. Or cry.

She let out a laugh, husky and erotic. The sound shot straight to his groin. As if that area needed more excitement. "Want you? Of course I want you. You're exactly what I asked for. You're perfect."

He started to tilt his head at the "asked for" part of her revelation, but was quickly sidetracked by her overall meaning. He could hardly get out the jumble of words. "Good. You can have me. Every way you can think of. As long as it's soon. Very, very soon."

Her towel slipped and she bit her lip. Her right breast popped free and moonlight glittered from the little ring at her nipple. Something dangled from the bottom curve of the hoop, and she covered it with her fingers as if to relieve an ache.

An extra heartbeat started pounding in his cock, his entire length swelling beyond any previous limits. Her nipple ring was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

She moaned. "Warm...so warm. I'm on fire."

His voice hoarse, he said, "You're not the only one." Puff, the now-magical dragon, sent an answering wash of flame along his hip. Oh, yeah, this was so flipping weird. And he loved it. Abso-fucking-lutely loved it.

He lowered her arm, then lowered his lips. "Here, let me help you." He gave a gentle swipe of his tongue, tasting her nipple and the tiny piece of jewelry. It was like licking melted sugar. He sucked the hoop between his teeth, tugging softly. The ring and the little charm were surprisingly hot, erotically searing the inside of his mouth and setting his blood to a rapid boil.

She arched into him. "More.... Do it more...."

He sucked harder, flicking his tongue back and forth across the ring, playing and worrying it, following her gasps and chasing every cry of pleasure groaning from her throat.

Meanwhile, she was busily working her own agenda. Her splayed hands had staked an unholy claim on his stomach, seemingly content to hang out indefinitely and drive him right from his skin. She rubbed the bands of muscles, appearing particularly thrilled with the diagonal obliques that pointed toward his groin. Up and down, over and back, she stroked and caressed until his eyes all but rolled back in his head. As she played there for the foreseeable future, causing the tissue beneath his skin to contract and jerk, he gave the towel a small pull and it dropped to her waist.

He let her nipple slip from his mouth with a soft thwip. He looked down at her breasts. The moon's unusually bright glow spilled over the high, firm globes. Ridiculously lush and plump, they were almost too big for her frame, her rib cage small in comparison. His hands trembled and he somehow managed to choke out a curse. "I swear you have the most beautiful tits I've ever seen. I could look at them forever and never get tired."

Max winced, unable to believe he'd said that out loud. He'd sounded about sixteen, except more crass. But he wasn't going to lie. Her body plain floored him, in the best possible way.

She stilled, though her breath started soughing a mile a minute. "Do you really mean that?"

He gave a rueful laugh. "Uh, yeah. Every word." Lord, he was such an ass.

Though, bizarrely, she appeared to be more thrilled than if he'd spouted the most romantic of love poems. Damn. She just kept getting more and more perfect. But why? Why would such a beautiful, beyond sexy woman act surprised? She had to have heard the sentiment from every man who'd ever been lucky enough to see her.

However, he wasn't exactly in the frame of mind to ponder mysteries and was immediately distracted by the most effective diversionary tactic he'd ever witnessed. She cupped her breasts and lifted them in her palms. They didn't need the support, since the plump pair were a gravity-defying miracle all on their own, but this was the equivalent of offering them up to him on a platter. Permission and invitation to take his pleasure from her body.

"Don't you still want me?"

A low buzz started in his muscles, vibrating down to the bone. His nostrils flared. "Uh-huh. But in one more second I won't be able to stop. I've never wanted a woman so much. It's like I have to have you and if I don't..." he shook his head "—well, that would be bad...really, really bad...."

This time, after he spoke, she all but beamed up at him. It was unfathomable to him that she had doubts about her desirability since mere moments in her presence had him acting completely out of character. Max was a seducer, not a taker. And if she didn't let him take her soon, he had no doubt that he would add beggar and pleader to his new set of skills.

It certainly wasn't the voice of a slick player that rasped, "So, um, we're cool, right? I mean, we're feeling the same vibe?"

He took her whimper as a yes, and had to clamp his jaw closed to keep from making the sound along with her. He slid his palms beneath her breasts. Unable to help himself, he gave them a little bounce, testing their weight, and that's all it took. He groaned and slammed his mouth down against hers. That quickly they were back up at full speed, both of them frantic, breath whooshing through their nostrils, and bodies shaking and bucking against the other's.

While he tweaked and rubbed her nipples her own hands got down to business and there was no more screwing around. She pushed his pants to the middle of his thighs, and wrapped her greedy fingers around his swollen shaft as it bobbed free. His knees almost buckled and he locked them in place, shifting his feet apart to widen his stance. Sensation sizzled down the length of his arousal and he had to fight not to dance away from her touch, or to do the exact opposite and thrust and shove himself into her hand. Okay, that was enough prep time for him.

But with the differences in their heights, this was not going to work unless he propped her up somewhere, and while he'd use it if he had to, he preferred not to do the nasty with her up against the frigging water buffalo. Frantically, he looked around the room, trying to make out the various shapes and shadows. He spotted one of those huge ottomans that could double as a coffee table. He lifted her up and swung her around, her towel fluttering to the floor. Dropping her sweet bottom onto the velvet, Max hit his knees in front of her. It aligned them perfectly, and he slipped his elbow beneath her knee and spread her wide, resting his hand next to her hip for leverage.

She grabbed onto his hair again, pulling his mouth down to hers, and their tongues rubbed and slid against each other like long-lost friends.

His entire body felt like a massive exposed nerve as he skimmed his other hand down through the delicate lace of curls at the top of her mound. His middle finger shook as he slipped it between her hot, wet labia. She was drenched, cream soaking his skin, and she cried out. As wet as she was, he had to work first one, then two, fingers up inside her, holding her open with his arm beneath her leg. "You're tight as a fist," he ground out.

She moaned, then squeezed his ass, which thrust him against her core. His poor cock hardly withstood the sensory overload, her actions causing the underside of his shaft to rub against his own forearm and palm, which were already busy down there, pleasuring her. The head caressed her petal-soft lips, slid on her thick dew up to brush through her feathery curls.

All right, that was it. He wanted in. Now.

He somehow gasped through his busy mouth, "Your hands are closer. Grab my wallet. Back pocket." To reach, she had to sit up straighter, arching her spine. Her nipples seared his pecs, the little ring catching and tugging against his chest hair with each jerky movement.

"Got it," she mumbled around his tongue.

He broke their kiss, his lungs heaving, and said, "Flip it open. Condoms are in the slot."

She pulled out a string of them, about four or five, then held them up and laughed. "Woo-hoo. I guess the box not only covered all the bases, but was pretty optimistic that we'd have more than one go."

As for the number of condoms in his wallet, well...the less said the better. Though he wasn't about to tell her that. Also, he had no idea what she meant.

"I just threw what I had in there. Now I'm hoping they'll be enough." So far everything he'd admitted was absolutely true, but with the added bonus of his not sounding like some sleazebag always on the prowl. He usually didn't need to bother with the prowling. Again, the less said the better, and it was all completely irrelevant anyway since she was definitely in a class by herself, and he'd have crawled over broken glass to get to her.

"You. Are. Perfect," she said, her voice both amused and awed.

Trying to joke back, he said, "I'll show you perfect. Either hand me one, or get busy." But he was way too far over the edge for kidding around. He closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw as she rolled the lubed rubber down his length. When she finished, she fondled his sack, giving firm squeezes that sent jolts up and down his spine. Pressure grew in his lower back and he could feel his balls pull in tight.

Taking his fingers out of her slick center, he gently moved her hand away in case she ended the whole show before they even got to the good part, then used his thumb to push down on his shaft. The fat head slipped between her inner lips, and she started panting in earnest. Slowly, he pressed his way into her burning core. His body trembled. Yep. She was tiny, all right. Everywhere...

She gulped, then he heard her mumbling under her breath, something about going overboard and how she should have been more specific with the whole thick and large part of her list.

She hardly made sense whenever she spoke, but she was a goddess, so he mostly overlooked her confusing chatter.

Max didn't want to hurt her and the angle was too sharp with her sitting straight up. He rubbed her hip, then moved his hand to the center of her back and slowly lowered her until she was lying on the ottoman.

There had to be the fullest of moons out tonight—the werewolves howling, crazy people going wonkers kind of full—because the pale glow pouring through the windows bathed her like a lunar spotlight. It was surreal, every detail like a fantasy come to life.

He gazed down at her spread out before him. His breath froze in his lungs. A low hum vibrated through his frame, and if he hadn't been one-hundred-percent desperate, he could've stared forever.

"Don't stop..." she urged, rocking her pelvis so that she slid and squeezed the thick tip of his cock firmly lodged inside her tight heat with each restless little circle. One of her legs was still hitched on his elbow, and he shifted the other into matching position, spreading her wide and leaning forward, using his weight to push deeper.

Pleasure punched him in the gut. He grit his teeth. He had to go slow, her inner walls were too narrow to force his way without hurting her. But, so far, just being halfway in was better than anything he'd ever felt. Keeping her legs hooked over his arms, he moved his hands to her waist, his grip firm as he pulled her backside to the very edge of the ottoman. The leverage all his, he slowly dragged back his hips, then let the weight of his lower body sink into her again.

His chest hovered above hers, caging her in and pressing her legs up and out. The porn-star pose was impossibly arousing, too erotic to watch, and he had to look away or he'd come. She moaned and squirmed, then slid her fingers back into his hair, her favorite spot when she wasn't petting and torturing his abs. Her sweet mouth sucked onto his, her tongue delving deep, wreaking havoc with each sensual swirl.

Rocking and pushing, he finally worked in all of his thick length to the hilt and they both gasped. Then his eyes widened, and a raw sound broke from his throat.

"Don't move. Oh, God, do...not...move...." Muscles flexed with tension, he forced himself to hold perfectly still. Now, Max had his flaws just like the next guy, but premature ejaculation had sure as hell never been one them. Ever. Period. End of discussion and draw a line under it. So why the hell did he feel like a frigging virgin would have a better chance at lasting longer in the hot seat?

Mindlessly, she shook her head back and forth, definitely craving the same thing he was, though probably not the two-pump version that was looking more and more likely. His hands clamped down on the top of her thighs, fingers biting into her skin, stopping her mind-numbing undulations.

She bit her lip, and moaned, "But I want to move...."

His voice lower than he'd ever heard, he somehow managed to say, "I won't last. Sorry. Crap," he broke off and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know what's wrong." He tried to slow his breathing, but his lungs were blasting out air. "I had to get inside you. More than anything. But it's too good." He shook his head. "Way...too...good..."

If she'd seemed strangely pleased by his other juvenile comments, then she appeared downright thrilled at his latest embarrassing disclosure.

She shoved her pelvis up against his, sending a shower of sparks flashing behind his retinas, and said, "Yes. It's exactly how I fantasized.... Do it. Hurry...." Then she clapped her hands down on his ass, and his eyes shot wide as she pulled him impossibly deep. "Now," she gasped, "please. Now...."

He started to be shocked then decided he plain didn't care, began plunging into her, and hung on for dear life. She bucked and writhed while his body took over. Pressure swelled through his lower stomach and up the backs of his thighs. He lunged, his buttocks flexing as he worked his length in and out, stronger and harder. His tattoo had become the hot depths of the earth, radiating pulses of ecstasy, his skin one massive erogenous zone. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and his hips started to lose their rhythm.

Her breasts wobbled beneath him, bounced in tempo with each frantic thrust, making her cry out and sob, clearly loving every damn minute of it. Her nipple ring was its own little circle of fire, and he wouldn't be completely surprised if it left a brand on his chest by the time this whole thing was finished. Speaking of finished...

"Come on, come on," he softly urged, his lips against the delicate shell of her ear. He needed her to come before he did, this gorgeous, sexy gift. He wanted to worship her, bring her over and over, but the most he'd managed was to bang the living daylights out of her.

Then he found her mouth, caught it with his own, and poured every ounce of concentration into the stroke and glide of his tongue and his erection. Within seconds she convulsed under him so hard that her hips actually lifted up his lower body for the first few brutal beats of her orgasm.

Her slick heat squeezed and milked his length in vise-tight spasms, and Max gave himself up. The pressure in his gut blew wide. A tidal wave of release slammed into him, and the damn thing didn't stop, spurting and jetting with exquisite agony beyond anything he'd ever experienced. His body jerked and shuddered. Then, after several long moments, it was done, and eternal minutes later, he survived the aftermath with only the occasional twitch and shiver.

He slumped to the side, because the last thing he wanted to do was crush his brand-new best friend. Finally finding his voice, he cleared his throat past the gravel, and started to ask, "You okay?" but was cut off by the jingle of shattering glass from another room.

She went stiff in his hold as they heard, somewhere in a back room of the store, the very obvious sound of a window being forced and shoved open.

Minerva really needed to have the windows in this place fixed, Max thought absently. Made breaking in hell. Practically as noisy as kicking in the damn front door. Then he cursed when he realized that another bastard was doing exactly what he'd been doing before he'd gotten sidetracked by the premier sexual encounter of his life.

"No way.... This can't be happening," she whispered.

Looking over his shoulder in the direction he'd heard the din coming from, he reached down to yank up his pants, and started to push himself upright. He couldn't help but be stopped short, though, by more of her confusing babble, and he jerked his head toward her. "Huh?"

"I can't believe this," she said softly. "I did not ask for two of you...."

## 4

NO FREAKIN' WAY.... Cassie scowled, her thoughts scrambling. As if earlier tonight, back in her bedroom, she'd written down some fantasy for a threesome. Two guys and her. Puh-lease.

Though, on a side note, she had no idea how much Minerva had paid for the lover's box, but talk about getting maximum bang for your buck. Her fantasy had come true and then some.

"Hurry. Come on," her dream lover urged, trying to sit her up and wrap her back in the towel, which he must have retrieved from somewhere by the water buffalo's feet. She was never going to be able to look at that beast in the same way, and suddenly felt quite fondly toward the stuffed eyesore.

"Is there another way out of here?" he asked, breaking into her pleasant post-nooky haze.

Since he was still whispering, she whispered back, "What do you mean?"

He'd started to turn away from her, then did a double take. "What do you mean, what do I mean? Someone's breaking into the house." He was much better at the whispering thing than her. His low voice was barely audible, but she could still make out every word.

Not a big giggler, Cassie, nonetheless, found herself making the ridiculous sound. "Well, the last time that happened, it worked out pretty well for me."

"You're crazy, you know that? Nothing you say makes sense."

She smiled, in too good a mood to fight. Amazing sex will do that to a gal. He merely cursed, then shook his head.

"Whoever's back there better not get the same welcome I just did. Hear me? You're mine." As if surprised by what he'd said, he stopped, then frowned even more.

He shook his head again, muttering under his breath, "Stay here." He crouched down, and as luminous as the glow from outside was, the second he moved away he blended into the shadows.

His he-man "stay here" order didn't bother her. With après-Gypsy-lovin' languor stealing through her limbs, she'd rather avoid any action that didn't directly involve his naked body.

Before she knew it, though, her fantasy lover was back, giving off a whole new kind of tension. He grabbed her upper arms, jerking her to her feet, and she gasped. She caught the towel to her chest while his hand covered her mouth, not hard, but the message obvious: do not make a sound. He said directly into her ear, "There are three of them. I know who they are."

Cassie's eyes flew wide. Her eyebrows stretched toward her hairline and she held up three fingers toward his face. He nodded distractedly, craning his neck around while scanning the room. Three?! That would give her a total of four men. What the hell sort of fantasies did that freaky lover's box think she was into?

Then she hesitated, flashing a quick grin behind his palm, and thought, Then again, if they take after Mega-Handsome the Sex Stud here, maybe I could put them on a rotating schedule. Draw up a roster, or something. Had her social life done a one-eighty or what?

His gaze trained on the hallway that led to the back storage room, he started directing her toward the window that he'd broken through.

"Gla-a-ath-h-h," she mumbled against the inside of his hand.

"What?"

She grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. "Glass," she hissed softly, nodding toward the shards on the floor. "I'll cut my feet."

He stopped and immediately pulled her into his chest as if he hadn't been the one pushing her forward. "Sorry," he breathed, looking down. "You need shoes."

"You need to stop worrying," she answered, still using her we'll-be-in-deep-petooty-if-someone-hears-us voice. It kept a level of intimacy between them that she was wa-a-a-ay into. "Look, I'll just tell these guys, whoever they are, that I don't need them. That you're more than up to handling the job solo, but thanks anyway." She couldn't help it, and ran her fingers over his stomach, bumping up and down his rock-hard muscles.

He closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, trapping it. "You're so sexy, you make my teeth ache, but I don't get a thing you say. Not one word. It might as well be Swahili. Although that, I can speak."

She cocked her head, "You speak Swahili? Cool."

He sucked in a breath, his nostrils flaring. "Not important." It was amazing the amount of censor he could convey while keeping his voice only a decibel above a dog's hearing. "Those guys in there might not be killers, but they're ruthless. I need to get you out of here and get the bo—"

She interrupted, "I hate to break the news to you, gorgeous, but you ain't exactly crystal clear, yourself. What on earth are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? I—" He bit off whatever else he was going to say and closed his eyes. "This is like being stuck in a frigging Abbott and Costello movie." He'd have kept on scolding her, no doubt, but a floorboard creaked in the back hallway. Immediately, he clapped his hand over her mouth again. Then, in one move, he turned her and smashed her back to his front, gluing them together.

He wrapped his arm around her waist like a steel band and, after a fast glance around the room, picked her up, then moved them behind a fake sarcophagus looming nearby. In the waiting silence, she was suddenly aware that the man jammed up close and personal to the entire back half of her body had turned menacingly still as he tracked the movements of the latest fellas whom the lover's box had sent.

It was as if a dead calm had come over him, and he'd become dangerous. She didn't question how she knew, she just did. It was the same instinct one had when facing a predator. The weaker animal didn't analyze the wheres and whys, it merely got the heck out of Dodge. For the first time, she felt a tingle of alarm creep up her spine. Though her instincts also told her that his lethal aura was not directed against her but at the new arrivals.

His full, beautiful mouth returned to her ear, and he breathed, "These men will hurt you if you don't give them what they want. This isn't a game. I can take them on, but I can't protect you while I'm beating the hell out of them. Quickest exit. Just move your chin as if you're pointing to it."

Okay. Now he was scaring her. Sort of. Strangely, it was more like an adrenaline rush than the true scaredy-cat stuff she usually felt. Why didn't he believe they could take out these guys? Granted, she wouldn't be doing much of the taking-out portion, but she could certainly keep from harm's way. She was not the dopey sort of heroine that she saw in movies who cried and made a big mess of everything, then got the hero caught and herself taken hostage.

Wait a second. Her eyes widened and she jerked her chin toward the foyer at the north side of the store, past the arched entryway customers used. If they went in that direction, they could go out the front door or go straight through to the private section of the house and up the staircase that led to the top floor.

What had she been thinking? Normally, she was exactly that sort of stupid female she saw in movies, except without the crying. An expert at making big messes and generally screwing things up, she usually saved the tears for her own private pity party. For some reason, though, at the moment, she was feeling more Linda Hamilton à la Terminator 2 than Lucille Ball à la the "Candy Factory" episode.

Huh. The kick-ass part of her fantasy must have started. She wondered if this was only a false confidence or if she'd somehow mystically gained tough-girl skills, too. But she wasn't given the opportunity to find out.

He must've understood the chin nod, because his arm tightened around her waist again and they were mobile. Moving from shadow to shadow, her body tucked in front of his, they made it to the foyer without being spied. With the size of the store's main room and all the ridiculous junk Minerva had crammed in the place, this wasn't quite as difficult as one might assume. And, as in most older homes, with the vestibule its own separate area, no one could see them now that they'd gained their current position.

After their serpentine trek, however, Cassie's wits had returned and she realized that his behavior was even more delusional than she'd thought since there wasn't a chance in hell that three men would hurt her to "get what they came for." Gypsy magic or no, she was a far cry from femme fatale or Playmate of the month. Obviously, she must have left some loophole for more than one lover when she'd written in her diary. Still, she seriously doubted they'd resort to fisticuffs when she refused to do them.

Cassie sighed, and shook her head as if she could wipe her thoughts clean. This whole fiasco was getting more and more ludicrous. She actually possessed the ability to procure unlimited fantasy sex, and, as per her usual outstanding luck, everything was going screwy and men were pouring in the windows.

Yes, yes, it sounded like the ultimate problem to have, but not with double-O-handsome acting as if danger lurked at every corner and believing there were bad guys out to get them. Besides, she didn't think that they were in any real peril, only Gypsy-magic peril. But how could she explain that to Prince Sexy without sounding like a total crackpot?

His body right next to hers, he lowered his head and spoke in that eerie hushed voice of his. "We use this door, they'll hear and come after us. Can we get to the back of the house without going through the shop?"

Cassie opened her mouth to argue, then shrugged and shut up. Bringing him to a side passage in the recesses of the foyer, she moved the Staff Only sign that roped it off, and led him into the house's original dining room, then onward into the kitchen. She might as well get him someplace where she could speak her peace without his clamping his hand over her mouth every two seconds.

She put her foot on the bottom stair, ready to continue on up to her room so she could get dressed or screw his brains out again once this pesky multiple partner crap had been cleared up—honestly, she didn't care who else the lover's box had sent. She'd hit pay dirt here and was sticking with the hunk she knew rather than the three she didn't. But, he stopped her with a hand gripped to the back of her towel.

Speaking fast, he whispered, "No. You need to leave before Victor's goons realize you're here."

She didn't know who Victor was, nor give a rip about him or his goons. Though all she said was, "In a towel," her voice dry.

He hesitated. "It's better than some of the other possibilities. Look, I don't have time to argue. Your aunt sent you a package. Did you get it?"

A big red flag popped up in Cassie's brain and started flapping like mad. She licked her lips. How did he know about the lover's box? And how did he know that Minerva had sent it?

Although, she supposed that seeing as the box was a conduit for mind-numbing fantasy sex, it should not come as a complete surprise that he would have knowledge of its existence and her recent ownership.

Cassie sighed and waved her hand. "Yes," she answered.

"Yes, you got the package, and yes, you have it?"

They had to stop doing this. Even she was getting a bit tetchy at their convoluted conversations. And she got to look at him while they spoke. He must be ready to shove a blunt object in his ear.

"Yes," she said, her impatience obvious. "Yes to both."

"Good. Tell me where it is, then wait for me outside." He stepped in close, totally distracting her.

Almost immediately, though, he stiffened as if he'd made a mistake, because, in a snap, his entire presence turned from dangerous to erotic. Cassie stared at him, stupefied.

Then some of the wording that she'd written into her fantasy floated through her mind—a man so filled with lust that whenever he saw her, all he could think about was getting inside her. Check. A single glance and he was stone hard. Cassie took a quick peek at his crotch and gulped. Check. Bullets could be whizzing over their heads and he'd want her. Oh, lordy, there wasn't any artillery fire, but still...She turned her gaze to his face and his expression was magnificently filled with sexual intent. She gulped again. Check.

But before she could figure out how to clear up the snafu, he said, "We don't have time for this." He dropped his hand to her bottom, then rubbed and stroked as if he were driven by an overwhelming surge of primitive desire. His voice was a sensual rumble that she swore made things vibrate inside her. "I can't stop.... I know I should, but..."

She practically purred when he caressed his fingertips over her lower cheeks then slowly ran them up and down the crack that separated the curvy globes. Up and down. Up and down. And, yes, curvy was the kindest description she'd allow herself. Hello. She was only five foot two. Too much junk in the trunk was pretty much a standard problem.

Then the full reality of his devastating touch hit her, and Cassie thought, Oh...my...gosh.... She rose up on her toes, and squirmed against his hand.

"You're coming with me," he said, and from the bottom of her heart, she hoped that his word choice had not been accidental. "Now that Victor's men know about you, and have tracked me to the shop, you won't be safe here. At least for a day or two. Or three. Possibly a week. We'll go to a hotel. Me and you and a bed. As long as I've got the box, the treasure can wait." He closed his eyes, as if he were fighting himself and losing.

"We need to leave now. Right now. Well...just as soon as I do this, and—" He broke off his words to slide his two fingertips up to the top of her crease then down to rub the stretch of skin right behind her dampening sheath.

His other hand went beneath her hair to the back of her neck, his palm warm and steady as she shivered. He was stiff everywhere. And she meant everywhere.

Now that Cassie thought about it, she didn't believe that she'd given herself enough time earlier to rhapsodize and praise the virtues of his amazing erection. She promptly focused on the object of her desire and it was all she could do not to swoon like a Southern belle.

Instead, she touched his lower stomach then slid her fingers over the tough fabric and down to his brutal length, which punched against the fly of his pants. Nothing should feel this good, and she couldn't stop her quiet groan of bliss.

His voice a husky rasp, his mouth moved against hers as he said, "Let's get my box and get out of here." But she wasn't really paying attention to his words. His smoocher was a work of art. His top lip was perfectly chiseled and the bottom begged to be bitten. Full and almost pouty, both of them together formed a wide, irresistible curve. Modeling agencies would commit acts of war to get him in their ads.

"I'll take care of Victor and his thugs later," he went on. "I won't let them hurt you. Ever. I promise."

Her eyebrows drew together, but when she went to speak, his thumb on the back of her neck moved in soothing circles while his other glided ever downward then, from behind, dipped inside her wet heat, rotating.

Her head would have fallen back if not for his hand. She somehow managed to say, "You mean my box...." Though why, if he truly thought they were in danger, was he so concerned with getting the lover's box before he left? Sure, fantasy sex might be high on her list, but this guy had to be living it every time he felt the urge.

Cassie ground down on his thumb and the base of his palm, needing him deeper. He hesitated, then said, "I'm a relic hunter like Minerva." He stopped to kiss her, one hot, slick swipe of his tongue. "I bought the lover's box in St. Petersburg. She stole it. But she's not getting the treasure," he grated out, showing that physically he was faring little better than her.

She frowned and whispered, "You know Minerva?"

His nod was distracted, his thumb making a swivel as he slowly pumped it in then out, over and over. His whisper deep and raspy, he answered, "Yeah, I know her. The box is mine. And when I find it, so is the treasure."

With the sensual fog enveloping her brain, she could barely focus on his words. Within moments, though, enough of the important ones got through. She stiffened, then squirmed and wiggled out of his hold. He took one last shocking liberty among all her slippery wetness before he let her go, and she almost cried out, oh, to hell with it, and wiggled back into place.

But all she did was blink and ask dumbly, "You think the lover's box is yours?"

He grunted. "I don't think it. I know it."

"I can't believe this," she snapped.

"Shh" he said, looking back toward the kitchen.

She pointed to her chest and tapped it. "The box is mine. You're here because—" She stopped, not anxious to admit that Gypsy magic had brought him here in the middle of the night to service her insatiable sexual demands. But, come on, as if she was supposed to believe some stupid story about his being a thrill-seeking relic hunter like her great-aunt, and that the lover's box was really his, and they'd merely hooked up as an aside when he'd shown up to steal it back.

Cassie stilled. Oh, crap.

She asked herself what made more sense—that an almost century-old Gypsy spell had made her fantasy come true, or that the wily Minerva was up to one of her crazy antics and had stolen the lover's box from this man.

A wash of heat crept up Cassie's face, hotter than the silly nipple ring that all night had kept pulsing on and off like a demented firefly. And how did she explain that strange aspect of this fiasco? It didn't matter. Probably hormones, or something equally mundane. Like her nipple having an allergic reaction to metal.

Why did she keep doing things like this? Foolishly holding out hope that the ridiculous and unimaginable was true. Oh, like, say, believing her ex-fiancé had really loved her and just had a low sex drive, rather than accepting that he was an amoral cheat who'd married another woman within two weeks of breaking up with her. Su-u-ure he'd met the real love of his life the day he'd moved out of their apartment. Ri-i-ight....

Hell. She was a total moron. No wonder she'd believed in the stupid legend of the lover's box. Apparently, a deep-seated core of gullibility plagued her psyche. Talk about a bummer.

Cassie took a step away from him, rubbing her forehead while creeping up the next rise of the staircase. It was all too confusing and humiliating. Could nothing in her life be simple? Other than her brain.

She knew he could have stopped her if he wanted to, but he allowed her to back away. She didn't bother thanking him, assuming that putting out for the guy within five minutes of clapping eyes on him was thanks enough.

She supposed she really shouldn't be so upset that Gypsy magic hadn't brought him to her, but she was. Because if the lover's box wasn't fueling their encounter, then she wasn't recklessly living out a fantasy. At best, she was no better than the probably hundreds of other women who'd turned insta-slut the second they'd caught a glimpse of the gorgeous freak. At worst, it left him seducing her merely so that she would be more amenable when he stole the lover's box from her. Or maybe he'd just assumed that she'd hand it over to him as a sign of her deep and profound thanks for generously gifting her with the use of his body. Not a bad assumption on his part, she had to admit.

In spite of the zenith of orgasms that the jerk had brought her to and all, this majorly sucked.

Cassie turned and started marching up the stairs. "Do not even think it," she practically snarled when he reached out to stop her.

Right then she heard a noise from the store. The three stooges, whomever they were, were most likely ransacking the place. Okay. So she should have called 9-1-1 when she'd spotted her first home invader. Go figure.

"Where's the box?" he grated as he kept pace two steps below her. This probably put her huge butt right smack-dab at face level. Fitting punishment, in her opinion.

"Who the hell are you?" she shot over her shoulder.

He was quiet for a moment, then rasped, "You have the sweetest ass...."

Cassie rolled her eyes. Right. "Yeah, well, you can go ahead and kiss it while you're back there," she said as snarkily as possible. Then added, "whoever you are," at the same time he said, "Can I really?" sounding inordinately hopeful.

She really wished that he'd go ahead and drop the whole seduction routine. Now that she realized Gypsy voodoo wasn't fueling the attraction from his side, she knew there was no way this fiendishly beautiful creep would ever give her a second glance, let alone be desperate to possess her.

She hadn't even been able to keep a dull-o creep like Ron on the line. Never mind snag the interest of an adrenaline junky like this fella. Relic hunters were thrill seekers addicted to the excitement of the chase. Minerva and her cronies were all the same. A person only took up hunting antiquities or other treasures because they loved adventure. The idea of his being filled with lust after a single glance at her was a total joke.

Cassie pulled her mouth into a sneer. From Ron to this. She was cursed.

She reached the landing and was about to storm into her bedroom, door banging against the wall, all dramatic entry and junk, when she paused. If her fantasy hadn't brought lover boy here tonight, then it hadn't been responsible for the arrival of the men downstairs, either.

She flattened her lips, then rolled them inward and took a deep breath through her nose. All right. Bad guys were really after her and she might want to hold off on reaming this fella a new one until she was in a safe environment. Like calling him from her cell phone when she got to the police station.

Back to tiptoeing so as not to make noise, she made her way into her room. She didn't bother with the lights since she knew he'd have a cow if she so much as raised her hand toward the switch.

The handsome shadow from hell whispered behind her, "I don't know what you're so pissed off about. I'm the one who was robbed by your crazy aunt. I only came here to get my damn box back."

If he couldn't figure out that this was a huge part of the problem, then she wasn't about to set him straight. In fact, hearing him fess up to his motives merely ticked her off more. "Yeah, well, the forecast is predicting I'll get even bitchier. Deal with it."

He sounded like he was gritting his teeth. "Listen. Just get the lover's box so we can get out of here."

"The lover's box is mine. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Cassie had no idea if this was really true or not, but people were always throwing the line around in legal shows. "And we're not going anywhere," she whispered furiously. As if she was going to hang around with this paragon of manly prowess.

"What the hell is your name, anyway?"

He hesitated, shifting his weight, his entire demeanor suddenly seeming embarrassed. "Max Stone. I know you're Minerva's great-niece, but your name is...?"

"Cassie Parker," she grumbled, never before having experienced the special joy of introducing herself to a man after she'd already done the naked boogie with him.

His teeth flashed bright against his face (would the moon please slip behind a cloud for cripes sake, so she could stop getting such a good look at him), and he said, "Well, Cassie, it's been a pleasure to meet you."

Cassie snorted. "It was all mine, I'm sure." So she could be a major witch. She felt justified after having her pagan hopes of fulfilling her sexual desires till dying of old age dashed upon the rocky shoals of disappointment. Also, the thought of never again fooling around with Max Stone was enough to make her infinitely pissy.

He sighed. "I feel like I ask this question about every fifth time I speak, but what are you talking about?"

She really didn't feel like doing this right now, especially if they were supposed to be working toward a quick getaway. But, then again, she was a fully functioning female and arguing over guy-girl stuff always took precedence over life-and-death situations, and she answered, "It's obvious you just seduced me to get to the lover's box. Ew."

He actually laughed, then cut off the sound when he apparently realized this didn't jibe with being the master of all that was stealth.

Her not-so-fantasy lover loomed over her, as he was wont to do. Then, his voice an erotic tease, he said, "Damn. You figured me out. Downstairs, when you saw me come through the window..." He shook his head. "I knew right off that there was no way I could take on a Goliath like you. Sex was my only hope at that point. A sacrifice, but I survived."

Cassie narrowed her eyes. "Hey. No short jokes."

While he snickered, she stalked to her closet and grabbed her backpack, then started throwing things inside. Fine. She'd go with him for now. Better the sexy asshole she knew, than the dangerous three she didn't.

Since time was probably of the essence, she picked up the pace, rushing into her bathroom and snagging only the essentials: toothbrush, most of her makeup and her birth control pills. Hey, just because she hated him didn't mean she had to go around looking like a washed-out hag. And if she skipped her pills, she'd jump-start her period. Not fun.

Cassie hurried back and noticed the lover's box on her bedside table. She snatched it up and pushed it into her backpack.

"You just left it sitting out in the open?" he whispered.

"How was I to know my house was going to turn into Thieves-Gone-Wild?" She snorted, quickly looking around her room to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. "My great-aunt gave it to me as a present. It would have been unmannerly to stick it in a bottom drawer."

Oops. Clothes might be nice. Keeping the backpack at her feet, she dropped her towel, then hurriedly pulled on the first things her hands touched when they reached into her closet. Let him look all he wanted. She was so mad at him, he deserved to see her naked—in all her underwhelming glory. Remind him of how low he'd sunk just to get a crappy antique.

He growled. There was no other description for the noise he made as she bent over to wiggle into her jeans. She was slipping her feet into her sneakers and reaching for a top when he said, "I'm riding the edge here, shortstuff. Don't push me."

Cassie stiffened. Shortstuff?! Now he'd gone too far. She turned to blast him, and her nose skidded through his light dusting of chest hair. Dang it. How did he sneak around so quietly? He was the master of all that was stealth.

His enticing scent filled her nostrils, shoved up against him as she was, and she breathed deeply until her lungs practically popped. It was all she could do not to purr and nuzzle in for a nice long visit. She wasn't even going to address the gleeful reactions her bare breasts were experiencing. The girls had gone to a much better place...and she hated to drag them away.

His big body actually trembled and he jerked the shirt from her hand, unfolded it with a snap of his wrist, then tugged it down her torso.

Scowling, she shoved her arms through the stretchy sleeves. She brushed her hair out of her face. "I didn't get to put on a bra," she groused.

He gripped her upper arms, his fingers kneading convulsively. "Leave it. You didn't put on any panties, either," he rasped, acting as if just talking about her underwear was doing it for him. "We don't have time."

"You can quit your I-must-have-you-now act. I'm going with you." Yes, she was dumb, but not dumb enough to stick around this hotbed of larcenous activity.

His fingers tightened on her arms to just this side of ow, ow, ow. He finally lost his low-level whisper to complain, "You think this is an act?" Then he pumped his value-size arousal against her stomach and groaned like a dying man.

And right then and there Cassie decided that she might have been a tad hasty in her angry reaction to his seduction routine for the lover's box. If this is how he wanted to play it, then more power to him and maybe they could have one for the road. A quickie before they made their escape.

Before she could make her offer, however, her bedroom door crashed open behind them. Her three other burglars had dropped by for their playdate. Oh, goody.

Max immediately shoved her behind him, going straight into crouching-hottie-hidden-dragon mode, his fists flying. He took on the men like a freakin' gladiator. She had no more than a moment to even register the spectacle when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a dark shadow lunge directly for her. Without thought, she threw herself backward onto her bed and somersaulted, legs flipping into the air. On the way over, her foot caught the baddie's chin, his head slamming back with a startled oof, while she finished the maneuver and came up standing on the other side.

Cassie gaped. She'd never moved like that before in her life, her actions pure reflex. Max did a double take, then barked at her to run like hell. And if he'd been fighting dirty before, he went downright insane now that one of the goons had made a grab for her.

Meanwhile, she was trying to figure out how she'd managed to pull that off. But she didn't have time to come up with an answer.

She heard a rush of air and automatically ducked. The body of another goon crashed into the bedside table next to her. The lamp that had been resting on it fell into her hands like a gift and, quick as a flash, she brought it down on the back of the guy's skull. He moaned, then slumped to the carpet, no longer moving.

She turned back to the fight and watched Max finish off the third goon with a brutal right hook. Damn. Then her fantasy lover clamped his hand down on her wrist and ran.

## 5

"I LIKE YOUR WHEELS. Nice get-away truck," Cassie said between gasps, trying to sound as withering as possible with her lungs screaming for oxygen. "Is it just me, though, or could you not have parked any farther away from my house?"

Max shot her a look. "We're only a couple of blocks away." He slammed the door, rocking the beat-up truck. She knew he wasn't particularly angry at her comment, merely in a hurry. Also, he probably needed the momentum just to get the dented thing to swing shut.

She clutched the backpack in her lap, looking back and forth between the windshield and rear window to keep an eye out for nebulous bad guys giving chase. After Max had won enough rounds of the WWE Smack-Down back in her bedroom, he'd all but dragged her in his swift, athletic wake.

She hadn't complained, though. As they'd scrambled out of the house she'd imagined some tough muscle car waiting nearby—him sliding across the hood, her jumping into the passenger seat, and then she and Max speeding away in a blaze of badass glory.

One street over, and a slew of her neighbors' yards a memory beneath her feet, she'd wheezed for him to get the car and come back for her. He'd ignored her and run faster. Could she help it if her hobbies were geared more toward power napping and reading than Bowflexing and jogging? Then she'd spotted their chariot—a fine candidate for the next makeover on Pimp My Ride.

Within moments of collapsing inside the truck—well, she'd collapsed, he was barely even breathing fast—Max had two wires pulled free from beneath the dash. He touched them together and pumped the gas. The second the engine rumbled to life, he rammed it into gear and gunned it. Shockingly, the truck hauled butt and they roared down the road.

Based on his lack of keys, she assumed he was a car thief on top of being a relic-hunting thrill seeker. For a moment she contemplated taking the affronted route, then thought big whoop. Ron had worked nine to five doing IT support. A regular paycheck hadn't made him any less of a putz.

Cassie did have a bit of an attitude problem with Max's loaner, though. She sniffed, shifting in her seat and jabbing at the upholstery underneath her leg. "I guess your Mercedes is in the shop?"

He turned south, toward the highway, and checked the rearview mirror. "This isn't mine. I liberated it from the long-term lot at the airport."

She muttered, "And I have no doubt it's been waiting there since 1980 for its owner's return." Trying to find a spot where the seat wasn't actively goosing her, she squirmed around some more and said, "Wasn't there anything better to choose from? Like a Ford Pinto? Or maybe a luxury Pacer?"

Max glanced at the back of his hand, then sucked on a bruised knuckle. "The more expensive the car, the faster it's reported stolen. Police take the recovery more seriously." Shrugging, he added, "The tires are good. The engine's sound. Who cares what it looks like?"

Cassie could only hope that he approached the longevity of his sexual partners with the same practical attitude, and found diminutive stature and an instant addiction to his penis equally as commendable. Based on the fact that they'd already gotten their groove on once, and on his ability to see their vehicle's "inner qualities," this seemed promising.

He winced and stretched his jaw from side to side, assessing the damage. "Don't tell me you're one of those women who judges a guy by what he drives?"

Cassie snorted. "A really sensitive topic for you, I'm sure, given your looks." She had no doubt that he could trot around on the back of a donkey and women would clamor for a chance to ride pillion on his noble steed. "And no, I'm the kind of woman who's lazy and out of shape, and likes her transportation parked within steps of the exit. I'm also the type who hates seat springs poking my rear end when I sit in a vehicle. Especially after running miles just to reach the appalling thing."

Max grunted. "Yeah, well, there were reasons why I didn't leave it running at your front curb."

Yes. He'd been planning to rob her and didn't want to tip anyone off. Everyone had their pros and cons. Max Stone's just happened to be both.

He held up a hand, clearly anticipating her next question. "Victor's men saw your car in the driveway. They haven't seen this truck. If they do manage to catch up with us, yours would have been too easy to spot."

"Well, the junk-man cover is a winner, let me tell you. We should be safe enough to put everything on hold and take an extended road trip to see America by highway."

Cassie sighed and dropped her head back against the seat. The vinyl was ripped and itched the back of her head, but she didn't bother moving. A nice wide roll of silver tape, the repair item of choice in redneck luxury cruisers like this one, and they'd be set.

Laughing at her previous comeback, he lifted his hand to his face. He prodded at various sore spots, then moved to his ribs. She wanted to cluck and coo over him, but instead gripped the door handle and kept herself glued to her side of the bench seat.

If she started in with the first-aid crap, she'd probably get sidetracked and offer him a medicinal blow job instead. He was still the absolute sexiest thing her ovaries had ever encountered. And she was pathetic.

Max was still chuckling softly. "You're really funny, you know that? Spunky. I like it, but it's gonna get you in trouble one day. Just a warning."

Cassie's mouth pulled flat at the "spunky" comment. "Stop," she said, her voice deadpan. "Next you'll be telling me I have a great personality."

"Hmm." He cocked his head and rubbed his jaw. "I don't know about that. You've been pretty pissy for a while now, peanut. Though I think I know what might cheer you up...." He wiggled his eyebrows, and she forced herself not to pounce on him like a rabid wolverine.

She had no doubt that he was a walking mood elevator, but she was enjoying her grouchiness. It was the only thing keeping her in her pants and off his lap.

She also ignored the "peanut" crack. She was sort of starting to like the obnoxious nicknames he kept using, which showed just how low the horny had fallen. Oh, brother. She was the opposite of pussy whipped. She was dick whipped. Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.

As they merged onto the main interstate, heading toward Miami, Max flicked his attention to the rearview mirror for the dozenth time.

"Any signs of Huey, Dewey and Louie?" she asked.

"No," he said, the corner of his mouth kicking up. "By the time they dragged themselves off the floor, we were out of there."

"Good. Then we're safe?"

"Yes. More or less. For now, anyway."

Cassie didn't like the sound of that, but planned to address all his cryptic remarks and said, "Then, Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do. Who the hell is Victor, and why did he send his evil henchmen after my box? For that matter, what sort of man even has evil henchmen?"

She might not be an antiquities expert, but come on. How big a market could there possibly be for a ninety-year-old lover's box, in poor condition, with questionable magical powers in the bedroom? And the Gypsy love charm supposedly only worked if a woman used the box, not a man. Oh, yeah, a very hot item. Even if they tried eBay, last year's Beanie Babies would probably bring in higher bids. So what was the deal?

Then Cassie paused. A niggling memory tickled the edges of her thoughts. Something important. A particular word that Max had used back when they were still at her house. A term he'd uttered while he'd brought her to unholy levels of pleasure with nothing more than his wickedly skilled fingers. Some significant remark he'd made that had been sifted to the side while she'd tried to accept that he had only come to steal her lover's box.

Max chuckled, jerking her back to the here and now. "Yep. Spunky," he said. She contemplated slugging him in his battered ribs. Next he'd be calling her feisty. He made her feel like Mighty Mouse.

He also gave those a-mazing orgasms over which she'd earlier rhapsodized, so she said only, "I'm flattered," in a tone that suggested she clearly wasn't. "But enough with the sweet talk. Who's Victor, and why does he want my box?"

He made a face, appearing to be more hassled than angry. As if this Victor guy was a pain in the ass, but one he was used to. "Sworn enemy. He worked for my father, and—" He broke off. "It's not worth going into, believe me. Stupid crap that all started ages ago. It's the longest relationship I've ever been in and I'm ready to break up. He just won't listen when I tell him that we've grown apart and it's time we both moved on."

Cassie grinned in spite of herself. But if he thought that he was going to get away with the short version, then she'd show him "spunky."

Before she could start in with the questions, however, he added as an aside, "And though I realize that we could go back and forth all night on this, it's my box. Minerva stole it from me."

"Yes, you've mentioned that," she said, momentarily distracted from the ever-mysterious Victor. "But while we're on the topic, just how exactly did my elderly great-aunt supposedly rob you?" Though, really, Cassie should cut the guy some slack. Minerva was no ordinary woman. Her age was hardly a factor.

Max's expression completely soured, his mouth pulling into a thin line. She couldn't blame him. A dastardly nemesis was probably preferable to Minerva's antics. "Three days ago, I was in a bar in St. Petersburg. I bought the lover's box from this Russian, er..." He frowned and hesitated. His eyes darted toward her, then back to the windshield. "Well, he's sort of like a dealer, or a supplier, really—"

Cassie sighed. "I'm not a Pollyanna. The guy is obviously a fence. The box was probably stolen in the first place. So, go on." She waved her hand.

Max quirked an eyebrow, but continued. "Anyway, I bought the box, then decided to have a few drinks."

"In other words, you were drunk."

"On my way."

"And Minerva tackled you to the ground and stole your box? Wow. She's got skills. Too bad she wasn't here tonight to help you with the fight."

"No. She played up the harmless-old-lady bit and caught me in a weak moment."

"Minerva? A helpless old lady?" Cassie couldn't help snickering.

A muscle started to tick along his jaw. "Hell," he grumbled. "Every hunter on the scene knows Minerva Parker. I was only a kid the first time I saw her in action. Our paths hadn't crossed in years, but when she creaked up to me, all rickety shuffle and stooped posture, I fell for it, figuring she had to be almost a century old by now. Give me a break. It wasn't until I tracked her down, when I went after my box, that she quit the granny act. Then, of course, I had visual proof that she's aged like a flippin' vampire."

Laughing outright, Cassie managed to say, "You're right. Minerva and Lestat. They're both ageless."

Talking over Cassie's latest burst of laughter, Max said, "Enough about the devil-aunt. Bottom line, she stumbled into my bar stool, chattered my ear off and at some point slipped the lover's box from my pack. Probably while I was trying to keep her from breaking a hip," he grumbled.

"Huh. It's not much of a story."

His eyes widening, he shot her an incredulous look. "Do you honestly think I'd make that up?"

Cassie thought about his question for all of a second, then broke into another round of hysterics.

"And would you mind sitting still?" He scowled at her. "One more wiggle and I'm pulling over. Every part of my body aches, including my favorite one, and I'd rather wait till we find a hotel."

Cassie's poor heart had just started to return to a semi-normal rate, and his intimations were like a kick from a pair of cardio paddles. He should yell out "clear" like they did in the E.R. before he started in with the sex stuff.

Frustrated with how quickly the man could arouse her, and admittedly loopy on the hormone rush, she opened her mouth to tell him to knock it off with the fake flirting. Then she promptly closed it, remembering that this would be counterproductive to her goal of fornicating with him as much as humanly possible until he got away.

But pride was vicious evil, and while one portion of her brain was telling her to deep-throat her dignity and do absolutely nothing that might jeopardize her chances of going Kama Sutra with his bad self at the earliest opportunity, another part was saying, Show some self-respect, girl, he's just using you, yada, yada, yada....

Well, it was obvious which side was winning and Cassie didn't make a peep.

Meanwhile, Max winced, carefully straightened his left leg and tugged at the seam of his pants. Once he'd gotten everything smoothed out, so to speak, he asked in a casual tone, "So, uh, what exactly did Minerva tell you about the box when she sent it?"

Cassie frowned at him beneath her lashes. He was not so subtly fishing for information, trying to figure out what she knew without sharing anything he didn't have to. Men, she thought, turning her head to look out the passenger window. The palmetto trees and scrub brush bordering the highway were a dark, indistinct blur.

She was weighing and discarding various answers when suddenly the hugely important piece of the puzzle—which, a few minutes ago, she'd been racking her brain to remember—popped into her head with all the drama and brilliance of a light switch flipping on a Broadway marquee. Treasure! Max's erotic voice had definitely rasped out the word treasure.

"Well," he prompted, his wrist draped across the upper curve of the steering wheel while his thumb tapped out an agitated rhythm. But Cassie barely spared him a glance, just held up her finger in the universal sign for give me a second.

Her thoughts were racing. Was the legend of great sex not enough? The box supposedly led to a treasure, too?

Jeez-Louise. She didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed. At this rate, there was probably a government conspiracy theory lurking around the damned thing, and next the CIA would be gunning for the box. Wait. Scratch that. Minerva had mailed the crappy curio from Russia. Make that the KGB, or whatever they were now called. Wonderful. They were much scarier.

Cassie practically gaped down at the backpack on her lap that held the lover's box inside. What the hell kind of nightmare gift had Minerva sent her? People had been known to kill for treasure!

Meanwhile, Max heaved a sigh of the mightily aggrieved, and said, "This isn't exactly final Jeopardy. I only asked what Minerva told you about the box."

Cassie flipped another finger in Max's direction, one with an entirely different universal sign, and he barked out a laugh. Then she basically ignored him.

Now was not the time to answer any of Max's sneaky, self-serving questions. It was time to figure out what the heck was going on with the lover's box, then panic.

Not that she felt all that much like panicking. And if she were being honest, she was more interested than alarmed at the prospect of the box's somehow being linked to a treasure. The danger didn't seem like all that big a deal, and, so far, she'd handled it just fine, and the adventure part sounded way cool, and—

Ack! Cassie stilled, her eyes going wide. The hair on her arms practically stood on end. Okay, she was losing it. Big-time. But she, Cassie Parker—high queen of the wimps—had just used danger and adventure in the same run-on thought.

Biting her lip, she dug her fingers into the canvas fabric of the backpack. All right. It was too weird, and she'd already been suckered once tonight into believing that the lover's box had made her fantasy come true, but there were certain facts she just couldn't ignore: A) she'd had sex with a tattooed stud who was large and in charge behind his zipper; B) her back somersault, foot to the bad guy's face had been mega kick-ass; C) running for their lives followed by a quick getaway in a stolen jalopy definitely fell under the danger heading; D) the quest for treasure was about as adventurous as adventure got; and E) the excitement part of the fantasy had been fulfilled on all levels, cut the recap, enough said.

Just then Cassie heard a loud thwock! and jerked in her seat. Max had snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Hey, peanut, you in there? I've been calling your name for about a minute now."

She frowned at him and batted his hand away. "Don't do that. And before you rupture a spleen or something, yes, yes, I know about the treasure." She shrugged, as blasé as if she were talking about meat loaf for dinner.

Some newfound instinct told her to play the whole scene casual, and she went with it. Besides, as neat-o as the whole secret treasure thing might be, she was far more concerned about the truly important things in life—like did the Gypsy sex charm really work, thus giving her the power to fulfill her rapacious carnal hungers whenever struck by whim, or was she the victim of placebo Gypsy magic?

Admittedly, not the first snag that most people would need cleared up, but what could she say.

Max cursed and banged the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. "Of course, the devil-aunt told you about the treasure. I don't know why I bothered asking," he griped. "As we speak, she's probably mouthing off to some asshole back in St. Petersburg, just waiting to join the chase."

Only halfway paying attention to his rant, Cassie made a sort of neutral grunt. Who knew what the heck Minerva was doing? And who cared? She couldn't be bothered with all that right now, and needed to figure out whether or not she had access to occult powers that would make her every kinky dream come true. She'd worry about the stupid treasure later.

Obviously, there was only one way to know for sure if the lover's box was under a Gypsy sex spell. She needed to write another fantasy. And it needed to be a doozy. None of that generic stuff. Cassie needed to come up with something daring...something exotic...something that would rule out pity sex, yet not drag in barnyard animals.

She spotted a billboard advertising a cheap hotel coming up in a few miles. Perfect. They needed a room. And she needed a pen and some privacy to remove her nipple ring, unlock the box and fill in the next page of her diary.

"So we're safe now, right? No chance of any big bad guys finding us?"

Max had still been bitching about Minerva when she'd interrupted, and he broke off and asked, "Huh?"

"I mean it's safe to stop, right? Maybe find a place to sleep for the rest of the night? It's so late and I'm really, really tired...." Giving an exaggerated yawn, she started shifting in her seat and wiggling her hips. In slow-mo, with a lip lick and a hair toss thrown in for good measure. Then she pointed up ahead. "I saw a sign and we can get a room at the next exit. What do you think?"

Max did a double take while the truck swerved. Then he nodded his head and flipped on the turn signal.

## 6

CASSIE UNLOCKED THE LOVER'S BOX. In the background she could hear the water running from the hotel room's dinky shower while Max washed off random smears of blood and accompanying grime earned during his earlier fight. Meanwhile, she'd pretty much exhausted her powers of imagination picturing him naked, soapy and wet. Hubba-hubba...But she had things to do before he finished up and came back into the room, and she needed to get busy.

She'd already wasted too much time fluffing her hair, slipping off her clothes, then wrapping herself in one of the bedsheets as if it were the latest in lingerie-inspired fashion.

Cassie snagged the plastic pen from the bedside table, then turned her diary to the second page. The problem was that she had no more idea of what to scribble down as the next installment in Cassie Parker's Wild and Woolly Sex Diary than she'd had earlier tonight.

Except that instead of being in her bedroom with a glass of wine and all the time in the world to come up with something nifty, she was stuck in the roach motel and had five minutes tops before Max Stone hopped out of the shower and caught her trying to use Gypsy voodoo to get him in the sack.

In other words, Cassie had around three-hundred seconds to come up with something kinky enough to be outside the realm of normal sex yet tame enough that if the Gypsy sex charm actually worked Cassie had something left to try that didn't involve a leather-clad dominatrix with a scary German accent and a paddle.

Cripes. What to write...what to write...? Her gaze darted to the flimsy bathroom door while she tapped her pen in a spastic beat on the glaringly blank white page.

Okay, she told herself. Forget fancy and exotic. She was a washout in the kinky department. Apparently her imagination had no natural middle ground between missionary position with a real, live male and absurd porno stereotypes. Bottom line, she needed to figure out what sort of sexual acts, whether tame or depraved, her body craved to enact with Max Stone if given another chance, then start writing.

Well, duh, that was easy. With the über-hottie as her muse, she immediately had her answer, and almost pumped her fist in the air and shouted out ye-e-e-es!

Cassie promptly put pen to paper. She wanted full access to Max Stone's totally naked body anywhere and anytime she desired. She wanted the power to merely think about him in the buff and he would strip down, ready and raring to go.

Okay, so she wanted to work through some of her leftover issues. In hindsight, and with her hate goggles firmly in place, Cassie could now see just how selfish a lover Ron had been. Sex had been at his initiation, and he'd turned her down more times than any woman's self-esteem should ever have to endure. Of course, on the rare, rare (had she mentioned rare) occasions when Ron had wanted it, she'd been expected to drop everything and immediately assume whatever position he was in the mood for.

Now, to some, this might not seem as self-esteem devouring as she knew it to be. However, trust her on this one, it was a lulu. Becoming a caricature of Mrs. Roper from Three's Company crossed with Peg Bundy from Married with Children whenever Cassie wanted some lovin' was the mental equivalent of bathing suit shopping with Pamela Anderson every day for a year. There wasn't enough positive thinking in the world to get over that kind of head game.

Cassie had fallen for the beta, nice-guy crap Ron had faked at the beginning of their relationship, and hadn't seen him for the demon-sucking font of evil he really was until it was too late. Which just made her feel like even more of a loser.

Well, no more. Cassie had no idea how long any of this would last with Max, but it was her one chance, and as long as she was testing the lover's box, she was going to write down what she really and truly desired.

She wanted Max and his sexuality wide open and at her disposal. Especially his body. It fascinated her. He fascinated her, and she wanted to pose his nude length, then lick, and kiss and bite him anywhere and everywhere she pleased. She wanted him to masturbate in front of her, and to watch him climax. She wanted to lie back and have him climb up her until his knees rested by her shoulders, and then she wanted him to slide that huge, hard cock of his deep into her mouth.

She wanted anything-goes sex—no shyness, no balking, nothing but pure excitement. The more revealing her requests, the more aroused he would become. Total access whenever and however she wanted.

Pretty darn pleased with herself, she locked the diary inside the lover's box. She returned the little key to the thin gold hoop, lowering the sheet and sliding her nipple ring back into place. And right then, the moment she got the ring onto her breast, she heard the shower cut off. Her eyes wide, she turned her head toward the bathroom while the tiny key at her nipple practically vibrated and sent an erotic pulse of heat spreading across her skin.

Cassie's voice was a froggy croak as she whispered, "No flippin' way...."

AFTER TEN MINUTES of freezing cold water pounding away at him, Max's brain was finally a little clearer. Oh, he still wanted Cassie Parker, all right, more than he'd ever wanted another woman. All that was the same, just with the painful edge of urgency mercifully eased. He could at least think around his desire. A decided improvement over his physical condition for the last couple of hours. Bizarre and admittedly scary as hell, but there you had it.

Of course, his good buddy was still hanging a little too stiff and thick for Max's liking, and that was after jacking off the second he'd stepped under the water. For now he ignored the eager thing, even the minimal relief better than nothing. And hopefully, by taking the matter in hand, so to speak, he wouldn't embarrass himself with the whole speed issue as he had earlier.

Hell. At the memory of how quickly he'd been ready to come the minute he'd slid inside the goddess, a flash of heat scored his cheekbones. He felt about sixteen years old. And the feeling sucked. It really did.

From the moment he'd clapped eyes on Cassie Parker he'd been following a whole new set of instincts and none of them made sense. Neither his thoughts nor his actions. Any second he expected the theme song to The Twilight Zone to start playing in the background.

To say that he was acting out of character by plotting all the different ways he could go at the goddess like a horny jackrabbit rather than just taking the lover's box and ditching her the first chance he got was the understatement of the century.

Not to mention that his jackrabbit plan shouldn't even be an option no matter how smokin' hot she was. Hell, her great-aunt had stolen the lover's box from him once already. For all he knew, the goddess was in cahoots with her sticky-fingered relative and was just biding her time before she tried to sneak off and go after the treasure herself.

Even worse than his chronic boner and his general indifference to his start date for finding the Gypsy king's riches was the realization that he genuinely liked Cassie Parker. A lot. Found her fascinating. Every shocking thing she did, and every smart-ass word she uttered. In his experience, this was unheard of.

He, Max Stone, was completely smitten. Twitterpated. The victim of a schoolboy crush. Well, a grownup, highly pornographic crush, anyway. And the more she chattered at him, the worse it got. She cracked him up. Which almost scared him more than the rest combined. Any female who made him want to laugh and come at the same time was one dangerous woman. And he preferred his danger of the life-or-death variety. Not the leash-around-his-prick variety. That he'd most likely already had the line snapped on, with a gal the size of Tinker Bell pulling the lead, should have him freaking right the hell out. But it wasn't.

Now, contrary to his present behavior, he wasn't a total moron and he had his suspicions about what this meant. However, soul mate and love at first sight were concepts he'd always mentally filed away under the heading, Shit To Be Avoided. Max was just plain not up to dealing with the dilemma of his feelings right this very second.

He'd ponder all that freaky crap later. Like in forty-eight hours or so, after he'd completed his horny-jackrabbit plan. Then he would do what any normal man would—sensibly ignore his scary-ass feelings toward the teacup goddess, then get his box and get the hell out. After, of course, making sure that Victor was aware of the fact that Cassie Parker was completely out of the hunt for the treasure, and that he'd hang Vic's balls from his rearview mirror if his goons ever went near Cassie again. And after, of course, he also made sure that Cassie understood that he was not going to be dicked around by the Parker women anymore.

A couple of days of no-holds-barred sex, and he'd be back in control and back in the game. But the idea of being back in control and back in the game didn't cheer him up like it should. And he was scared as hell he knew why.

Aware that there was probably a full-blown scowl on his face, Max flipped open the tiny bottle, then shampooed his hair. Moving his hands through the lather and trying to think about absolutely nothing, he suddenly stilled and every muscle in his body went tense. His tattoo, even with the cool water spraying over his skin, started throbbing with pulses of heat.

His damn cock, which had finally fallen to half-mast, lengthened in stiff jerks until he was hard enough to cut diamonds. Just like that, Max was desperate and dying to be back inside Cassie. Now. And before he had any real idea what he was doing, he quickly rinsed his hair then turned off the spray.

He flung back the plastic curtain, the metal hooks whirring along the steel rod. He was pulled by an overwhelming compulsion. Cassie wanted him—needed him—urgently, and he needed to be there for her. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

Dripping water in little puddles, he started reaching for a towel, then hesitated. Somehow, it just seemed like a bad idea...Then he thought, screw it, pulled open the door and strode into the bedroom.

"OHMYGOSH, ohmygosh, ohmygosh" Cassie muttered, feeling her eyes go impossibly wide when she spotted Max.

She held up her hand and managed to say, "Wait." Her thoughts were a jumbled mess. His striding out like a wet, naked warrior was too much to be a fluke. Nothing made sense.

He immediately paused while she gaped. She wanted to wave her hand toward him like a magician's assistant—ta-da! All she could think was, look at him. Just look at him. The absolutely sexiest human in existence. And he's mine. All mine. Until he robs me and takes off, I get to play with him at will. Yippee! Yeah! Yahoo!

Cassie Parker had never seen anything like Max Stone going full monty for her own private viewing pleasure. He was magnificent. He was...heck, adjectives hadn't yet been invented that would do him justice.

His beautiful, almost shoulder-length hair, with its rainbow of colors from warm browns to antique golds, was now wet and slicked darkly to his head.

His piercing blue-green eyes were heavy-lidded and bright—the ultimate bedroom eyes. His nose was narrow and straight. Well, normally it was. Now, the bridge was puffy and red from where one of the goons had gotten in a punch. Yet this didn't detract from the overall picture. The bruises that shadowed his jaw and cheekbone, and those marring his ribs, could have been applied by a master artist. They drew the eye toward his masculine lines and somehow highlighted the perfection of bone and muscle as if he were the very essence of man, beautiful yet wounded in battle. The ultimate warrior.

The symmetry of his features, his entire face and form were, well...in her opinion, Max Stone was the standard by which all men should be judged. Enough said. It was too much, really, for one poor pair of eyeballs to take in.

She could see his Adam's apple bob while he swallowed, the small movement filled with tension. Beads of water dripped down his sculpted torso, and his nipples were puckered tight against his damp, glistening skin. Any chill he might be feeling, however, was not affecting his massive erection.

Yeesh. When the lover's box delivered, it some kind of delivered....

His voice a husky rumble, he said, "Tell me what you want. Anything. Everything. Just don't hold me off."

She stared, the sight dizzying. "No," she managed. "I would never hold you off." And, boy, was that the truth. Yep. She was going insane. Because the lover's box must really work. The evidence was too great to ignore.

She would never normally be able to flip on every tacky lamp in the room so as not to miss a single glorious inch of his manly perfection. She would have felt too awkward or embarrassed. But not now. Not tonight...

As she'd turned up the lights, Max's gaze had followed her every action. He stood in the center of the carpet, sopping wet from head to toe, his hands spreading wide, then fisting. He looked like he was on display, an artist's model, or a living human-anatomy lesson.

His diabolically sexy tattoo curved from halfway down his taut buttock, over and around his hip, to spread across the front of his groin and pubic area on the left side. One of the dragon's claws arched onto his thigh, the other reached toward his thick cock. Lordy, lordy, the man had it going on.

She could practically hear her heart pounding. The power rushing through every capillary in her body almost made her sway on her feet. Watching him, especially his engorged shaft, she ached for release. She felt no awkwardness or conflicting emotion, only anticipation.

As if he'd spoken in her mind, she knew that he wanted nothing more than to give her pleasure. Anything she requested. Everything she wanted from him and more, fantasies she hadn't even thought of yet. All for her satisfaction, the culmination of her desires.

"What are you waiting for?" his voice grated. "Tell me what to do...."

Her own voice husky, she whispered, "Touch yourself. Stroke your cock like you do when you're alone and no one's watching."

His nostrils flared and he cursed, but his hand went to his length as if pulled by a magnet. As soon as he clasped himself, he made a broken sound. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and she could see him grit his teeth, his jaw clenching.

His erection strained, the head dark red. He clamped his hand tightly, then slowly slid along his shower-dampened flesh to the thick knob at the top. Then, as if waiting to make sure that she didn't miss a second of his progress, he slightly eased his firm grip and unhurriedly slipped back downward until the side of his wrist touched the dense nest of hair at his base.

Then he did it again. And again...and again...

As he methodically worked his fist up, the center vein would press flat, then rush full on each measured downstroke. He knew his own rhythm, what he liked, and she could feel a gush of moist heat trickle between her legs.

She stepped closer, mesmerized, her clitoris throbbing with its own pulse. She stood at his side, her breath coming in quick gasps that matched his as she watched. Thick tears of pearly fluid rained from the tip, adding a wet, clicking sound every time he'd glide his fist, deliberate and firm, over the ridge at the head of his penis.

Somehow she found her voice and said, "Move your feet apart a little more. I want your legs wider."

His eyelids flew up and his stunning blue-green gaze latched on to hers. She froze, the moment painfully intimate. Arousing beyond anything she'd experienced. His large, chiseled thighs flexed as if he fought her request yet had no choice but to obey, and he shifted his stance.

She reached out, bringing her hand to his flank. He hissed in a breath and lost his rhythm. His tattoo, the beautiful ink design that she found so, so delicious and fascinating, was incredibly warm beneath her palm. She almost expected it to move and writhe beneath her fingers, the artwork stunning and hypnotic.

Her hands trembling, she reached up and jerked open the knot of her makeshift robe. It fell to the ground but she barely noticed. She couldn't look away from the slow, hypnotic pumps along his length, and she pressed herself to his side, rubbing her breasts against the thick muscles of his arm. The contact made him flinch.

"Shit..." He muttered the curse, over and over, clearly fighting not to change the pace he'd set.

The muscles in his stomach contracted, then heaved in and out with his bellowing lungs, and he started fisting his shaft faster, stronger. With his stance wider, she pressed her mound against the side of his upper thigh and hip, widening her own thighs and letting her wet flesh drag and glide, her curls and damp center sliding against his skin, rubbing herself against him.

His whole body stiffened and his cursing grew more inventive and louder. He locked his knees, keeping a firm stance that she couldn't rock off balance, his hand now mercilessly stroking his arousal.

She rose up on the balls of her feet and she whispered directly in his ear while she worked herself to orgasm, "I'm going to really touch you now, and you're going to let me."

He growled out a vicious sound and, again, speared her with his lightning-hot gaze. Their eyes locked together, she slid her hand down over his world-class backside, lower and lower. If possible, his length shot harder, his entire cock a deep, angry red as she slipped her fingers beneath to the smooth skin behind his sack. His testicles were pulled up tight to his body. He was going to go off any second.

She fondled and painstakingly explored everything she could reach. He started shaking, a juddering sound breaking behind his teeth. Making a little pincher between her forefinger and thumb, she rubbed and pinched the ridge of skin between his puckered flesh and his swaying bulge. Back and forth, over and over, with a slow twist of her wrist.

On and on, she watched and stared, moved and touched. Too much, too much, and Cassie found herself begging, "Please..."

Proving that he could wrestle control at any time, but had willingly handed her the reins, he said, "Please what...?" The words were practically torn from his throat they sounded so harsh.

"Come. Now," she panted.

"Then watch. Everything..."

As Cassie stared, Max's nostrils flared and his stomach contracted and right as her inner muscles convulsed and clamped down painfully, his penis jerked in his hand and he shot into the air, jet after jet of creamy fluid pulsing with each beat of his release. She could feel his climax beneath her fingers, his internal muscles giving one hard twitch after another, and she unbelievably came again as Max spent himself right into the air. Wide open, nothing hidden, every beat of his body and emotion racing across his face, his hips bucking forward and the swing of his heavy testicles bumping against the back of her hand and fingers.

It was beautiful, stunning, and she threw her free arm around his chest, keeping herself from dropping in a puddle to the floor.

Max wiped his hand against his stomach, rubbing the viscous fluid against his skin, making the ribbed bands of muscle shine. Then he turned and held her up, his strength awesome, as he whispered into her hair, "That was great, shortstuff. So what's next?"

## 7

BY THE NEXT MORNING, Max didn't think that there was a licensed physician on the planet who'd ever examined his bare body as attentively and thoroughly as had the tiny temptress. He'd have felt violated if he weren't so busy being grateful.

He'd been posed, viewed, touched, fondled, kissed, suckled and bitten in every possible spot where those things could be done. He'd come so hard and so many times that he wouldn't be surprised if she'd trained his sex to perform for her at will. Voice commands, hand signals, you name it and he'd respond to it as if she was the one giving the orders.

Hours earlier, when they'd finally fallen into bed—back when he'd been spraddled across the sheets and she'd all but devoured him whole—her variation on sixty-nine had been so mind-blowing he could have died right there and been a happy man. Every time he touched her it was too good to be true. Almost surreal. The two of them together approached the stuff of fantasies.

Their hotel stay had been phenomenal, and they hadn't even gotten around to intercourse. She'd had him use his own hands on his body, then her hands on his body, then her mouth on his body, then let him try his mouth on her body at the same time.... Hell, as amazing as it all had been, they really hadn't known each other long enough to be bored with the basics yet, and he was actually starting to crave a shot at straight missionary.

When a guy was starting to dream about good old-fashioned, plain vanilla sex just for a change of pace—and he'd known his partner for less than twenty-four hours, yet had sustained a practically constant erection in her presence like he was freebasing Viagra—well then, he was obviously on to something that was too good to let go of anytime soon. He might have just found himself a keeper.

Max sat up in the bed and swung his legs to the side, dropping his elbows to his knees. He stared absently at the wall and slowly shook his head. Yep, fate must be busting a gut and he plain didn't care, because he was...well, because he was content in a way he'd never been in his entire life. The constant restlessness that drove him was strangely stilled. Corny as it sounded, he felt as if he was finally coming home after being away too long.

Aw, crap. A woman he lo—, er, liked and some fantastic sex and he was blathering to himself like a sappy greeting card. Max immediately cut off the mushy thoughts. After all those orgasms, and the damn near perfect female who'd been responsible for them, he was in too fine a mood to ruin it by thinking about stupid stuff like his feelings.

All in all, regardless of the raging drive to bone her, if he quit it with the Hallmark junk, then he was back in control. His goals were clear: mate with the goddess until his body was one step from hospitalization, make sure Victor and his men were never a threat to her again, then go after the treasure.

There. That sounded good. Mostly. He'd just have to send his Johnson a memo when the time came.

Max yawned and rubbed his face. He could hear Cassie in the bathroom. She was humming something horrendous and off-key. It sounded suspiciously like the theme song from Raiders of the Lost Ark. He almost laughed out loud. Yep. She was dangerous as hell.

Smiling, no doubt like a buffoon, he walked over to his duffel bag. He bypassed his clothes. For some reason, every time he thought about getting dressed he just...couldn't. But he shrugged this off. Naked was easier, anyway, where the goddess was concerned.

He reached for his cell phone, then checked the bars on the screen. He had a full battery and he had satellite access. Technology was a wonderful thing. Since Max rarely stayed in one place for long, an international cell service was a must-have.

While he had a breather before Cassie came back into the bedroom and he was put to stud again, he needed to touch base with a couple of his contacts back in Russia. Even though he planned to lie low for a day or two, and let Cassie put him through his paces, it wouldn't hurt to start spreading the word that the box was back in his possession.

The faster Victor heard, the faster Cassie would no longer be a target. He'd only let her carry the lover's box in her pack because it was easier than arguing and it suited his more lustful purposes to keep her docile. On some level, she had to know that he could walk away with the shoddy antique anytime he wanted.

And while he was at it, it wouldn't hurt to put out a few feelers to see how Victor was handling the fact that Max had beaten him to the Gypsy king's box, again, then beat up his men. Not that Victor was a concerned employer. He simply loved to thwart Max and usually went ape whenever he failed.

Ten minutes later, however, and Max was the one ready to go primal....

"ARE YOU SURE THE DIARY is really that important to finding this, um, treasure stuff?" Cassie asked, trying to appear as if the loss of Stasi's diary was only a small setback, as well as appear knowledgeable about the whole treasure issue. Or at least not clueless on the topic. This wasn't going so well for her.

Unfortunately, she'd never given the other woman's diary another thought once she'd shoved it away inside her closet.

His jaw clenched hard enough that a muscle was bulging along the edge, Max gave a choppy, "Yes. Pretty important."

A few moments ago Max had roared her name repeatedly, she'd raced out of the bathroom like it was on fire, and then he'd loudly shared with her the details of his phone call. The basic gist of his lecture-a-thon was that Max had just contacted some of his associates—people like himself who played the black market like a bunch of eBay sellers. According to his cohorts in crime, word on the street was that Victor's men had Stasi's diary and he had set up a private sale for tomorrow night. Which meant that the goons had ransacked her bedroom after Cassie and Max had left, and were taking the dang thing to St. Petersburg.

Talk about hitting another snag.

Even worse, Cassie had no idea what the treasure was, any of the legend that connected this hidden wealth to the lover's box, or how Stasi's diary was supposed to help someone find it. Oh, or why this Victor fella was such an asshole.

Minerva hadn't even mentioned the treasure when she'd sent Cassie the box. Well, that, or Cassie had been so distracted by all the making-her-sex-fantasies-come-true stuff that she'd missed everything else. But that didn't seem likely. Yes, she was lonely and desperate, but she was greedy, too. Reading about a treasure would've at least earned a mental footnote.

Cassie ignored the fact that Max was magnificently angry and eyeing her like a horny python who wanted to strangle her and screw her at the same time. She'd somehow managed to drag her clothes on while he'd been yelling at her earlier, and she now walked to her backpack, tossed her makeup bag inside and took out her brush.

Her face warmed. She'd remembered makeup, hair gel and birth control pills but had completely forgotten Stasi's diary. Apparently, she hadn't matured past high school. Put her around a hot guy and her priorities turned to beauty aids and contraceptives. Still blushing, she took a quick peek at Max, then thought Screw maturity. She defied any woman not to primp around that hunk.

She stood in front of the mirror hanging above the room's one shabby dresser and started brushing out her hair. "I don't understand why Victor would want to sell the diary."

Max's expression turned menacing. "He's an idiot, so I don't always have a complete handle on his motivations. But at a guess, I'd say there are a few possibilities. One, he's trying to smoke me out. Either to see if I'll offer him some kind of trade for the diary or because he plans to ambush me, steal the box and go after the treasure himself. Two, he's just a mean-spirited son of a bitch and would sell the diary and ruin his own chances of getting the treasure just to make sure I don't get it, either. Or three, someone's willing to pay a whole hell of a lot of money for the diary, and they've made Victor an offer he can't refuse. My money's on the ambush theory, but I could be wrong."

Cassie said something clever like, "Gluck," then cleared her throat. She'd caught the basic gist of his assessment but, since he was naked and his diabolically sexy tattoo had been all but winking at her and crooking one of its clever claws in her direction with the distinct suggestion of would you like to pet me or hop on my back for a quick ride, she wasn't at her deductive best.

Cassie bolstered the impression that she was a complete ninny by ignoring the importance of his explanation. Instead, she said, "Umm, would you...er...uh...mind maybe putting some clothes on?"

Her request didn't exactly improve his temperament and he gritted out, "I can't. I've tried." He shook his head, his expression a mix of bafflement and exasperation.

This time Cassie's face more than warmed. It flamed. Apparently, even when she wasn't trying, she was a total horn dog. "Oh. Well. You might want to try again. I have a feeling it'll work this time."

Max threw up his hands and shook his head. "Whatever." He marched to his duffel bag and pulled out a clean pair of cargos. He looked mildly surprised when he was actually able to step into them.

Watching him, it was all Cassie could do not to grin smugly and rub her hands together. These little reminders of just how well the box worked were coo-wel. And they made her all the more determined to hang on to the silly-looking antique no matter the cost.

Victor would have to rip the Gypsy king's box from her kung-fu grip, then step over her dead and prone body if he hoped to steal it. There was no way in hell she was giving up Max Stone or the Gypsy relic/sex toy.

But Cassie still didn't understand how the diary was supposed to help them find a treasure. "You know, I pretty much read the entire diary that Rajko's lover wrote. Sometimes she went by Krasili, but she mostly signed her stuff as Stasi. And unless Stasi used a complex code of various sexual positions for keys on a map, then I don't see how her journal would lead anyone to a treasure."

Max had been reaching for his shirt. He stilled. "Is that all this Stasi wrote about?"

Cassie hesitated, mentally squirming. She really didn't want to touch this one with a ten-foot pole. So far, Max hadn't said a word about the sexual fantasy stuff and, if he didn't already know, then the last thing she wanted to do was spill the beans. Not to mention that it was her own diary presently locked inside Rajko's box and the reason for his insatiable attitude where she was concerned.

Hoping her expression was suitably filled with lust for mysterious treasure and not his shag-u-licious bod, she tried to sound discouraged. "Yep. Just page after page of how much she loved her Gypsy rescuer, then on and on about what she dreamed of doing to and with him now that they were together."

He zeroed in on one of her words. "Rescuer?"

She shrugged. "Stasi doesn't go into specifics, but she gives the impression that Rajko saved her life. That he was her hero." Cassie waved her hand. "You know, romantic stuff like how she would've died if he hadn't found her and now that he had, she'd die if she couldn't do him morning, noon and night. But nothing about a stash of gold bars, or Spanish doubloons. And I would have noticed a map of an island with a big X at Dead-Man's Cave, if I'd seen it. I don't understand why you and this Victor think Stasi's diary is so important."

That was the least of what she didn't understand, but it was a good starting place.

Max barked out a laugh. "You got the wrong scene playing in your mind, shortstuff. Minerva should have given you a better debriefing."

True. Minerva's debriefing had stuck to one topic and it hadn't been treasure.

"Rajko wasn't a pirate off the Barbary Coast. Forget Black Bart or Captain Hook with a map and a big X." Chuckling, he shook his he head. "Though I did think Tinker Bell when I first saw you, so I guess you can't help it."

Must he make her feel like an actual pygmy? And she looked nothing like Tinker Bell. But since the four-inch-tall cartoon character was more hot than not, Cassie supposed there were worse comparisons, and, instead of killing him, she only stuck out her tongue, then said, "Shut up. Seriously. You're being a pain."

He grinned. "And you're seriously cute." Then he grabbed her and planted a quick, toe-curling kiss on her mouth. Do not picture him naked, do not picture him naked, she chanted to herself while she gasped for air. It must have worked, because Max finished dressing and went on with his mini history lesson.

"We're talking jewels, peanut. A czar's ransom worth, according to legend. Think Russia before the revolution. Filthy-rich aristocrats dripping furs and jewels, and starving, barefoot peasants in the balmy snow."

Please. Cassie was female, she liked romance novels and she'd read Susan Johnson's early works, so she immediately caught the vision. But she didn't want to interrupt, and merely nodded and twirled her hand in a hurry up motion. Fortunately, her faux pas on the type of treasure they were after seemed to have mellowed his earlier mad-on and loosened his tongue.

"And as far as this Stasi woman's diary is concerned, nobody knows whether it's important or not. That's the whole point. Most historians don't even think the box existed, let alone that Rajko really had a treasure. Right or wrong, Gypsies were known for stealing and fortune-telling. Not for amassing wealth. When my old man was alive, he was one of the few people who believed Rajko's lover was the secret to the legend—that the treasure was probably hers. It was also one of the few original theories he ever had. He normally wasn't one to disagree with popular academic thought."

Though Max had sounded totally indifferent when he'd mentioned his father, she paused. Cassie might not know her own father—men never fared well with the Parker gals—but she empathized with his loss. Also, she wanted a peek inside Max's head. "Oh, I'm sorry your dad passed away. Has it been long?"

He shot her a funny look. "Oka-a-ay. A bit off topic. But, uh, no, it's fine. He died a while ago. And we were never what you would call close. My mom died when I was a kid, and he started taking me with him on his digs. There was no place else to dump me and money was tight. Any extra went toward his excavations. At the time I didn't know any better and wanted to go with him. But, he...uh..." Max stared at the floor, one hand tugging on his ear. "When I was little I have a few memories of him being nice. Laughing."

Cassie nodded encouragingly, not daring to interrupt. "I don't know when it changed. He just could never be wrong. About anything. Except he wasn't really all that bright," he continued. "I mean, yeah, he was a professor, but it was all book smarts. He didn't have much imagination. Couldn't make leaps with his reasoning and stuck with documented theories. I used to argue with him. I saw things he didn't. Had better instincts. Then I'd be right and he'd go ape-shit. Ugly crap. Since there was no way to get rid of me, he'd eventually make like my ideas had been his from the beginning. Finally it wasn't an act. He'd really believe it." Max stopped and wrinkled his forehead. "Why are we talking about this?"

She totally ignored his last remark, fascinated by this flash into his personal life, and said, "He must have been, well, less than thrilled that you ended up playing on the other side." She was referring to the well-known rivalry between the academic community and hunters who learned their skills in the field, like Max and her great-aunt.

Max shrugged. "He accused me of robbing graves long before I ever got started. It bothered me when I was younger, but I'm fine with how I live and don't usually waste my time worrying about what people think. You know, have you ever considered Ritalin? Talking with you is like verbal ADD. What was I saying before?"

Cassie knew he felt awkward sharing as much as he had. It wasn't the time to push for more. So she pretended to be annoyed at his insult and said with a sniff, "Try to keep up. Russia. Your father. His theories about Rajko's girlfriend."

"Oh, sorry." He smirked, sliding his feet into his hiking boots, then sitting on the side of the bed and lacing them up. "My fault entirely. I'll try to keep pace."

He ignored her eye roll and said, "Anyway, Rajko and this Stasi would've been making their booty calls at the height of the war. Based on what my dad said, he'd come across a little-known story about the diary. Something to do with the Gypsy king and his lover. Whatever it was, he didn't believe it. Thought it was a smoke screen."

Max gave a small frown, then shook his head. "At the time, we weren't getting along so well and he didn't share the details with me. But whatever he'd heard made him think that the woman who wrote the diary would've had to be educated. Not a peasant.

"One option was that she was some bored count's wife and, when the revolution came her way, she took the family jewels, then split to be with her Gypsy lover. Another was that she'd grown up in one of the royal households. Probably the child of a favored upper servant who was educated with the princesses. As an adult she'd have been a lady's maid or companion at the czar's summer palace. My dad theorized that when the Bolsheviks hit, she stole a few royal 'trinkets' during the confusion and took off with her Gypsy boy toy." Max stood, then shrugged again.

"Nobody knows. But I will. That's what relic hunters do. Find the facts buried inside the fables so that they can find the relic. But since my dad thought Rajko's lover was the key, and Victor used to work for my dad, then, yes, the diary is important. Vic and I both know it."

Cassie merely stared as Max started picking up his dirty clothes from where he'd dropped them on the floor last night and shoved them into his duffel bag. She was hugely relieved. Obviously, though Max's father had heard about the sexual-fantasy aspect of the box's legend, he'd blown it off as ridiculous and hadn't bothered to share the details with his son. Which meant that her secret was still safe and Max didn't have a clue that she was using occult powers to have her wicked way with him. Phew!

She was speechless. Barbary pirates? Bolsheviks? Russian Revolution? Max knew about all that stuff, and not from steamy novels. Damn. Otherworldly handsomeness, unholy levels of sex appeal and a brain, too. That's it. Cassie was marrying him now. She'd have him wrestled into a pair of Dockers and driving a minivan in no time.

Wait. Forget that. She was done with that kind of guy. They were merely jerks in dorks' clothing.

Besides, she didn't want to change Max. Well, mostly, she didn't. Sure, the lover's box may have made her brave and adventurous, but she still had a uterus, so, of course she wanted to tweak his habits a little. Just on the important things. Like monogamy, and maybe writing a fantasy where Mr. Tall, Gorgeous and Tattooed was struck impotent with anyone except her. Note to self, jot that down and lock it inside the lover's box ASAP.

She'd also like to soothe Max's inner demons. Come on, the man had "brooding with inner pain that only the right woman could heal" written all over him. And after hearing about his butthead father, it wasn't hard to figure out why.

And she wanted the treasure. Hey, a bunch of jewels sounded très exciting and she wouldn't mind being rich as well as sexually powerful.

Wow. Cassie had a kinky new sex life and she actually wanted to hunt for treasure. Apparently, Oprah and Dr. Phil were barking up the wrong tree. The key to personal growth wasn't found inside oneself; Gypsy magic was the way to go!

While Max shuffled around the room, brushing his teeth and getting ready, she couldn't help but remember the last time she'd made a foray into the archeology world. It had been during college break, freshman year. She'd tripped over a shovel lying around the excavation site, fallen on the remnant of an ancient clay bowl—circa the rein of Queen Tuten-Titmouse that had been earlier unearthed, then crushed it to smithereens with her big fat backside. Minerva had never nagged her into helping again. And Cassie had given up all hope of being like the other infamous Parker gals and promptly changed her major to business.

Well, all those nasty little hang-ups seemed to have gone bye-bye, and it was time to go adventurin'. She and Max had some arch-enemy butt to kick, and a diary to get back.

Cassie clapped her hands together, and boomed like a locker-room coach, "Okey-dokey. We better stop dawdling. We need to swing by my house and get my passport before we flee the country, and the clock's ticking." Then she added under her breath, "And rope the poor kid next door into feeding Creature." But she was in too good a mood to work up much annoyance over her great-aunt's crazy cat.

She walked to the wobbly desk propped in the corner, and lifted the lover's box. She'd never gotten a chance to put it away after she'd written out her second fantasy and Max had come storming out of the shower, all wet, and naked, and hard, and they'd—Whoops, do not go there. The poor man had just gotten his clothes on.

Max noticed what she was holding, and started. "Cripes, woman. You just left it sitting out again?" He snatched the box from her hands, towering over her. "What is wrong with you? What if Victor's men had followed us? The minute they broke into the room, they'd have had it."

"Oh, lighten up, you big baby. Like you'd have let them snatch the lover's box—not. But from now on I'll make sure I hide it in my super-safe backpack, where no one would ever dream of looking." She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. "Now give me the box and I'll put it away. Times a' wasting and we've gotta make tracks."

The vertically blessed jerk held the box over her head like he was in the third grade and they were playing Keep Away. "We don't have to go anywhere. I think I've told you this already, but Rajko's box is mine. And I'm going after the diary by myself. It's too dangerous. You will hang out somewhere safe for a few days. Victor will forget all about you, and I—"

"And you are an asshole," she finished for him. "Also, you're wrong. It's your word against Minerva's over who owns the lover's box. We'll zip by her hotel room once we get to St. Petersburg. If you two can't agree and make nice, then we'll go after the treasure together and split it fifty-fifty." In Cassie's opinion, this sounded a heck of a lot better than the truth, which was something more along the lines of—Yeah, yeah, there's a good possibility that my wacky great-aunt stole the box from you. But I'm not done using the Gypsy sex charm to boink your brains out and I think a fortune of antique jewels will perfectly accessorize my fall wardrobe. And you'll look nice on my arm, too. Nice and naked...

The man seemed to have only two facial expressions when he glared at her: horny or harassed. Oh, and angry. Right now he was wearing the middle one. "Listen. You and I both know that there's nothing you can do to stop me from taking Rajko's box and hitting the road. I was hoping to lie low with you for a few days, but now that Victor has the diary, it's no longer an option. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is walk away from you and this bed."

"Stop. You're getting me all misty eyed." But Cassie really wasn't as peeved as she'd sounded. Other than the party pack of orgasms with which she'd welcomed him into town, between nutty Minerva and the ever-evil Victor, the poor guy hadn't caught a break since he'd allegedly purchased the Gypsy king's box. "Okay. Are you basically telling me that it's been great, but you'll call me?"

He snorted, doing an admirable job of hiding any guilt he might be feeling about leaving her high and dry. This did make her peeved. The rat bastard. "I'm telling you it's been great. It'll be greater. Just let me get the damn diary, find the flipping treasure and then we can be back at each other like a pair of frisky monkeys on Spanish fly."

She snickered at the "frisky monkeys" line. "A-a-a-a-aw, shucks, you sweet-talker, you. I'm flattered. Really. But I'll have to pass."

His eyebrows arched and his expression was almost panicked. "What do you mean, you'll have to pass? We're not over yet, Tink. Not by a long shot—"

"I agree."

"Because it's silly to blow off something that might be, well, you know, maybe serious...possibly..."

She snorted. "Hey, you might want to put a few more disclaimers in there. Otherwise, I might get the wrong idea and start catching up on my back issues of Bride's Magazine."

He cursed, rubbing his neck. "I'm not saying this right, but when I get back, we'll talk and—"

"Max." She waved her hand in front of his face. "Yoo-hoo. You're not listening. Now pay attention."

"Huh?" His hands had lowered some time ago, and he tossed the box behind him, bouncing it on the far side of the mattress. She'd have dived for it, but he'd have blocked her in a second.

"We'll talk on the way. Because I. Am going. With you. There's nothing you can do to stop me, but I can stop you...."

He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. "Oh, yeah?"

Fixing him with her best tough-girl leer, she said, "Oh, yeah.... Now strip...."

He started to laugh, but his amusement was quickly choked off with a startled, "Wr-r-r-rg..." His eyes shot wide. His fingers twitched toward the button of his pants, and he froze, then muttered, "Oh, shit...."

## 8

FIFTEEN HOURS LATER, in another country (Russia) in another crappy hotel room (the charming decor more European kitsch, this time, than redneck tacky), and Cassie found herself right smack-dab in the same damn argument with Max Stone.

She was jet-lagged, cranky and not in the mood to get jerked around anymore by the hunky, er, jerk. She'd have thought the infuriating man would've learned his lesson by now, even if he didn't understand the hows and whys of his urge to rip off his clothes and streak every time he'd tried to ditch her. At the airport alone, this had been several times.

He'd finally given up and settled down, and she'd rewarded his good behavior with a temporary ban on all thoughts of the gorgeous freak in his birthday suit. Otherwise, they'd have never been able to board the plane. To punish him, however, they hadn't joined the mile high club. No matter how much he'd begged and flattered. He was probably already a charter member, anyway. If all the come-hither glances and never-ending walk-bys from the air stewards—both sexes, in case his head wasn't already big enough, and half the passengers—was anything on which to judge his previous travels.

Instead of making whoopee with Max in an undersize lavatory, Cassie had rifled through the overhead compartments for one of those dinky pillows the airlines kept stocked at about three per plane that looked like dry-weave maxi pads without the wings. Then she located a blanket and huffily turned her back on him and tried to catch a few z's. The flirting foot traffic, however, made this impossible.

And now Minerva wasn't answering her phone. A major convenience, but Cassie pretended to be annoyed. And Max was trying to leave her behind for the umpteenth time. She'd have been madder if he wasn't sporting a boner down his left pant leg practically the size of her forearm. Quite flattering, that.

"You're not going with me to Victor's Midnight Madness sale and that's final," he argued. Again. "It's way too dangerous. I'll be back before you know it."

Cassie flopped onto the bed. They'd already gone round and round on this one. But Cassie's curiosity finally caught up with her and, at the very least, she deserved some answers. "What's the deal with this guy, anyway? And why is he so pissed at you?"

Max rubbed his face, as if he were resigned but realized he owed her an explanation. "There's no short answer on this. He showed up when I was about fifteen, a grad student working for my dad. From the get-go, I knew he was an asshole." He sat down in the vinyl chair facing the bed, settling into his story, fingers lacing together and resting on his stomach.

"Victor would start out nice with people. A total brown-noser. Obviously fake but, right off, most couldn't see it. When a person goes into academics, they don't want to be average, they want to be a genius. An authority in the field. Vic believed that he had all the makings of eventual greatness, but he didn't have the brainpower for that load."

Max stared at some point in the distance, his eyes narrowed. "In a weird way, he was a lot like my dad, only worse. He hated being wrong. Yet he was craftier than my father, more conniving. Knew how to manipulate things so he'd come out looking good. But if someone started to suspect that Vic had more than a bit of hot air blowing, he'd turn on them."

Cassie almost raised her hand and asked if the jerk wad also went by the name of Ron. But she was still confused. Victor sounded like a passive-aggressive pest but not the ultimate villain. Then again, Ron was the antichrist and had left her in need of a psychotherapist. Never mind.

She nodded with sympathy, and said, "Okay, I'm with you. So then what happened?"

Max flashed her a grin and shook his head in amusement. "Vic knew I thought he was an idiot. But he was very clever how he handled my dad. More clever than me," he added, his grin flattening into a smirk. "Back then pretty much anything found at a site belonged to whoever funded the trip. With my dad, this meant the university.

"Anyway, Vic started working the black market—not cataloging everything that had been found—and pieces would go missing. I figured out his game and went to my old man. Vic lied. By this time I was seventeen and looked older. So when Vic claimed it was me, it was somewhat plausible. Said I must've gotten nervous and pointed the finger at him. My dad believed Victor."

At Cassie's outraged gasp, Max laughed. "Thanks, Tink. It wasn't that big of a deal. Turns out Vic did me a favor. I'm the best in the biz. But he's got a weak spot where I'm concerned and he's a jealous prick about my success. I'm sure there's some reason for his craziness but it's like he can't completely buy in to his own delusion as long as I don't." Max shrugged. "So he's always looking to wow me or beat me. One of these days, when he realizes it'll never work, he'll be looking to kill me. But that'll be a while. He's nowhere close yet to giving up our fun and games."

"Kill you?" Okay. That was it. Even someone as awe-inspiring as Max could make the occasional mistake. And Victor sounded even sneakier than Minerva. "Thanks for sharing, but now I'm definitely going with you. You need my help. I'll be your backup."

The rat fink actually expected her to sit in the room and twiddle her thumbs while he willingly walked into a trap. And even more insanely, he refused to leave the box here with her. The idiot might as well gift-wrap the lover's box and slap a big bow on it before he handed it over to Victor. And then she'd never get laid again. As if the life-or-death crap wasn't bad enough.

But their basic problem here was trust. Max didn't trust her not to take the box back to Minerva and go after the treasure herself, and she didn't trust him ever to come back and have sex with her once he'd slipped his magical leash, so to speak. After all, the lover's box would be with him. She didn't have a clue how many miles her Gypsy-voodoo sex powers covered. And she wasn't taking any chances.

Max snorted. "Listen, Tink, you're not exactly backup material."

"Says you. And stop calling me that. I don't look a thing like Tinker Bell."

He grinned, but otherwise ignored her. "Just don't leave the room, and you'll be fine. The last thing Victor would ever imagine is that I'd bring you back with me."

"What, he's seen my picture?" Cassie asked, only half-sarcastically. She wasn't a dog, but she was hardly the type of beauty a guy would drag halfway around the globe because he couldn't bear to let her out of his bed. Let alone a guy as insanely gorgeous as Max. Without the lover's box, he was so far out of her league it was ridiculous.

He rolled his eyes. "Since you can't stop staring at my crotch, you can see that I didn't mean it that way."

She batted her lashes. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"No, I don't," he said wryly. "Ever."

Boy, was it hot in here, or what? She cleared her throat, then said, "Nice try, slick. You're not distracting me. Now, come on and be reasonable. If you won't let me go with you, then you have to leave the box here."

Max tried to talk over her, but she held up her hand. "Yeah, yeah. You're all that's tough, but what if Mr. Creepy Archenemy has reinforcements? He could have a dozen more of those goons at his beck and call," she said, getting more and more upset. "What if they all try to jump you at once? They might seriously hurt you." Horrified, she added, "Or damage your face."

He coughed into his hand as if he was trying to swallow down a laugh. "Uh, thanks for the concern, but I know what I'm doing. And that's why I'm leaving early. Once I make sure I'm not being followed, I have a few places where I can stash the box. Even if I'm dead, Vic'll never find it."

Cassie shot up from her sprawled position. "Don't say things like that. It's not funny. And what are you implying? That you have hidey-holes in every major city on the planet?"

He gave a casual shrug, the gesture cocky and annoying. "I get around."

"Phuuh," she huffed, then muttered, "I'm sure you do," narrowing her eyes in his direction. Well, she'd put a stop to that. And he wasn't taking her box to any hidey-holes, either. Cassie's entire sex life was on the line here.

"Look, you can take me with you voluntarily, leave the lover's box here, or..." She let her voice trail off provocatively.

He must have had an inkling of where this was headed, because he started shifting his feet, the movement a wee bit nervous. He was probably telling himself that there was a perfectly logical explanation for his bizarre desire to do the nudey-patooty dance every time he tried to leave her. Well, if Mr. Smarty Pants hadn't figured it out she wasn't about to clue him in.

But Max Stone was made of sterner stuff, and he bravely yet stupidly squared his shoulders and said, "I'm not playing around this time, peanut. I'll...uh...I'll..." his gaze darted around the room as if searching for inspiration. "I'll tie you to the bed if I have to," he finished triumphantly.

While her heart jolted as if he'd uttered the password to some secret door buried deep in her psyche, he strode over to the gym bag that he'd earlier retrieved at one of their stops at a back alley shop once they'd arrived in St. Petersburg. She still couldn't figure out what the store actually sold, and Max wouldn't tell her.

Before she could blink, however, Max opened the zipper and took out a folding knife that looked fairly wicked when he flipped it open.

Cassie yelped. "Whoa, look at the size of that puppy. So-o-o-o, what are you going to do with that bad boy?" She knew he wouldn't hurt her, but she was off the bed in a shot. Momentarily distracted from operation Get Max Starkers Then Bend Him To Her Licentious Will, her jaw dropped open and she gaped like a rube idiot.

"Make a gag for you," he said dryly, teasing her. At least she hoped he was teasing. "What do you think I'm doing? You won't listen, and I don't trust you not to follow after me. I'm tying you to the bed." Then, with all the flair of a magician whipping a tablecloth from beneath a full set of dishes, he jerked the top sheet off the bed and snapped it in the air.

"Show-off." Why wasn't she pissed? Getting tied up and waiting a few hours like a prisoner was not part of the plan. Maybe the other way around. But not with her spread-eagled for his delectation. And why was she getting suspiciously wet south of the border? Uh-oh...

"Thank you. Now quit yapping and lie down."

"Shyeah, right. In your dreams." Or hers. Cassie absently fanned her face, her gaze darting around for a thermostat. Surely somebody had cranked up the heat.

Meanwhile, he'd made four cuts at one end of the fabric. He pocketed the knife, snared her gaze, then dramatically ripped the sheet down the center. Cassie almost swooned.

While she stood there, watching and panting like a total slut puppy, he walked over to the bed. The headboard was nailed to the wall. She stared mesmerized while he anchored his makeshift bondage aids to the metal bed frame, letting the free ends drape onto the mattress from each corner. They were seductive and threatening. Max gave a wicked chuckle.

This was bad. Very, very bad...

Snap out of it, she desperately scolded her newfound inner submissive. She'd finally started down the road to badassness, and this was in no way the time to wimp out. If she was playing bind-and-spank-the-naughty-sex-slave then she had to be the master.

Youch—just the thought of playing dom to Max's sub made her nipple ring zap and throb like a divining rod. Okay, apparently she was a little kinky. Because this new twist got her even more hot and bothered than she'd been a minute ago.

She rubbed her breast, her nipple stinging deliciously, and Max suddenly stood bolt-straight and his own hand flew to his hip and he hissed out a breath.

Max's eyes shot so wide she could see the whites around his irises as he froze. "I don't know how you're doing that, but quit it."

Good. It was time to wrangle back control, and she swallowed and said, "Uh-h-h..." Whoops. That couldn't be right. She coughed and tried again.

"Well, I guess by now you know the drill." Hey, at least her voice didn't squeak. She gestured toward his khaki-colored ensemble. "It's gettin' hot in here, so why don't you take off all your clothes."

Standing still as a statue, Max gaped at her. Finally, he cleared his throat, and said, "Cassie, I have no idea what you're up to, but stop messing around."

But it was as if he couldn't help himself now that he'd given in and moved, and he reached back and grabbed the neck of his T-shirt. Then he tugged it forward over his head in that special way that guys took off their shirts. Cassie had always found this maneuver quite yummy and her stomach gave a slow flip.

"Fine," he managed to say, sounding as if it had been an effort to find his voice. "We'll do it once before I leave, but then I'm getting the diary by myself."

She tsked and shook her head. "Max, Max...I don't think you should have said that."

The sheer beauty of him still took her breath away, and, as stunning as his perfectly toned torso was, bruises and all, she was flooded with the overwhelming desire to see the rest of him.... Now.

As if compelled by forces beyond his control, his mouth worked soundlessly and his face filled with panic. Immediately, he ripped free the laces on his boots, toed them off, then tore open the button at his fly and shucked his pants. Of course, Max went commando.

There were only two words to describe the privilege of seeing Max Stone in the buff: shock and awe.

"Before you start bossing me around..." he croaked "...and I completely lose it, I have a request."

Cassie cocked an eyebrow. She was digging her new dom vibe and wasn't sure she was in the mood for requests. But she was interested to hear what he wanted, and said, "Fine. Request away."

"This time I want to do it normal." There was a slight tremor buzzing through his frame and his erection was as hard and huge as she'd ever seen it. He was definitely riding the edge here. "I mean intercourse," he rushed on to clarify. "Regular intercourse. Nothing fancy. No tricks. Just you and me. And I'm on top."

Cassie popped the button on her jeans and lowered the zipper. The rasp of the metal teeth clicking open was strangely erotic. "Hmm. To me, that sounded more like a command than a request." She used her heel to slip out of first one sneaker then the next. Then she took off her socks. Her jeans and her shirt she left on for now.

She turned away from him, shaking out her hair, then walked to the foot of the bed. Beneath her top, her nipple ring was doing its thing and heat washed through her breast, immediately sparking an answering pulse between her legs.

Behind her, she heard Max start twice before he managed to say, "Yeah, well, for now, those are my rules. Otherwise, I'm not doing it." She cast a quick glance back over her shoulder.

"You think so...?"

As he stood there, every muscle in his body appeared to be contracted, like a body builder at a competition except without the funny poses. And his hands kept opening, then closing into fists at his side. The man was fighting it as hard as he could. And Cassie knew exactly who was going to win.

"Yes." His voice actually cracked, and he coughed. "Wait a minute. What were we talking about?"

Standing at the end of the bed, she slowly, oh, so slowly slipped her shirt upward, then pulled it over her head. "You were saying that you would only have sex with me if we did it your way. You on top."

"Yeah. That's right. That's, uh..." his words trailed off as she moved her hands up to her breasts, softly cupping her own weight, then gently using her fingers to stimulate her nipples. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

Since Max was behind her, she knew that from his view the knowledge of what she was obviously doing would be more arousing than if he'd been sitting front row center. He let out a hiss of breath as he cursed long and low.

"Just get on the bed, Cassie. On your back. Now."

"Soon," she crooned, enjoying every luscious second of her own touch when she never had in this way before. Picturing herself exactly as he'd see her, she skimmed her palms down from her breasts, over her stomach then inside the front of her pants, exaggerating each move of her arms, arching her back, lifting her bottom toward him as her fingers slipped between her curls.

She let the pad of her middle finger caress the raised pearl of sensation in her moist heat. She groaned, her hair sliding against her back.

"Sweet hell," Max said on a rush of air. But she wasn't done pushing him, and she lowered her jeans from her hips down to puddle at her ankles. She stepped out of them, then widened her legs and bent forward. Then she went back to touching and rubbing, stroking and playing with the wet heat at the apex of her thighs, knowing that Max could see every delicious flick and swirl she gifted herself.

He choked out a primal growl and the hairs at the back of her neck lifted, chills rushing across her skin. Oh, she'd pushed him all right, possibly further than even she could handle with her new persona. She could feel silken moisture leak from her core in delicious throbs while her nipples pulled painfully tight, contracted to tiny rocks of flesh, hard and burning for his tongue and mouth.

If this didn't happen soon her heart would be permanently injured from banging against her ribs. "You want to be on top, right, Max?" she asked, climbing onto the bed, then crawling on her hands and knees in the most graphic way possible.

"Yes." He said just the one word, his voice a grumble that skittered straight up her spine.

When she reached the headboard, she took hold of the strips of sheet that he'd earlier tied to the frame. Holding each one in her fist, she then circled her wrists, winding the slack around and around until the strips became more like tethered handles than bindings. Her arms were splayed, but she still had some give, resting on her elbows so her breasts swayed and brushed on the linens beneath her.

She widened her knees, arched her back, then glanced over her shoulder at Max and finished what she knew would be an invitation he couldn't refuse. "Then what are you waiting for? Climb on...."

MAX WAS AFRAID TO EVEN BLINK. He tried to swallow, his throat catching around the lump of heat that had swelled behind his Adam's apple. Oh, shit. Oh, shit....

This is not what he'd meant, and the tiny goddess was playing him for all she was worth, which happened to be a hell of a fucking lot. She was hot and juicy and sweet. So flipping sweet. She'd be like warm syrup on his tongue and his mouth went from parched to watering as he climbed onto the bed, prowling up behind her. She wriggled her world-class tush, rocking back toward him, taunting and begging.

His hands shook as they clamped on to her curves. Hard. Almost a smack, which she deserved. And Cassie, the finest piece of tail he'd ever encountered, actually purred. His heart started pounding and he had no doubt that his blood pressure had shot high enough to give him a stroke.

He squeezed his fingers tight into her lush softness, holding her still. "Don't move," he rasped, though why he bothered was a mystery, since she never listened to him. But she was going to this time and he tightened his hold and lowered his mouth to the satiny skin at the small of her back. He licked and kissed, using his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She was soft, softer than anything he'd ever felt and she smelled like honey. She groaned, her upper body swaying since he'd frozen her pelvis to his will.

He slid down and dropped to his elbows then rotated his hold and anchored her in place with his forearms against her inner thighs and his palms cupped around the front of her hips. He had all the leverage and he pulled her spread bounty to his waiting mouth. Her back arched deeper.

He kissed her like he was kissing her mouth, and at the first flick of his tongue against her folds, she cried out and his ears just kept on ringing. He loved this, absolutely loved it—everything about it—and could have licked and eaten her glistening sweetness for days. Any chance he got, he'd be back down between her legs worshipping her the way he craved.

She pushed against his face and he groaned and lost himself, gently devouring her.

The skin on his cock ached, stretched harder than he could ever remember, and he thrust himself against the bed, desperate to be inside her but not wanting to miss a second of what he was doing now.

And she made it so easy for him, gasping and squealing whenever he gave her a particularly inventive swirl or stroke. But her favorite, the one that made her back go loose then made her stiffen up and her flesh quiver against his open mouth, was a wide flat lick. Over and over, right from the stiff hood at the V of her inner lips to her juicy core. Over and over, lapping at her, slow and steady. No rush, nowhere to go, anything and everything to make her scream and come on his face. So he could breathe her in and be part of her, touch her heart and her soul over and over again. So she'd never leave him and he'd never be alone, or know a day without her.

Nothing was as good as being with her, loving her, touching her. He could not lose this, could never get enough.

Oh, shit. This, this feeling wasn't what he'd planned, either, but he didn't care.

He puckered his slippery lips around the stiff hood of her clitoris, then gently sucked her with steady yet strong pulls, and she came apart all over him, rubbing and sliding against his mouth and chin while her legs collapsed in his hold.

He quieted her, nice and slow, soothing yet erotic for long, long seconds while she came down. Meanwhile, he felt like he had a club between his legs and he had to get inside her now. Right now. While she was wide open and totally his. Nothing hidden. Nothing held back.

Somehow she'd broken through all his barriers, every one. Stripped him of more than his clothes—down to the element of who he was, who he wanted to be...with her....

He wiped his mouth on his shoulder, twisting his head, then climbed over her. He hung there, on his hands and knees, panting, staring down at her. Oh, man. He was so screwed. Twisting in the wind. Tied in knots. Flat-out gone over her.

Her beautiful face was turned to the side, her mouth open while a tear leaked from her closed eyes. He watched one silvery drop slip down her cheek, and something twisted and burned deep in his chest.

"You're amazing," he whispered, lowering his lips to her temple. "Absolutely amazing. I don't think I'll ever be able to get enough of you." He was dazed and rambling, speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Oh, Max." She smiled so sweetly, a special smile that he somehow knew she'd never given to anyone but him. Wires were firing inside his head, circuits blowing.

He nuzzled her cheek, the corner of her mouth, ran his nose along hers while the weight of his engorged shaft dropped the head of his cock to slide down the crease of her bottom.

As worn out as she was, she moaned, "Please, please be inside me. All of you."

He lowered his hips to the back of hers, her curves warm and lush beneath him. She was so wet and open, the tip of his length inherently found its target and he started pressing forward. He pushed, not rocking, but slow and steady pressure that gave way beneath him.

She sucked in her breath, and he hesitated, but she whispered, "Don't stop. Keep going," and he did.

His mouth couldn't leave her skin, and he rained kisses across the side of her face, over her jaw, behind her ear and down her neck. Her back was cushioned to his chest, and he reached forward and grabbed the two strips of sheet that she was holding on to for dear life, placing his palms above hers.

Caging her in with his entire body, steadily penetrating her from behind, he felt huge, everywhere. She was so much smaller, so vulnerable, and it brought every protective instinct he'd never even known he possessed roaring to life. She shivered beneath him as he finally, finally slid all the way inside her, the muscles in his arms flexing as he used the ties to sling himself that last, luscious bit deeper.

Mindlessly, she whispered his name over and over, begging and asking him for things she probably wasn't even aware of. He pressed his face to her neck, and she arched her head back against his shoulder.

He was afraid to move, her tight heat excruciating as her inner muscles clamped around his shaft. And then reality hit him right in the nads.

"Oh, crap. I don't have a condom on."

Max hadn't gone free willy since he was a teenager. Never. And while he was strict on this rule, he wanted to whimper at the thought of pulling out of her and rolling on a rubber.

Somehow she managed to get out the fairly lengthy explanation between gasps and pants, "I'm on the pill. Started taking it when I was engaged. But Ron broke up with me before I'd been on it for a month. I've never done it without a condom."

This was the first Max had heard of any fiancé, and he did not like the reaction it set off inside him. Not one little bit. But warring with the rush of sheer possessive jealousy was the realization that neither one of them had had unprotected sex in the past decade, and that he was getting the go-ahead in a very major way.

"Me, neither. Crap." He shook his head. "I mean, I'm safe. This is a first for me, too, baby. Are you okay with this? Skin to skin. You and me. I'd never put you at risk. I'll always keep you safe." And he meant it. Every single blessed word.

"Yes, yes," she mumbled in that breathy, on-the-verge-of-coming way that she had, and he felt his balls tighten.

He let go of the strips of sheet to run his hand along the sides of her chest, caressing and stroking as he set up the barest of paces with his hips. He was not going to last here. No way. And he wanted her with him every step of the way because he didn't want her left behind when he lost control.

He was whispering things in her ear, things he didn't even want to hear himself, but he meant them. What he was going to do to her and how she made him feel. And then she was pushing back against him, or trying to, anyway, because she didn't have the right angle to get the pressure she needed.

He slid his hands beneath hers, spreading them wide and she frantically twisted her own free of the strips of cloth that she'd been gripping. She clamped hold of his forearms, using his limbs to push her pelvis back into his.

He kept pressing into her, barely thrusting, more shoving as deep as he could get while she circled and shoved back. But before long, the greedy little goddess wanted more and he started moving his hips, back and forth. And then she flat-out went wild beneath him.

She was getting hard to hold on to, and he moved one arm underneath her, between her breasts, his hand gripped to her shoulder so he wouldn't screw her right up the headboard and out from under him.

Her tits bounced against his arm with each plunge, while inside her slick heat was a constant squeezing pleasure. Her inner walls rippled and contracted and pressure swelled down low in his body. He hunched over her, going faster and harder, working himself in and out, over and over. Things were giving way inside his head, his body outside his control.

Victor and a hundred thugs could have broken in the hotel room door and nothing would have stopped him. Max wasn't just having sex. Hell, they'd even moved beyond making love. He was marking her as his, and it still wasn't enough.

"Are you ready? Come on, Cassie...." He wasn't coming without her. His body was losing its rhythm, and it took every bit of his concentration to hold on. She finally cried out, then clamped down so tightly around him it almost hurt.

The first contraction of her release made the corners of his vision dim. He squeezed his eyes closed and his jaw clenched on a yell ripped from the center of his chest. Lightning heat raced up his groin, then exploded, his cock jerking violently with each dramatic beat of orgasm.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he was back, aware of his surroundings, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, then lowered them both to their sides, spooning her to his chest, their bodies still deeply linked while he fought to breathe.

He buried his face in her hair. She smelled like him. He'd marked her all over, and it felt good and right. Like he could let out a sigh of relief. Then Max had a thought, and grinned. Okay. Technically she'd let him be on top. But he didn't care what kind of tricks she tried to pull, he still wasn't letting her get anywhere near Victor....

## 9

AN HOUR OR SO LATER, Max and Cassie sat in the plain, compact car he'd borrowed from one of his local friends, casing the swank house Victor was renting.

The International Antiquities League conference was going on and Victor had appearances to keep. There was no way his university would cover the splashy crib, so it was obviously his smuggling sideline that was footing the bill.

So far, Max had spotted two men patrolling the perimeter and one through the upstairs window. He recognized them and knew there was one more missing.

Victor was such an amoral jerk-off he had to travel around like a gangster rapper with his posse. The university board believed his retinue was the result of kidnapping threats over some inherited riches. There was no inheritance—he was pretty sure Vic had been spawned, not birthed—and the only threats were for death, not kidnapping. Max had made most of them himself, although there were certainly others waiting in the wings.

Victor had aspirations far beyond his scope. And when little men were pushed too far against the wall, they could become trouble. Victor might as well have Napoleon Complex engraved on his forehead. With Cassie around, this went from an annoyance to a worry.

But the sale wasn't for another couple of hours, and Max already knew what he was going to do.

Unfortunately, he had no control over the goddess and he was tired of fighting her. Besides, he lost every time and it was getting embarrassing. Though she was definitely staying in the car. He'd go inside bare-ass naked if he had to.

How the hell did she do that? Tired of racking his brain for a logical explanation, other than sheer animal lust or another four-letter L word, he ignored the conundrum.

Cassie happily popped another French fry into her mouth, and started munching. Max took a sip of his soda, wishing they served vodka, supersized, at the local fast food drive-through where they'd stopped on the way here. He sure as hell needed one.

He sighed, then finished off his burger, chewing sullenly. Fine. He was pouting. But he refused to admit why.

Finally he couldn't take it another second, and he said darkly, "So, tell me about this fiancé of yours."

She wrinkled her nose. "He's not my fiancé anymore. We broke up. Or, rather, he dumped me." She waved her fry for emphasis.

Max snorted. "Idiot."

"Yep." She nodded. "That's what I think."

"Did you love him?"

Apparently Max had gone ahead and given himself over to the dark side, voluntarily pursuing topics with a female that he'd never before in his life ever entertained. It wasn't a conscious decision; he just couldn't seem to stop his flapping lips. Next he'd be asking her about her feelings and listening to light rock on the radio.

Cassie shot him a quick look, her expression somewhat surprised. Hell, apparently even she knew that a guy like him did not initiate the ex-lover conversation unless he was being held at gunpoint. Then she shrugged. "I must have thought so at some point, but in hindsight he was a putz."

Fine. He was not going to chase after more info. Usually women were anxious to give a running bio on every male they'd ever dragged into their beds, then analyze the wheres and whys of what went wrong. But not Cassie. Of course not. The one time he wanted a woman to spill her guts, she was being discreet.

"Why'd he break up with you?" Well, the shocks just kept coming, and he was a horse's ass. But he couldn't imagine why some jerk-off would dump her.

Also, if she had any secret annoying habits, other than busting his chops, being a smart-ass and turning his hair gray, it was best that he find out now. Or that's what he told himself, not ready to admit that he'd become a total loser.

Cassie sighed. "I don't suppose you'd be satisfied if I said that he just wasn't that into me?"

Max smirked, and she groused, "Fine, fine. Let's see. Well, since Ron's a liar, his excuses are suspect, but he said that I wouldn't make a good wife because I didn't respect his authority in our relationship."

Well! The man had probably been on to something there, but that was half of the pixie goddess's charm. She was feisty as hell. Then Max winced, realizing that all his ordering and bossing her around must have gone over like the proverbial lead balloon. No wonder she did the opposite of whatever he said.

"Um, also he never seemed interested in sex, thought I was too fat and, by the end, pretty much ragged on everything I did. Obviously, he wasn't such a creep in the beginning, but as time went on he got more and more controlling. He was good at it. Very subtle. He'd criticize me in a hundred different ways, then somehow make it look like he was the injured party, and that it had been either speak out for both our sakes, or live in misery. Personally, I think he's the Antichrist and will be responsible for wheeling in Armageddon, but I could be wrong."

"Whoa." Max blew out a breath, not knowing where to attack that onslaught of crap. "Well, I can't picture anyone getting away with giving you orders, and the rest is bullshit. Though, I'm sure you're right on the apocalypse thing."

Feeling much better about the fiancé, he tapped softly on the steering wheel. He didn't even care that he'd been jealous, something that should have him freaking right the hell out. She hated her ex, and, for the moment, that was enough.

He tried to turn his thoughts back to the treasure, but noticed that Cassie had gotten quiet. He frowned. "You know he was full of it, right? You don't believe any of that garbage, do you?"

"Well, I'm not a complete waste of space, but I have my flaws. One of them, undeniably, being my fat butt," she muttered.

Max scowled and jerked his gaze to hers. "You're kidding, right?"

"About my butt being fat?" Her eyebrows flew up her forehead. "Well, no. Not really."

"You have to know that you're incredibly sexy. Just the thought of your backside is enough to make my palms sweat. My vote is that the ex is gay."

Cassie waved off his slavish adoration. At least, that's how it seemed to him.

"You can't help that," she said offhandedly, giving a shrug. "You just think you like my derriere. Normally, you wouldn't. But that's okay."

Max did a double take, shooting her a look that he hoped conveyed his Alice-falling-down-the-flippin'-bunghole sensation. "When you speak, do the words make any sense to you? Seriously. Because I don't think they could."

"Anyway," she cut in loudly, "enough about my butt." Then she quickly, and not so subtly, changed the topic. "So what's your plan to get back our diary?"

He noticed that it was your plan, but our diary. For some reason this didn't bother him like it normally did. He was especially starting to like the our part. Hell.

Rather than address his latest personal revelation, he decided to go along with Cassie's attempt to change the subject. "Well, first I make sure that an eager buyer doesn't try to show up early. That would mean that somebody had made Victor an offer he felt was a better risk than the possibility of finding the treasure. I already know two of the guys who are coming. I'm better than they are, so they don't worry me. But I couldn't find out anything about the third one, and that does."

"How do you know these things?" she demanded.

"I have been doing this for a while. I put money in the right hands and I learn things. Or somebody owes me a favor, and so on." He grinned at her shocked look. "How did you think it worked? Crystal ball?"

She sniffed. "Never mind. You were saying?" she prompted.

"If the third buyer hasn't shown up by thirty minutes before showtime, then he's coming on time and is probably just a regular player. You stay in the car and keep a lookout from under a blanket in the backseat. I mean it." Before she could interrupt, he added, "Yes, yes, with the lover's box. Then I create a diversion. While Victor and his muscle are distracted, I break in, steal the diary, and we split."

"Seriously. What's your plan? Because that's like the worst one I've ever heard."

"Heard a lot of 'em, have you?"

"Fine. Whatever. No doubt the diary will just be sitting out waiting for you after you throw a few firecrackers into the backyard."

"No. Victor will put the diary inside the wall safe that comes with the rental. I've already scoped out the security. I know how to bypass the system, and Victor always uses the same combination. He's dumb that way."

The goddess blinked. Then she shrugged and loudly vacuumed up the final dregs of her jumbo diet soda with her straw. She was going to regret that when she was dying to pee and had to stay in the car or hit the bushes.

"Fine," she said. "What about weapons? I saw your knife, so you're packing steel. What about heat? I'm sure you'll need firepower. If one of those guys tries to lay a hand on you, I want you to shoot or stab first, and ask questions later."

Max tried not to gawk. His pixie had turned bloodthirsty and was starting to sound like a badly written cop show.

"And you should probably leave something with me if you have extra—"

"Not a chance in hell! Jeez, Tink. You're small, but vicious. Remind me not to cross you. Ever."

"The goons already tried to beat you up once when they broke into Minerva's shop, and this Victor is a jerk and always bothering you. It's been two days and I'm already sick of it."

Max rubbed his nose, hiding a grin. "Thanks, but I don't need a mommy. Especially one who wants me to annihilate anyone who crosses my path."

She laughed, then tentatively reached across the seat and took his hand, her fingers slipping between his. Shockingly, it was as intimate as anything they'd done sexually. Her mouth was curved in that special smile he was sure she reserved just for him, and he swore something shifted behind his sternum. She also had a hard gleam in her eye.

Somehow, he'd fallen into her protective circle, and heaven help the poor sap who tried to harm him. He could honestly say that he'd never encountered the like before. No one had cared about him. Maybe his mother, before she'd died, but that was so long ago he couldn't remember.

Max's chest pulled tight, and it hurt to breathe. And it was time for him to jump out of the car and create his diversion.

Damn. He did not want to leave her. For the first time in his life fear, real and palpable, swelled through his gut. The stakes mattered this time. After his father had kicked him out, Max had shut off his feelings and he feared that this woman had turned them back on full blast.

"Hey, Stone, you okay?" Cassie tilted her head.

He gently took hold of her face, their coupled hands curled against one of her cheeks, and his fingers spread to caress the other. He lowered his mouth to hers, licking his tongue between her lips, sliding deep into her mouth as if he were sipping something he couldn't live without. And damn if this wasn't the truth.

He'd never felt this before, and already it hurt. She was too important. Vital at some core level. He wanted to forget about the damn treasure and get her the hell out of here.

The thought made him stiffen, and he slowly pulled away. He looked down into her pretty face, her eyes loopy just from kissing him. There was something about her that grabbed him and didn't let go. Not once since he'd met her had he stopped feeling the pull. That had never happened to him before. What the hell was she doing to him?

Before he could stop himself, he said, "Do. Not. Leave. The. Car. If I'm not back in ten minutes, drive off without me. Go straight to Minerva. I'll find you."

Then he opened the door and got out, before he changed his mind.

NINE MINUTES LATER, Max came around the back corner of the house in a flat run, the car in his sights. The plan Cassie had mocked had gone like clockwork, and he almost laughed in victory. Screwing Victor was too damn easy.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted the goddess hunched over a black lump in the grass, swinging a massive branch like it was a bat.

"Cassie!" he hissed. "What the holy hell are you doing?"

She let out a startled yip and dropped her weapon of mass destruction. "I don't know who he is, but he was going to hurt you," she babbled, her words gushing out in rush. "See? He had a gun. I knocked it from his hand." She practically danced on her toes, pointing to the Glock now gleaming darkly on the grass.

Max glanced back over his shoulder. Victor hadn't sounded the alarm yet but that could change at any second. The guy on the ground wasn't one of Victor's men.

"I told you to stay in the car," he growled. Dammit. She was not to be left alone. His violent little menace would knock the lights out of anyone who threatened him. "How do you know he was going to hurt me?"

"Please. Like he was taking his gun for a nighttime walk."

Okay, so her victim was definitely dangerous, but this only made what she'd done worse. Did she not have a single ounce of self-preservation? She was absolutely fearless. And it was totally ridiculous. If she didn't get herself killed, he'd do the honors himself just to get it over with. The suspense was making him demented.

He rolled the man to his side. The moonlight hit his face and Max immediately recognized the FSS officer. And not just any old FSS officer, either. Muttering a string of the most obscene curses he could think of, he felt for a pulse, found one, then grabbed Cassie's arm in a viselike hold and hauled her toward the car.

"Get in, get in," he urged. He shoved her into her seat, then got behind the wheel, and had the engine running before the door slammed shut after him. Smoke poured from the back tires as he popped the clutch, then they took off into the street, the engine screaming.

Hell, hell, hell. Max's heart was pounding so hard he could hear his pulse swooshing past his eardrums. The FSS! What a cluster fu—

"So, who was that guy? Did you know him?"

"Buckle your seat belt," Max barked at her. He chewed his bottom lip. What the frick was the spookiest spook in the Russian ranks, Ivan Petrutrio, doing at Victor's? And how the hell had Cassie gotten the jump on him? The goddess had managed to do what a trained cadre of international spies wouldn't attempt.

"Gripe, gripe, nag, nag," she complained, oblivious to how close she'd come to, at the very least, a long stay in one of the underground rooms beneath the offices of the former KGB, and at most—dead. Innocent people checked in, but they didn't check out.

The FSS stood for the Federal Service of Security. It served the same scary-ass function as the KGB, just under a new name. But it was even more lethal and ruthless. Russia's answer to democracy was not working and the country had pretty much returned to its old ways.

Picture every movie where members of the KGB were portrayed as the villains, then double their brutal menace, and you had the new FSS. Except the FSS didn't get written about in the press like the KGB of the eighties because the Middle East kept hogging the limelight. Oh, and the FSS killed off any reporters stupid enough to try and expose it. There was no screwing around with this new incarnation of the old evil.

"Yeesh. What's got you so worked up? I took care of that guy and we're both alive and breathing."

"For the moment. And you have no idea what you've just done."

Frankly, Max wasn't too sure, either. The FSS was not only rife with killers but crooks, as well. They were known to accept bribes from thieves, smugglers and other friends of the black market. For the right price, the FSS didn't care what went in or out of their borders as long as it wasn't something it wanted for the mother country. Max regularly dealt with guys way lower down the food chain than Ivan Petrutrio. But after he'd found a relic. The FSS wasn't interested in the legwork, just the euros he gave agents to look the other way.

Max knew the score, and always factored in a certain percentage for bribes. But Ivan Petrutrio was too high up to get involved with a piddly diary written by a dead Gypsy's lover unless something major was going down. Even if the FSS believed the treasure was real, they wouldn't be interested unless the total haul was worth millions and millions. Ivan Petrutrio could get a reasonable stash of jewels anytime he wanted. There was nothing in the legend to suggest the treasure was greater than what he could extort from the Russian Mafia with a snap of his fingers.

Besides, politics was Ivan's game. He made men disappear. Permanently. Whatever his reason for being at Victor's, it meant hugely bad news for Max and Cassie....

"What? Didn't your plan work?" she teased. "I told you, you needed to think that one out better—"

"I got the diary," he spoke over her, breaking in before her next smart-mouthed crack. The vein in his temple was pounding hard enough to burst. "Forget about that. Did you bring your passport with you? It's not back at the room, is it?"

She hesitated, then reached down and patted her backpack. "I have it."

"Good." That meant he could keep driving, and get them as far away as possible from the gangbang waiting to break loose back there. "Now. I want to hear exactly what happened. You are going to start with, 'I saw a bad guy lurking in the shadows,' and finish with, 'then I brained him with a giant stick.'"

"Hey, boss me around, why don't ya?" she said, then must have realized that she'd pushed him too far, because she quickly complied. "Fine, fine, I was waiting in the car like you told me, but, pretty much right after you left, I really, really, er, had to go. Damn supersized drink—"

The corner of Max's eye started twitching. Cripes. She was giving him a nervous tic. But he'd known that damn drink was going to be a problem. It was like taking care of a frigging toddler.

"So, I scooted over to the bushes, and before I could get back in the car, I had this intuition that someone was creeping around. Like my spidey-senses were buzzing. I kept my eyes peeled, and saw the sneak slipping along the fence like a shadow. Well, that was enough for me. I knew that any second you were going to come hotfooting it for the car, and I couldn't just let you meet him head-on. What if he'd had a gun? Which he did," she added smugly.

"But I didn't know that, yet. So I started looking around for something to hit him with, just in case. By the way, whoever maintains the lawn at Victor's place sucks, because there were branches everywhere."

"Peanut...focus," he growled warningly.

"I am. Yeesh. Anyway, I spotted a nice thick one—light enough for me to pick up, but not too long for me to swing if I needed to clobber him quick—and headed his way."

Max groaned. Or maybe whimpered was more accurate.

"And let me tell ya, he scared the life out of me. 'Cause he turned real quick, and I could see him pull something big and black from inside his coat as he came around. But Mr. Sneaky moved too fast, and tripped over something in the yard. Well, the rat bastard went down. I lowered the boom on his wrist, knocked the gun away and gave him another hit on his thick skull before he could grab for it and start shooting. Then you showed up."

"Unbelievable...." What was the saying about God protecting fools and drunkards?

The fool riding shotgun asked, "Are you sure you're okay? You keep acting all jumpy. It's not like you."

"I've been jumpy since I met you. You're bad for me that way."

"Oh, cut it out. But, hey, now I see why you do it." She beamed over at him, her eyes shining in the dash lights, full of the pounding thrill of excitement.

Max frowned. "Do what?" He downshifted around a turn. He really needed to pull over and figure out where they were going. And have a huge drink. And tie the goddess up and stash her somewhere safe.

"Live like you do. You know, hunt relics. Follow the chase wherever it leads you. Fight the bad guys." She stopped and snickered. "Well. Not that you're a good guy, exactly."

Max scowled harder while Cassie kept blathering.

"But you know what I mean. Why you court danger. Pit your wits against the other hunters. Live for the thrill."

"Is that how you see me?" He glared over at her. "Some selfish thrill junky who cares only about when he can get the next rush?"

Cassie grinned. "Well, no. You do it for the money, too. But, hey, don't get me wrong. I can be as shallow as the next gal."

Max opened his mouth to blast her, then stopped. Okay, so she had him pegged. But that was before he'd met her, and it had been fine for him, not for her. Of course, he wasn't finding anything about his current hunt fun or exciting anymore. Other than the sex. And they didn't need to go after the treasure to do that.

Hell, no jewels were worth going up against the FSS with Cassie along for the ride. Max did not want her on Ivan's radar. Period. Victor and his vendetta against Max and everything he touched was bad enough.

Chuckling as if she'd proven her point and they were both on the same daredevil team, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

Hopefully she'd chattered herself out, and he'd have a moment's peace just to think. Nothing made sense, dammit. Was Ivan the third buyer? Or had he gotten some kind of tip? Surely Victor wasn't dumb enough to have approached him on his own. Guys like Ivan silenced people. Forever.

The only other option, the one that made a knot of fear coil in his gut, was that the government was interested for other reasons.

As he'd said, Russia was falling into its old ways. Journalists conveniently committing suicide if they spoke against the parties in power. An assassination in a friendly suburb of Washington, D.C., when an ex-agent started talking too much about the new regime. If the motherland was flexing its muscle, then something big was going down.... Or something big already had and they were covering their tracks...and Max was taking early retirement.

Maybe it really was time for a new job. Max had socked away more than enough money to quit now if he wanted. Hell. It wasn't like he played the black market because he had some deep-seated need to prove his father wrong. Or right, that is. Like he gave a crap that his old man had been a jealous asshole because, even as teenager, Max was better than him at finding artifacts.

So his dad was selfish and had jumped on the chance to believe Victor over his own son. Max didn't give a shit. He'd lived his life exactly how he'd wanted, and damned the consequences.... Suddenly, however, all he wanted was Cassie, a boring life in suburbia—preferably a gated community—and nothing more exciting than crabgrass in his cookie-cutter lawn. Anything to keep her safe and out of trouble.

Speaking of miniterminator, the goddess stretched in her seat and did that hip-wiggle, hair-toss thing that always shot him rock hard. "Hey," she said, her voice going all soft and sexy, "why don't we really try living dangerously. How about a quickie in the car?"

If he didn't have to grip the steering wheel just to keep his hands from shaking, he might have been tempted. It annoyed him to see her so relaxed, though, when he so wasn't, and he said, "Oh, you like living the dangerous life, all right. You just tagged a high-ranking officer of the FSS back there."

She stilled her sexy squirming. "What are you talking about? What's the FSS?"

Max smirked. "Russia's not-so-politically-correct answer to the KGB. New name, same job description. Except scarier and they answer to fewer people."

"KGB? That man I clobbered with a stick?"

"FSS."

"Huh." She didn't look scared at all. "Well," she sniffed, "he shouldn't have been skulking around in the dark."

"That's what spies do."

"Whatever. You're safe. That's all that matters."

Had aliens abducted her brain? He didn't need a woman a foot shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter than him running interference. Lord. It was sweet as hell and made his heart beat in a funky rhythm, but she was going to put him in the loony bin if she didn't cut it out.

"Okay, forget a quickie," she merrily jabbered on. "How about a slowie? Now that we've got Stasi's diary and Rajko's box, let's hit our hotel, have some wild pagan sex, then go find the treasure after we catch a few winks."

He had to hand it to her, his goddess might be a total whack job, but she was a sex machine.

"Hey, didn't we pass the road to our hotel?"

"Yes. A while ago. But until I find out why the big boys of the FSS are interested in Stasi's diary, I don't think it's a good idea to go back there. It was terrifying enough when I only had to worry about you tangling with Victor. You'd get hurt, but you'd still be around. Ivan Petrutrio plays on a whole different level."

She frowned, her sudden concern palpable. Knowing Cassie, however, she was worried for him not herself. Damn. Being on the receiving end of unconditional adoration was not as heart-warming as it seemed. His ticker was going to give out before he even got a chance at the warm fuzzies stage.

"So, why would the Russian government care about Stasi's diary?"

Max sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "That's the question, Tink. That's the question...."

"What if the guy I clobbered was your third buyer?"

"Then we're dealing with something way bigger than I thought...And I have no idea what that could be."

She made a humming noise, then eventually said, "Too bad with all your connections you don't know any Gypsies we could bunk down with. While you tried to figure out what the big bad FSS wants with Stasi's diary, we could stay under their radar, and see if the area Romanis have any stories on Rajko or his lover that you haven't already heard."

Max hit his mental breaks. "What did you say?"

"Well, the Gypsies hid Stasi from her jerky husband. Or whatever your father's theory was. I was just making a joke. You know, ha-ha. Too bad we can't hide out with them until the FSS angle is tromped, and pick their brains for other legends about Rajko and Stasi. I don't know, maybe get our fortunes told, learn a few steps of those lusty dances they're known for." She smiled, her thoughts starting to veer toward la-la land. "I can see you now in tight black pants, a blousy shirt—white, maybe red—the guitars strumming as you launch your way-hot bod around the campfire, and—"

"Okay, okay—" he laughed "—you went a little overboard at the end, but..." Max's voice trailed off.

Again, she seemed more interested in lusty pursuits than self-preservation, but he ignored that part. He was getting good at ignoring the things about her that drove him batty. Hell, it had to be love.

But her suggestion was way better than she knew. Because Max did happen to know about a Gypsy camp. He should have thought of it before. If only to call his good friend Gregori and ask if he knew any stories about Rajko's box.

Smiling, Max pulled the car to the shoulder of the road.

"You know what, Tink. You might just be better at treasure hunting than I gave you credit for." Then he leaned over and kissed her socks off before he turned the car around and headed northwest.

## 10

CASSIE LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW of their camper—the view was of another camper located about a foot away. "I pictured a band of Gypsies living differently." Max and Cassie were in a caravan park, or rather a trailer park as places like this were called in the good ol' U. S. of A.

"Sorry, shortstuff. They ditched the whole painted-wagon-in-the-woods thing with the new millennium."

She chuckled. "Shut up. You're being a pain again."

Part of Cassie didn't care where she and Max parked their tired carcasses. She was just glad to be out of the car. Russia was a wa-a-ay big place and they'd been driving forever. They'd even slept inside the cramped vehicle when they'd pulled over at a gas station along the route.

By midmorning it had been all she could do not to start whining Are we there, yet? Are we there yet? But now that they'd finally arrived, she had mixed feelings. While she was glad they were safe and no longer in the car, she didn't want the lover's box near anyone with woo-woo abilities. She didn't want some Gypsy psychic to pick up on its racy powers, or her usage of said racy powers.

Besides, she'd only been kidding when she'd mouthed off to Max. Truthfully, in this day and age, she'd assumed that if members of the Romani race still shared proximity it was probably because they enjoyed living near people of the same culture rather than a tribe or relations thing. Like Chinatown or Little Italy.

Well, thanks to her and her big mouth, here they were.... Since there was nothing she could do about it, however, she might as well make the best of the situation. And hopefully her concerns were nothing more than silly paranoia.

Grinning at Max, she let the gauzy curtain flutter back into place. The little neighborhood was clean, the homes well lived in, but tidy. And while these trailers might be on wheels, she doubted very seriously they'd ever been moved from their lots. So it was a good thing she hadn't expected a merry troupe of Romani wandering from village to village.

"Great." She faked a forlorn sigh. "Next you're gonna tell me that there's no Gypsy king running around here, and I won't get to have my own hot-and-heavy affair with a stud muffin like Rajko, huh?" she teased him.

Max was checking the cupboards in the kitchen, scrounging for food, and he smacked her on the fanny as she walked past. "No. You'll just have to stick with me, my tight black pants and my blousy shirt as I do the bump around the campfire. But I don't think they have those anymore, either, unless it's to roast weenies and drink beer."

"Fine. Ruin all my illusions," she said, pretending to be disappointed. "So how did you know to come here, and how do you know Gregori?"

Gregori, a Romani gentleman who was probably in his late fifties, had welcomed Max into the fold with booming hellos and open arms when they'd arrived unannounced. His wife had been at the market, but he knew she'd be ecstatic when she heard that Max was here for a visit. What woman wouldn't be?

After settling them into his nephew's trailer—the nephew conveniently out of town—Gregori had told Max to come and go as he liked and that dinner was still at sundown.

"I came through here years ago," Max answered. "Gregori let me bunk with him and his wife while I was in the area chasing down a small amber statue for this private buyer in Germany. I already knew Gregori from when we'd both worked on a dig site over in Turkey a few years before that."

Cassie had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but she nodded and hummed. Max definitely got around.

He shot her a grin. "But don't get too discouraged about the campfire thing. Since it's summer, our friends here cook outside a lot. There'll be wine and guitar music. And you can get your palm read when we talk to the clan norayv," he said.

"The clan norayv, huh. Who's that, the neighborhood fortune-teller? The go-to person if I need someone zapped with the evil eye? Excellent. Could come in quite handy if you turn into an obnoxious roomie."

Laughing, he shook his head. "Then I better make sure I get to her first. The norayv is also the clan story keeper and wise woman. All the Gypsies claim psychic powers, but the most gifted female in the tribe is chosen to be the norayv."

Wonderful. If there were any Gypsy stereotypes with an ounce of authenticity, why did it have to be that one? Cassie found her earlier apprehension ratcheting back up to red alert. The absolute last thing she needed was some lusty, well-preserved Esmeralda look-alike who'd blab to Max about Rajko's deluxe sex charm. Or if she wasn't already aware of the legend, be somehow able to sense the box's mucho-mojo with her psychic powers.

Well, hopefully, this norayv, wise woman, keeper of the legends, was really crappy at her job. And she resembled a wizened, toothless crone.

Ack! Sooner or later Max was bound to show this norayv the lover's box, and Cassie suddenly remembered that her flipping diary was locked inside said box. She'd been taking it in and out of the thing since they'd landed in Russia, and she needed to get it out of there pronto.

First Max would mention that he should probably study the lover's box and Cassie would scurry like a mouse, come up with some excuse to drag her backpack into the bathroom, then whip out her diary. Then Max would stare at the stupid thing like it was a Rubik's Cube, looking for secret compartments or hidden panels. Then Cassie would get nervous, fearing her voodoo hold on Max was seconds away from going kaput. Then Max would acknowledge that it was just a plain box with no hidden clues and Cassie would sneak off the second she could think of a reason and lock her diary back inside.

It was a hassle, but she had no other choice. Screw her new tough-girl skills. She'd absolutely die if Max ever found out that she was using the lover's box to get jiggy with him. And death by extreme humiliation was not the way she wanted to meet her final end. At the moment, however, he showed no signs of heading to the shower, taking a nap or engaging in any other activity that would allow her some alone time with the box. Boogers.

A brief knock sounded at the trailer's door. Before she or Max could move to open it, though, an Amazon with a bright blond cap of curls framing her face walked in. Okay, not an Amazon. She was probably only five feet nine inches, give or take, but tall enough, and slim, too—evil bitch. A real cutie-patooty, and Cassie wanted to growl like a dog defending her territory.

The giant female looked about nineteen years old, tops. She spotted Max and squealed, then said in a sexy Russian accent, "Max, you're back!" and launched herself into the gorgeous pig's arms.

Reflexes honed, no doubt, by being on the receiving end of a million such launches, he caught the long-stemmed hussy.

"Natalia? My gosh, you're all grown up. I can't believe it. You still wore braids the last time I was here." He smiled down at her, and even when the killer grin wasn't directed at her, Cassie felt its effect.

His grin was equivalent to a good thirty minutes of foreplay for other guys, the sexy jerk. Evil Natalia looked about ready to orgasm.

"Gregori told me that you were here," she gushed. "He said that you needed to talk to the norayv, so I trotted right over and here I am."

Wait a second! Norayv? The young cutie who looked like a coed was the clan's wise woman? So much for a wrinkled crone with shiny gums. Oh, the cruel injustices of life!

Well, blondie could trot right back to her crystal ball and shove it up her...er...where the sun don't shine when she got there. Max was Cassie's and she'd snatch every silky curlicue from the grabby gal's head if she didn't remove the hands. From Max. Now.

Besides, Cassie didn't want to perpetuate stereotypes or anything, but the blond, blue-eyed tootsie squealing and groping Max did not look like she had a drop of Romani blood. More like pints and pints of Swedish swimsuit model.

Only the tall infant's accessories resembled a Gypsy fortune-teller's: bright red silk scarf tied around the top half of her perky mop—probably covering her roots—the scarf ends dangling rakishly to one side, pirate-style. About two inches of shiny curls bounced from beneath, like a playful hair fringe. Gold hoop earrings and a bunch of jingly bracelets finished the look. The rest was vintage teenybopper: tight, low hipster jeans and a tiny crop top.

And was her flawless skin actually tan?

"You don't have to tell me a thing. I know why you're here. I saw it in the cards," the girl said breathily to Max.

Oh, brother.

"There is danger coming for you."

Ooh, what a display of psychic powers. Like Max would be lying low in the Russian countryside because something safe was coming for him. Did people pay this child for predictions like that?

Lucky for Max he broke the vivacious leech's suction from his torso, and set her down. "Cassie, this is Natalia." Max slipped his arm around Cassie's shoulder and pulled her into his side. "Natalia's mom was the norayv when I was here before. But now that Natalia's reached maturity—"

Boy, had she ever...gag.

"—the clan must have voted her in," he finished. Natalia nodded, huge white teeth flashing as she smiled.

"A pleasure to meet you." Natalia held out her hand. Great. She was nice. Ugh.

"How do you do?" Cassie plastered a smile on her face and shook Natalia's hand. "Great scarf. Very authentic," she said, unable to help herself.

Natalia grinned sheepishly, batting at one end of the red silk. "Customers like it when they come for a reading."

"Hey, you gotta give the people their money's worth. Customer satisfaction can be a real bitch."

Max coughed, then steered Cassie toward the couch. "Have a seat," he said to Natalia. "I think I saw a jug of wine in the kitchen. I don't think Gregori's nephew will mind if we help ourselves."

Oh, fabulous idea. Get the adolescent drunk, then she'll really be crawling all over you. But Cassie kept her stupid smile frozen in place and said thanks when Max asked if she'd like a glass of vino. Sure. Bring on the liquor. Wasted was about the only way she'd get through this visit.

The camper wasn't all that big, but Max did have to go a few feet away to get to the kitchen. Cassie watched him leave. When she turned back to Natalia, the other woman was staring at her like she was looking at a bug under a microscope.

Immediately, as if there wasn't a single second to waste, Natalia leaned forward and said in a dramatic, hushed voice, "You already have what you are searching for. It has been in your possession all along."

Cassie blinked. "Wow. Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, eh?" Well, the girl might be easy on the eyes, but she was clearly cracked. Cassie glanced down at her sneakers. "So, I just click three times, and the treasure will drop out of my shoes?"

"You have what you are looking for. Your hunt is at an end."

"Ooh-ka-ay. I wonder what's taking Max so long? I'm gonna check and see if the big lug needs—"

"But time is running out. If you do not use your gift soon to ask for that which you truly desire—the real fantasy of your heart—then it will be too late...."

"—some help, and—hey, wait a minute. What did you just say?"

"Here you go." Max was carrying their glasses. He was also insanely sexy. Ever the gentleman, he kept the pecking order clear—hopefully going by sexual preference, not age—and handed Cassie hers first.

Cassie lifted her wine to her mouth and took a healthy gulp. What the hell had just happened? Had blondie just told her to ask for the true fantasy of her heart or was Cassie losing it? Cripes. Maybe the bimbette really was psychic.

One word to Max about Cassie using the lover's box, however, and she would rip out one of Natalia's gold hoops and shove it up the Gypsy chick's nose. Cassie's hand shook as she tipped back her glass. Max gave her a funny look that said, When the heck did you turn into a lush?

Cassie ignored him. The little hairs at the back of her neck were tingling. Something very weird had just happened with Natalia.

Max lowered himself onto the couch, sitting next to Cassie, their thighs touching, but she was too freaked out to enjoy the buzz. Instead, she barely spared him a glance and went straight back to worrying. Of course, Natalia had kept with the typical cryptic-fortune-telling MO and could have been talking about one of a dozen different possibilities. Not that Cassie could think of any, besides the obvious, but still it warranted mentioning, right?

Meanwhile, Max and Natalia were yakking it up. "Listen, while you're here, I want you to look at something." Max stood and went into the camper's bedroom, and Cassie almost swallowed her tongue.

Holy moly, Max was already trying to show Natalia the box and the jig was about to go belly-up right here and now. The tall, evil cutie's predictions were coming true right before Cassie's eyes. Or at least the part of her spiel about it soon being too late for Cassie to ask for the real fantasy of her heart.

Rats. Well...it had certainly been soon, all right. She'd been given the equivalent of a psychic thirty-second warning. Natalia might speak to the spirit world but she wasn't very helpful.

Before Cassie could jump off the couch, blow this Popsicle stand and hoof it to Siberia, Max was back and handing Stasi's diary, not the lover's box, to the tall and perky norayv.

Cassie almost passed out with relief, and Max was looking at her funny again.

"You okay, Tink?"

Cassie narrowed her eyes, her anxiety—then massive relief—momentarily swamped by annoyance. Must he make short jokes in front of the Amazon?

Max grinned as if he could read her thoughts, and she sniffed and said, "Just peachy, thanks."

Natalia gasped when her hands touched the diary. "This book is the source of your danger. Or half of the whole."

Cassie had already finished her own glass of wine and she reached for Max's and polished his off, too. "Yeah, yeah, we got that without a call to the Psychic Hotline. Now how about some info we can use."

Max made a choking noise, then scowled ferociously at Cassie.

Natalia lifted her chin. "I can only tell what I receive."

Again, whatever the hell that meant. It was like chitchatting with Yoda. Danger there is much of. Come for you the dark side will. Blah, blah, blah... With Natalia's track record, she'd probably announce that Cassie and Max were going to die, but not tell them when.

Natalia blinked her huge baby blues. "Other than great, great pleasure the past is not what I hear from this book but rather the future. Powerful men." She frowned, her voice sounding as if she were going into a trance. "They do not want her identity known. The woman who penned this was supposed to have died. They do not want proof of her escape to surface. They want to cover the truth, but their success is...unclear...."

Then with the drama of someone far beyond her years, she stood and swayed, her fingers rubbing her temples. "I must rest. You have another piece of the puzzle. Bring it to me after the moon has risen full and sits in the center of the sky. No sooner." Then she gave a quick wave, and said, "See you guys at dinner."

Wow, Broadway was missing a star with Natalia stuck out here in the boondocks. And Max hadn't even gotten a chance for a Q & A about Rajko and Stasi before the big, blond Gypsy had bopped out of here. Not that Cassie particularly gave a rip.

Max ran his fingers through his hair, light shining off the golden streaks. "Damn. That was not what I was hoping to hear." He plopped back down beside her on the dinky sofa, his legs sprawling in a V. Staring into the distance—well, into the pressboard paneling—he absently stroked his hand up and down her leg from groin to knee, and her heart went pitter-patter.

"You mean the o' wise Natalia's prediction, or her blatant attempt to hook up with you when the moon reaches its zenith in the night sky?" she mimicked.

His lips twitched. "Feisty, bloodthirsty and jealous. Quit giving me grief, peanut. When you're in the room, there's no other gal for me." His fingers squeezed, then went back to their meandering path. She briefly wondered if opening her thighs so he had more room to maneuver would come across as slutty.

"Huh. Interesting word choice you picked there. 'When I'm in the room,'" she repeated, although she was unable to work up any real venom. Like an alligator getting its belly rubbed, Cassie was calmed by his touch.

"You're always in the room. You haven't left my side for three days." Which technically wasn't true, but pretty close.

"Okay," he muttered, working the problem out loud. "Obviously Natalia's dangerous men are the FSS. And Ivan's not going to give up. Which sucks." He closed his eyes, his head dropping to the back of the couch. "It's the cover the truth shit that has me ready to pack up the diary and the box and special-deliver them both off to Victor's house. If I can find some proof of what I think Natalia's saying, then we're done, peanut. Over and out. I'm not messing around this time."

"Oh, you're not going to let her gloom-and-doom act get in our way, are you? I thought you were only talking to her because you wanted to know if she had any clan stories. Besides, you're not the kind of guy to believe in Gypsy hocus-pocus. I want to keep the box, it's—"

He rolled his head; their gazes locked when he lifted his lids. "I don't disbelieve. Especially, when the message comes from a Gypsy. But I don't need Natalia to tell me what I already suspected. If the FSS is trying to cover the truth, then it's dangerous. It's not worth risking your body over."

"But—"

"No. It's a very hot body." His hand slid higher until the side of his fingers pressed intimately between her legs. "I'm not done with it and I don't plan to be...for a long, long while."

Cassie gulped. Hey, no rush. He could keep her as long as he liked! But she doubted that he'd still be interested without Rajko's charm and the lover's box fueling her fantasies. She couldn't afford the risk, and she was back to her kung fu–grip plan.

"Uh...um...what about the, uh...treasure?" she finally managed. He was doing something very tricky with just his pinky. The man was gifted. There was no denying it.

He'd sidled closer, never looking away. Their eyelashes were practically butterfly kissing and his arm was heavy and warm...and busy....

"At dinner I'll find out if Natalia knows any legends I haven't heard before." His mouth had neared until his lips moved against hers when he spoke. Her every breath came straight from his mouth, warm and intoxicating, as if she needed him in order to live.

"I'll show her the box tonight, see if she gets another psychic reading. But if it's bad news, and Ivan Petrutrio is involved, the treasure is a nonissue. We don't need it. Not at that price."

Speak for yourself, she wanted to rail in frustration. She definitely needed the lover's box. For the rest of her life. She didn't want to lose Max Stone. Not yet. "But—"

He shushed her, his mouth sliding over hers. His kiss was different this time. Like the one he'd given her outside Victor's house right before he'd gone to get Stasi's diary. Her heart skipped a beat, then started thumping out of control. He was telling her things with this kiss and she was scared to believe the message.

She'd gotten this so wrong before, with Ron, and he'd been nothing compared to Max. What if she believed, trusted, and she ended up alone again? The pain would be too great this time...She wouldn't be able to recover.

He melted into her, breaking the kiss but curling her closer and sliding her around in his arms. He'd moved them down until they were lying sideways, her back to his front. She was spooned in the cradle of his chest and legs. She felt protected and sheltered yet bound to him in ways that terrified her.

"I don't want to argue. I just want to hold you," he rasped against the shell of her ear, trying to soothe her. "Maybe I'm wrong and Ivan was at Victor's for some other reason." But as she relaxed into his hold, she knew he didn't believe that.

Yet if Cassie wanted to stay in control of her future, she needed to keep the box. She couldn't lose it. Then the annoying Gypsy's words came back to her..."Time is running out." If she didn't use her gift soon and ask for the real fantasy of her heart, it would be too late....

While Cassie chewed on her lip and plotted, she eventually noticed that Max's breathing had changed. He'd fallen asleep. Well, he had to be exhausted. They'd done nothing but run from bad guys and boink. Tentatively, she slipped from his arms. He grumbled, but was out for the count. She stared down at him for a second and her eyes began to sting, her vision blurring with moisture.

Just looking at him hurt. He was everything she'd ever dreamed of, exactly what she'd asked for when she'd written out her first fantasy...but the reality of him was so much more. More than a stunning face and fabulous bedroom skills.

Max was brave and smart. He laughed when she mouthed off and thought she was funny. He listened to her and appeared to be fascinated with everything she did and said. He seemed to genuinely like her and didn't pick her apart but, rather, built her up. And he was a total warrior, willing to do anything to keep her safe...even give up the treasure.

Smiling sadly, she turned away and walked into the bedroom. She knelt by her backpack. In the past few days, Cassie had learned to accept the unbelievable. So it was silly to admit that the sex charm really worked, yet brush off Natalia's powers as bogus and ignore her warnings.

She took out the lover's box and traced the gaudy swirls of paint. Maybe the vulgar colors were a reminder of the jewels Stasi had stolen and brought with her when she'd run off with her Gypsy king. A constant reminder that no treasure was worth more than what Rajko's charm could give her when she'd written out her fantasies and locked them inside...or worth more than the love they'd found in each other's arms....

And that's what Cassie truly desired. Not wild porn-movie reenactments, or S and M role-playing. She wanted to make love with Max. Before it was too late.

Cassie found a pen, then removed her diary and wrote out one last fantasy. The one of her heart....

## 11

WELL, THE GODDESS had gotten her campfire and Max had even danced. He'd had to with the way the young bucks living in the caravan park had shown off for her, pulling out all the stops. One in particular had seemed intent on impressing Cassie. When she'd commented to Natalia that the idiot resembled a young Johnny Depp, he'd had enough. At least Max hadn't been rigged up in tight black pants and a blousy shirt. Though he did know some of the traditional steps and was good at them. They were sort of like martial arts but rowdier.

Of course, Johnny Depp junior had been wearing black jeans and some billowy red thing and Cassie had nearly swooned her approval. But Max didn't want to think about that. If he didn't suspect that she was mostly trying to pay him back over the way Natalia kept cornering him to talk about Rajko, Max would've strangled her by now. He hadn't kept her alive and out of trouble on two continents only to watch her drool over some young Gypsy stud.

Well, the Gypsy lothario could go find his own goddess to drive him nuts. The pixie brat was Max's, and from now on all drooling would be reserved for him.

Scowling, Max unlaced his boots and kicked them off. They were back in the camper and he wanted nothing more than to take the goddess to bed until, as Cassie had earlier mocked, the moon was at its zenith in the sky.

"Don't you think Natalia's reaction was a little over the top when I mentioned that Stasi sometimes signed the diary as Krasili?"

"Well, Natalia has a bit of a flair that way. And, according to her, Stasi was never called Krasili in any of their tales. Apparently, it means 'queen' or 'princess.' Since Stasi was gadje, not Gypsy, she couldn't be the Krasili." He shrugged. "Something like that, anyway."

Cassie huffed. "Rajko was their king. So what's the big whoop that Stasi occasionally penned off as the queen? Natalia is a dingbat, I tell you. I don't think you should trust her. Maybe you should only deal with her mom from now on."

Nope, Natalia was not Cassie's favorite person, and Max stomped down hard on the laugh working its way up. "Aw, Natalia's not so bad." Then just to really rile her up, he said, "She sure has grown up to be a real looker, though."

"Hmm..." Cassie pretended to study her fingernails, the first time in three days he'd ever seen her give them notice. "I guess if you want to be loomed over. Those high heels of hers were totally inappropriate for outdoor dining. I felt like I was standing next to a tree. But I suppose if you go for that type, she's okay." The goddess shrugged, then added, "Now if you want to talk about a looker, how about that guy in the red shirt tonight." Her voice became dreamy. "He's my idea of—"

"I don't remember," Max interrupted, cutting her off. "But the Krasili thing raises an interesting point," he hurried on. "Maybe Stasi really was an aristocrat before the revolution. That would mean that one of my father's theories was right."

Cassie fell back on the bed laughing at his abrupt, not-so-subtle change of topic. He ignored this and took off his shirt, then rolled toward her. They were alone. In a bed. Safe for now. Good Lord, he was going to devour her....

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. "I've got an even better theory. Listen, she signed her name Krasili for at least the last half of the diary but somehow the nickname never makes it into Gypsy history. What if that's because she was more than just an ordinary aristocrat? What if she was royalty?"

Max barely registered her words. She looked so beautiful and happy. He wanted to keep her that way. He wanted...He wanted to keep her... The realization hit him like a fist slammed into his gut.

The back of his eyes felt hot as he stared into her face. It was hard to breathe; bands of tension were squeezing beneath his ribs. Things were misfiring in his brain, circuits blowing. At once the room seemed too bright and he watched her through a blur of emotion.

She asked him another question and he shook his head, dazed. He couldn't talk. Things he'd never allowed himself to feel were rushing on too strong. It was as if, after a lifetime of being alone and not caring, he intensely cared for, and about, every facet of this wonderful woman.

And then her expression changed and she gave him that soft smile of hers and he thought, This is it. She's the one. I cannot lose her. Lose this feeling. He didn't ever want to be alone, or be without her. The past didn't matter. He could trust in her, trust in them, together.

Pain he hadn't even been aware of at his father's betrayal washed free. He had to blink fast, afraid he was going to cry. But even if he did, he felt safe with Cassie. Somehow she knew him, really knew him at a core level. She'd always believe in him. And with her, nothing could ever hurt him again.

His hand trembled as he brushed back her hair, then he did something he'd never done before.

He made love to a woman—because he'd fallen ass over heels in love with Cassie Parker....

"I DON'T SEE WHY NATALIA can't just look at the diary in the daytime like a normal person."

Max jumped down the camper's three metal steps. He walked over to Cassie and took her hand. He couldn't stop touching her now that he'd admitted to himself that he loved her. Though he hadn't told her yet.

Every time he tried to say the words they got stuck in his throat. Not because he didn't mean them, but because he meant them too much. It was too new. Too raw. But there was plenty of time. He had the rest of his life to tell her. Every day if he wanted, which he did. Just not yet...

And while she hadn't said the words to him, either, he knew she loved him back. She'd cried at the end there and he understood why. Her climax had been a culmination of more than just the physical. It had been the most stunning moment of his life...intoxicating, addicting, and he wanted to keep feeling the high again and again. No relic, no hunt, nothing, had ever given him a rush like making love to the goddess. And from now on he planned to live for a whole different kind of adrenaline hit.

But all he said was, "You could have stayed in bed if you wanted. I don't mind." He kissed the back of her hand, then gave it a quick squeeze.

Cassie snorted. "Your girlfriend would have liked that a little too much."

Max laughed and bumped her hip with his as they walked away from the trailer. Natalia had said to meet at the wooden tables where they'd had dinner—basically a picnic area and a fire pit out in the woods. Apparently, the location suited her melodramatic leanings.

Cassie was still grumbling about something, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair adorably disheveled, as if she'd just crawled out of bed—which she had. There had been no way in hell his jealous little goddess was going to let him talk with Natalia alone. This was fine with him since he never wanted to be alone with anyone but Cassie.

He'd also let her carry the lover's box inside her stupid pack. For some reason it riled her up when she wasn't the one lugging it around and it hadn't mattered to him one way or another. No one would track them down out here.

"Hey, about the Krasili thing. You distracted me when I mentioned it earlier," she said, and the muscles in his stomach jerked at the memory of how they'd both been distracted. "But I was thinking about your dad's theory, and this high-up FSS guy."

"Uh-huh." Max was barely listening. She was so damn adorable, it hurt to watch her. His heart squeezed. She dazzled him. Took his breath away.

"Well, the FSS is sort of like the CIA, right?"

He grinned. "Your grasp of international affairs is inspiring."

"Shut up." She stuck her sexy, pink tongue out at him and he cracked up. "Anyhow, so the FSS acts for the Russian government, correct? I mean, like, with this whole cover-up, conspiracy theory, or whatever you wanna call it, that nutty Natalia alluded to in typical cryptic o'-great-psychic-babble MO—"

"What?" He really didn't care, but she was cute when she was on a rant so he egged her on.

"Modus operandi."

He forced himself not to crack a smile. "I knew that part. It was at the 'cryptic psychic babble' part that you lost me."

"Oh." She waved her free hand around in a flap of annoyance. "The whole, you-are-safe-but-there-is-danger thing. Bad men are coming, but their success is unclear. Yeesh."

"Natalia had a couple of helpful tips. She's got a gift. I think she's very talented." He kept pressing Cassie's buttons just for the hell of it.

"Two. She said two things that were helpful. I was addressing them, but you interrupted. Quit trying to wind me up." Laughing, Max ducked her slap to his shoulder.

Lord, he was having fun. He'd never done this. Walked in the dark, swinging hands like a kid with the woman he loved. Hell, he was turning into a Hallmark card. And he didn't care.

"Okay," she said. "If the Kremlin wanted something kept secret, then it would be the FSS who'd take care of it, right?"

"Yep."

"So, with your father's theory that Stasi was an aristocrat on the run, and Natalia's government cover-up comment, I was thinking—"

"Uh...Oh...It's always hard when you first start, but with practice this thinking stuff gets easier." Max dodged another slap.

"Who would the government still care about after all this time? What if Stasi wasn't merely an aristocrat but royalty? What woman of royal birth, who was alive around the time of the Russian Revolution, would be so important that anyone would give a rip anymore? What woman has so fascinated the public at large with the rumor that she didn't really die. That she escaped her execution because she had a fortune of jewels sewn into the lining of her dress, and—"

"Who also had a half-dozen movies made about her shocking reappearance, including a cartoon with a funny-looking bat for a sidekick? I know where you're going with this. If you say Anastasia, I'll...well...I don't know what I'll do. But I'll be really annoyed because you'll get all excited and it'll take me forever to talk you down. It's a waste of time, Tink. Where would Anastasia meet a Gypsy king?"

"The bat was Rasputin's sidekick. And how the heck should I know where they met? Maybe Rajko worked in the palace stables. Where would any woman with a title meet a Gypsy king? But it doesn't matter, since they did meet and lived happily ever after."

"Lucky them," he muttered. "No matter who Stasi was, I bet Rajko didn't have to put up with the kind of crap that I do."

"Quit your whining. It's the perfect explanation for how Rajko ended up with a bunch of jewels. I can prove I'm right. I think." Cassie freed her hand and Max sighed. She swung her backpack around to her front and started rummaging around inside. "I noticed something before when I was looking at the lover's box. The paint on the box isn't just a random pattern. There's an emblem and when you see it I expect groveling. Lots of groveling," she said.

"Hey, Tink, be careful. Wait till we get there before you start flapping the box around. After everything I've been through because of that tacky-looking antique, I'll kill you if you break it before I figure out what the hell it all means."

He cupped her palm back against his and started yanking her toward the picnic tables that he could finally see up ahead. He wanted to be sitting down when he heard the rest of her asinine theories. "You've been reading too many romance novels," he said. "The whole idea is stupid. The Czar of Russia's teenage daughter, which would have made her a grand duchess, by the way, did not run off with Rajko and live out the rest of her life with the Gypsies. Talk about slumming it."

"First, a girl can never read too many romance novels. And second, says you."

"Yes. That's exactly what I say. I say, wait—huh?" How come he always lost the thread of their convoluted conversations, but she was ready with the volleys like a legal defense team?

"Listen, it makes sense. Stasi is obviously a diminutive of Anastasia."

"Pure coincidence. And how about I start calling you Ass? It's a diminutive of Cassie." They were almost at the edge of the camp now, but he didn't see Natalia waiting for them as he'd expected.

"No. But you can kiss mine," she shot back, then said as if he hadn't spoken, "It also explains why nobody called her Krasili. She'd be too nervous that someone might make the connection."

"Oh, brother. That has got to be your weakest point yet. Listen. I get that you think it would be cool for Anastasia to have made it out alive and spent the rest of her years making whoopee with Rajko. But it's too much. The Bolsheviks would never have let her live. Hell, they slaughtered her whole family. Archeologists found the grave site more than a decade ago and the government had DNA testing done on the bones. Then they reburied them in a big funeral."

"Two of the children were missing. The boy Alexi and a girl, either Mari or Anastasia. So there."

"Okay, so we watched the same documentary. It's still a stupid idea and only conspiracy-theory freaks think that any of the Romanovs made it out of Ipatiev House alive."

"What about conspiracy freaks with the FSS on their tail? What do they think?"

"They think you're getting as sensational as Natalia."

"I don't believe it. A disparaging word about the giant Gypsy girl."

Jealous and sarcastic. At least the goddess was consistent. Max narrowed his eyes and scanned the tree line. Where the heck was Natalia? He didn't mean to be a jerk, but usually when a woman planned a rendezvous with him, she showed up. Early. And while it was her own stupid flair for dramatics that had made her choose to meet him at the edge of the woods in the middle of the night, Natalia was barely out of her teens. She was young and alone.

Not liking his sudden uneasiness, he started dragging Cassie along faster. She kept yapping, clutching her backpack in one arm, the lover's box shining eerily in the moonlight through the still-open flap.

"And who the heck would think to look for Anastasia with a band of Gypsies? No one, I tell you, that's who. She found the perfect hiding place and—"

A loud, ominous click broke the night's silence. Well, the silence other than Cassie's jabbering. Max's feet came to a dead stop, almost wrenching Cassie's arm from the socket when she kept walking.

"Hey—" Her voice cut off in a squeak when a man stepped from the shadows, gripping Natalia's arm, a gun pointed at the young Gypsy's head.

"You shouldn't argue with your new lover, Max. She's actually right."

"I am? I mean, yeah, I am," Cassie said, subtly trying to shift herself between Max and the ass-wipe with the gun. She was an idiot. A sweet one, but still an idiot and Max jerked her back toward him.

"Hey, Vic. How's it hangin'?" The ass-wipe, of course, was Victor Hofford. He couldn't believe that one of Vic's men had tailed them here. Lord, Max was really going to have to do something about Vic.

"The box and the diary. Now. Or the girl dies." Victor pressed the muzzle of the gun against Natalia's temple. The other man was short and Natalia was a long drink of water, so it was a slight reach.

"You should've worn your lifts for this gig," Max said while his brain scrambled for a plan. How the hell had Victor tracked them to Gregori's camp? "And when did you turn into a killer? You've always been a putz but you've never stooped to outright murder."

Max scored a direct hit with the height crack. Victor's nostrils flared, the whites of his eyes a quick flash in the moonlight. However, the murder taunt was like water off a duck's back.

Max would've handed over the lover's box in a heartbeat. His desire to beat Victor to the treasure wasn't worth Natalia's life or Cassie's. But he suspected that the goddess was going to be a major snag. The girl just plain wasn't reasonable when it came to parting with the lover's box.

Victor solved the puzzle of why he was suddenly stooping to outright acts of violence. And it was a lulu. "I'd kill quite a few people when the rewards are this great."

Max assumed Vic was referring to the treasure. "Feeling the recession, huh? Hey, man, times are tough. Why don't you cut back on your guards? That should free up some money. They're not very good, anyway. I waltzed in, right under their noses, and got the diary without a single snag."

While Victor answered—Max was surprised his keep-the-villain-talking scheme was actually working—Max slowly stepped in front of Cassie. Or he tried to, anyway. She kept shifting forward and if she didn't cut it out, she'd scooch them right up into Victor's grill.

"The world will finally give me the recognition I deserve when I prove that Anastasia escaped the blood-bath and lived out the rest of her existence as the Gypsy king's lover," Victor said, with a grim smile. "The fallout will be enormous for the Russians, of course, since they insist the whole family is dead. But I will be famous."

Great. Max was surrounded by kooks. The only thing left was for Victor to break out in a maniacal laugh. "So, did some Internet site tip you off?"

"No. Not the Internet. It was your father who discovered the truth. He always believed that Rajko's woman was the grand duchess. Didn't he tell you?"

His father had obviously left out that part. But, finally, with Cassie in his life, Max no longer cared about his crummy past with his dead father. He laughed and said, "He knew better. I'd have laughed in his face. But I have to question the source. My father never had an original idea."

He glanced at Natalia. She stood as still as a statue, her huge eyes fixed on Max. She was being enormously brave, the fact that she towered over her assailant possibly a small comfort in spite of the gun.

Victor smiled slowly and Max had a moment's unease. "Remember when you accused me of selling stolen relics, then took off in a blaze of wrath?" No. Max didn't remember the blaze of wrath part but whatever. Victor said, "Your father eventually put two and two together."

Max cocked his head. "You mean he knew you were guilty?" He should be feeling vindicated but, again, he no longer cared. And not in a cocky, defensive way. He was just plain indifferent. Besides, his mind was too busy racing over possible ways to get Cassie and Natalia out of there safely. If Victor was expecting him to freak out, he was bound to be disappointed.

"Yes, he knew. And didn't care. He eventually began a few small ventures into the market himself." Victor paused, waiting. "What, no insults? Where's your laughter now, Max?"

Max just sighed. He'd moved on and no longer needed validation from his dead father. He'd have shared the good news with Vic, but that would've really thrown a wrench in the little guy's plans.

Victor scowled. "Fine. Believe me or don't, it doesn't matter. Your father always needed money. You know more than anyone how he was. He justified his actions by claiming he was selling off lesser artifacts to fund more excavations."

There was a ring of truth to Vic's words, but even this didn't anger Max as he might have expected. But shock the "fugg" out of him? Yes.

"It was one of his contacts here in Russia, a man inside the old government's regime, who told your father what really happened to the royal family that night," Victor explained.

"Your father rightly suspected that, if the box was ever found, the Russian government would be willing to pay an exorbitant fee to keep the secret. It was an excellent idea and I've already suggested it to Ivan Petrutrio. If he meets my demands, Anastasia's secret will stay just that. And the present parties in power will be safe from any pesky royalists trying to bring back the old regime."

Max cracked up despite the danger of the situation. "It'll never happen. And you're an even bigger idiot than I thought if you're trying to blackmail Petrutrio."

"I agree," another voice spoke out, and Ivan Petrutrio stepped from the shadows, his gun drawn. "By the way," Ivan rumbled in his thick accent, "there's no old regime. It's the same, only better. And far, far more efficient in dealing with those who threaten the country's safety."

Max whipped his head around and, almost simultaneously, Cassie tried to jump in front of him. Ivan's arm and the aim of his gun swung to her and Max stopped thinking like a normal human being. He stepped in, turning his body toward hers and swept her leg out.

As they started falling, he saw that Natalia had used the diversion to haul off and wallop Victor a good one. She was a big girl and Victor had been staring at Ivan when her blow struck his face.

Meanwhile, Max landed on top of Cassie, covering as much of her as possible and praying he'd stop any bullet from reaching her. But instead of the crack of gunfire, he heard an ominous crunch of wood. Pulling up enough to look into her eyes, he met her astonished gaze. Hell. If he wasn't mistaken, the goddess had just managed to land on her backpack and crush the box underneath her.

He quickly looked toward Ivan, the biggest threat present. Ivan had knocked Victor's gun aside. Victor was frozen, hands in the air as if he was afraid to breathe the wrong way. Good. Also, Natalia was inching away and Ivan was letting her.

Ivan started talking to Victor, his voice low and ugly. While the pair was occupied, Max used the opportunity to roll to Cassie's side, keeping himself between her and Ivan. Cassie's expression was horrified rather than scared, and she quickly shrugged off her backpack and scrambled upright.

Pieces of wood were spilling out the top of the pack. But that's not what made Max's spine almost snap because he straightened so fast. A half-dozen stones glittered in the meager light from where they'd spilled onto the dirt. Max gaped. So did Cassie.

Holy shit. The goddess had found the treasure. When she'd smashed the box beneath, her...er...backside, she'd set the jewels somehow hidden inside free. No secret compartment here, though. Apparently the only way to find the treasure was to destroy the box.

Time seemed to stand still. Max stared down at the ground, then shook his head and it was like being released from a trance.

Cassie dropped to her knees over the carnage, muttering a list of vile curses and frantically trying to scoop everything into her pack. Insanely she seemed just as concerned about retrieving the splinters of wood as the shiny objects sprinkled around their feet. What the hell?

But Max's priorities were now crystal clear in his mind, as if he'd suddenly woken from a dream. Cassie wasn't running the show anymore and he was finally putting his foot down. Literally. Max stepped onto her backpack, the fabric under the sole of his boot. He didn't want her grabbing her pack and he didn't want Ivan turning his attention their way. "Are you insane?" He darted a telling glance toward Ivan and Victor. "It's too late for that now. It's over."

Cassie gasped and fell back, hitting her bottom on the ground. "Too late?" She sounded appalled. "Wha—"

"Do you really think Ivan is going to let you take anything out of here? It's done now. Get a grip, Cassie. There's nothing in there worth dying over."

Shockingly, tears splashed down onto her cheeks, her devastation instantaneous. "But we, I mean I need—"

"Cassie, stop," he hissed. She was far more upset than he'd have expected, but he couldn't figure it out now. "You have to leave. Go. Right now. For once this isn't about what you want, it's—"

She gave a sharp cry and jerked away as if he'd struck her, and Max suddenly had a bad feeling that they were talking about two different things. But he didn't have time for this. Not only was Cassie in danger, but Natalia was, too.

Cassie was small and it was dark, so when she whirled to flee it took him a moment to track the movement. Then he spotted her; she'd veered toward Ivan and Victor as she turned to escape. Oh, crap.

Max started to lunge, his arms outstretched and his mouth forming around a frantic no. But he was already too late; her leg was swinging out and behind Victor as if she were making a quick soccer goal before she hit the road.

Her foot hit up under Vic's backside, between his legs, racking him in the balls. In one smooth motion she followed through, then broke into a run.

As Cassie disappeared into the dark, Victor howled, taken totally unaware. His body flew forward from the force of Cassie's ball-buster, automatically curling into the classic post–hit-in-the-nads pose. Ivan's gun went off, but Victor's position meant the bullet missed his head. Too bad.

This was Max's last thought before all hell broke loose. When it was finally over, he'd remember that his last glimpse of Cassie Parker had been with tears welling from her eyes like jewels spilling across the ground.

CASSIE FINISHED PACKING her last box. She'd been back in Florida for two weeks, but she was leaving again.

Watching Max wake from the spell of the lover's box as if he'd been dashed in the face with a bucket of cold water was in many ways the worst moment of her life. One second he'd been looking at her with love and then—boom—he just...wasn't. Devastation did not begin to describe the pain. She'd felt so helpless and angry. Her biggest fear had come true—she'd lost Max.

She barely remembered leaving the clearing and darting into the woods. Behind the line of trees, tears running down her cheeks, she'd watched the chaos left in the wake of her departure. Once Ivan had finally cuffed Victor, the FSS officer had holstered his gun and turned to Max. Max might have had some fast talking to do, but his life was no longer in imminent danger.

Of course, the ever-beautiful Natalia had thrown herself against Max, collapsing gently in his strong arms. The other woman's awesome bravery had conveniently disappeared once the worst was over. Afraid that Max would look over and see her crying her heart out, Cassie had turned and run to the trailer. She'd stopped only long enough to grab her passport and a few other items, then snatched her car keys and left.

She'd felt as though she'd never stop crying as she'd pictured Max shaking his head as if he was waking from a dream. Staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. He'd even called her Cassie. Twice...There'd been no point sticking around after that.

She'd driven numbly, physically and emotionally exhausted. Then, halfway back to St. Petersburg, images of her attack on Victor had started flashing through her mind. Her hands had gripped the wheel while she'd stilled in her seat. As if she were watching a scene in a movie, she'd been able to see herself kicking Vic's balls halfway up to his throat. Sniffing noisily, she'd sputtered out a laugh. Then, laughing even harder, Cassie had realized the truth: that she was a real live kick-ass heroine in the most literal sense of the term. Woo-hoo!

As she'd snickered and cried, she'd further realized something else: she might need the lover's box to get Max Stone into her bed, but she could manage the rest just fine by herself. Because the box had already been turned to toothpicks via contact with her big fat butt when she'd opened up a can of whoop on Victor. Meaning that Cassie had been acting on her own, not egged on by Gypsy mojo. She'd also been the one to find the treasure.

Not bad for the nonadventurous Parker female. At this point Cassie had started to face some home truths and she'd recognized that she was every bit as capable and daring as the other gals in her illustrious family tree. Okay, total Wizard of Oz moment, but, as Natalia had suggested, she'd had what she'd been looking for all along.

If only she'd been able to keep Max along with her newly acknowledged tough-girl skills.... She might not have gotten the guy, but there had been an interesting new development. While Cassie was gone, a buyer had contacted the store, requesting Minerva to track down a coin rumored to have been minted with the faces of Caesar and Cleopatra, a gift from Caesar to the queen he'd conquered and loved.

Legend claimed that Napoleon then discovered the coin when he'd invaded Egypt. The coin had been placed on a solid gold necklace and given to his one true love, Josephine. Legend also held that only a woman truly loved by a man could wear the coin around her neck. Frankly, Cassie had had her fill of romantic legends and mystical powers, but chasing after the coin was better than hanging around the place with only her old best friends power-napping and eating to keep her company.

She'd done this once already because of Ron. She needed a whole different kind of therapy to recover from the desolation of losing Max Stone. If she kept busy enough, then hopefully she'd stop thinking about Max. There were times when the pain nearly overwhelmed her and she could hardly bear it.

Fortunately, Minerva was unavailable, so there was no one else to take the job. The ever-crazy woman was off in South America, studying the lost civilization of the zanzawoobee, or something like that. Before Cassie had come to live here, the shop below had been open only when Minerva was in town, so her great-aunt was fine with leaving it closed until Cassie returned. Minerva hardly needed the money—the store was mostly just a place for Minerva to show off what she'd picked up in her travels.

Her great-aunt had yet to admit that she'd stolen the lover's box from Max before she sent it to Cassie. But it didn't matter anymore.

Whatever Minerva's crazy scheme, it had been worth it. Though Cassie was alone again, she felt so different than she had after her breakup with Ron. She might not ever again find the kind of love that she'd felt for Max, but she wanted to be happy. Not hide and nurse her wounds. She wanted to wake up and look forward to each day.

She was attractive and men found her sexy. Not all of them, but some of them, thank God. Ron was an ass, and she wasn't going to let him have any more impact on how she lived.

She didn't know what the future held, but it was up to her to find out. On her own, yes, but...At least with the lover's box destroyed, she'd never have to worry about someone wanting her for anything other than herself.

She looked around the room. It was quiet in the house. Empty. The teenage boy from next door was obviously one twisted kid, because he'd agreed to watch Creature until whenever Cassie returned. As if he'd heard her thoughts, the wretched feline stalked past her, reaching out a claw and making a quick slash across her ankle before he bolted. Rotten cat.

Cassie was tired. She decided to take a bath before going to bed. She had a long trip ahead of her. Tomorrow she would fly to France, then go on from there to wherever the hunt for the coin led.

Lying back in the water, she closed her eyes with a deep sigh. She hoped this wouldn't be another night when she saw the beautiful Max Stone and the lover's box in her sleep. Pushing the thoughts away, she plucked her sponge from the dish and squirted it with soap. She lazily ran it across her stomach and down her leg, pointing her toes toward the ceiling.

While she usually wasn't the queen of healthy body image, she had to admit that she was looking fine. She'd been too depressed to eat. The only good thing to come of post–traumatic Max Stone disorder was that she was back in her skinny jeans. Too bad he'd never see her in them. Well, some other lucky guy would. Eventually. Like in a year or two...when she could think of another man without feeling ill.

Who was she trying to kid? She'd be lucky to be over Max within a decade.

The clatter of breaking glass shattered her peacefully depressing moment. Her eyes flew open and she shot upright, her spine snapping to military attention.

Before she could even think to weigh the risks or consider the dangers, she leaped from the tub, grabbed a towel and took off at a sprint. Her arms windmilling and her wet feet scrambling for purchase, she careened into the shop, trying to stop. Her hand smacked the overhead light switch. A slow tremble pervaded her limbs and she blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden light.

Then her vision came into focus and Cassie couldn't help it. She gawked just as she had the first time she'd laid eyes on Max Stone. There he was, in all his magnificent splendor, leaning back against the stuffed water buffalo. His shirt was off, just like last time, and he carried a plain wooden box—the same size as the lover's box—in his hands. It had a big red bow on top.

Her mouth worked silently then finally she found her voice. "You're here. But why?"

His definitive bad-boy grin curved wickedly across his mouth. "I salvaged your diary from the crushed remains of Rajko's box. You've got some wild fantasies going on in your head. Reading them was almost as fun as doing them."

Her hands flew up to her face, pressing against her hot cheeks as she groaned. "I forgot, I mean, I—" She broke off. Oh, jeez, she'd totally forgotten that she'd left her diary behind. Men with guns or not, she'd have run back in a flash if she'd remembered it. Anything to avoid this horrible level of embarrassment.

Oh, so what? So he'd read her fantasies. Last time she'd seen him, things had been totally whacked on the bad-guy front, and Max had been free from the Gypsy charm, and he was really here, safe and whole and alive. "But you're not mad? I thought you'd be angry because I'd used Gypsy magic to get you into bed."

Max laughed, interrupting her. "Hell, no. I'm all for it." He tapped a finger on the lid of the new lover's box, the wood gleaming brightly. No paint. "I liked the first one so much, I brought you another to replace it."

Cassie blinked. "Does it, uh..."

Max nodded, his smile growing wider. "Yep. Works just like the one Rajko made for Stasi. Your diary's waiting inside. I don't have a pen on me, but if you tell me where to find one, I'll do a fifty-yard dash."

Cassie couldn't help giggling. "But why would you do that? I mean, when it broke, you seemed so happy to be free...so relieved, but angry."

Max raised his eyebrows. "Wow. You could read all that, huh? In the dark, at gunpoint, in less than ten seconds?" He scowled. "By the way, when I told you to run, I didn't mean all the way back to Florida. You have no idea what I went through when I learned you were gone."

Cassie's forehead creased with lines and she played with the edge of her towel. She hated to relive any of the emotional pain, but she really needed to know. "But you called me Cassie—twice. The second the box broke you started using my regular name. And you told me that there was nothing in the backpack worth—"

He'd been walking toward her as she spoke, and he slipped a free finger into the top of her towel and pulled her to him. It was either follow or go naked. "Tink, peanut, goddess, pain in the ass—"

"Hey." She scowled.

Laughing, Max shook his head. "Cassie, my love, I was simply scared as hell. Not freed from the box's fiendish embrace. You never listen to me and I wanted to make sure that you knew I meant business. I was just using your name for emphasis. Of course, that backfired on me, too." Then Max sighed. "Not to mention I had some personal issues going on after hearing Victor's revelations."

Cassie narrowed her eyes at the memory of Victor's enjoyment as he tauntingly revealed secret after secret to Max. "Why do you think I racked him? He was such a turd." Cassie's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my gosh. What happened with Ivan? Did he take the treasure? Did—"

"I can practically see the wheels turning in your head. Ivan and I came to an agreement. If I say nothing and pretty much stay out of Russia for the rest of my life, I get to live. He got Stasi's diary, the treasure and what was left of Rajko's box, and I got Victor out of my hair. Forever." And what gorgeous hair it was, the light from the overhead chandelier bathing him golden like some pagan god come to life.

"Er, is Victor permanently...?"

"The FSS decided to crack down on his business conduct in their fair country. He's facing a number of charges that will make his stay in Russia's prison system a lifetime retirement. Trying to blackmail the FSS really pisses them off."

"But what about—"

"Natalia's fine and dandy. No worse for wear. She says hi, and told me to give you this." He jiggled the new lover's box.

"Anastasia. Will they ever admit—"

"Nope. Never heard of her. And neither have you." He winked and a gush of heat throbbed between her legs. "But, between you and me, I was able to get a few things of my own. We just can't ever tell anyone about them."

Max smiled devilishly. He slipped a hand into his pocket, then held out a yellowed piece of paper to Cassie.

She tilted her head. "But you kept going on about how dangerous Ivan was. You mean you stole something from him?"

He shrugged. "Well, he wasn't much of a threat to a tough broad like you. I mean, you got the drop on him at Victor's. Then at the Gypsy camp Ivan was running your basic enemy-at-gunpoint scenario and you whumped the bejesus out of his enemy's testicles. Bye-bye leverage, hello chaos. You created such a good diversion—I think I could've dug a hole and buried the treasure before Victor stopped bawling like a castrated calf. Let's just say that I had time to liberate a few things. I was telling Ivan the truth, though. We need to keep this between us."

Cassie nodded, fine with that, then slowly opened the folded paper. After a minute, her jaw dropped. "I knew it, I knew it was Anastasia. Where did you get this?"

The letter was from Anastasia to Rajko, written soon after her recovery. In it, she expressed her thanks for his rescue and care for her injuries. She stated that she was giving her jewels to Rajko as a reward and because she had no need for them now that she was safe with the Gypsies and their king. Then she wrote of her love for Rajko, signing the letter with her name and royal title....

Cassie gaped at Max, who said, "The letter was slipped between two layers of wood inside the lid. The jewels were dug into snug little pockets, packed tightly so there was no rattling or shaking. You lucked out, Tink. There would have been no way to get them free without destroying the box. I guess that was Rajko's whole point when he made it—one could choose pleasure or treasure, not both."

"Is that what you really think?" Cassie asked.

"Well, Natalia said that the love letter was really the focal point for the charm. It grounds the magic." He shrugged, baffled. "Don't ask me. Apparently spells work better with a focal point. Strong emotion. So that's why the letter was inside the layers of wood. As for the jewels..." Max lifted a shoulder. "I think he was keeping them safe until he died. Back then, a person could go at any time. Stasi would have had to destroy the box to get the jewels, so Rajko could be sure her sexual needs would not be met by any other man."

Cassie shook her head, barely able to comprehend. "What's inside the new one?"

Max's mouth slowly curved into a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. "Your old diary pages, plus a letter from me to you. You'll have to smash it to read it, but I'll give you a few hints..." Cassie wanted to pinch herself to see if she was back in one of her horrible, wonderful dreams.

"Hey, there's another present for you. You haven't even noticed it yet and it's the most important one."

Her gaze immediately lowered to the fly of his pants and he quirked an eyebrow and said, "Not that, shortstuff, he's already yours."

Then he lifted the lid of the box. Inside was an array of dazzling colors. "But you said—" Cassie tilted her head. She felt fuzzy and confused, as if she were listening to him talk underwater.

"I said I was able to get a few things. It's all part of the secret." Max plucked one of the glittering stones from the open box. He slipped something on to her finger, then nodded toward it. "Come on, peanut, don't argue. You can bust my chops later."

Her hand shook as she lifted her fingers and the huge emerald adorning the third finger of her left hand practically blinded her. Then it was like trying to see underwater because her vision blurred with her tears.

"Oh, Max, it's beautiful. But how did you get the stones?"

"You didn't think I really handed over all the jewels to Ivan, now did you?"

He reached over and put the new box on a nearby table. Then he plucked free the knot at the front of her towel. As the damp fabric slipped to pool at her ankles, he groaned. He slowly shook his head, his voice husky and rough when he spoke. "God, Tink. I love you like you can't believe. Now say yes, that you'll make me crazy every day for the rest of my life. You have no idea how much I miss making your fantasies come true."

Her pulse raced. The ultimate fantasy of her heart had come true—Max loved her and wanted to be with her even without the magical influence of the lover's box. And for the first time since they'd met, Cassie did exactly what he said. Throwing herself into his arms, she gasped, "I love you, too, Max. Always. No matter what."

## Epilogue

MINERVA PARKER didn't think Max and Cassie would ever leave. For heaven's sake. As adorable as the young pups were, she would occasionally like to enjoy her own home. Besides, those two needed to get to France and start tracking down Cleopatra's coin.

It was pitiful, but if she wanted anything done right, Minerva had to do it herself. First she'd had to steal the lover's box. Then she'd had to stir things up with the Cleopatra's coin. But really, it was the ideal hunt. Cassie could get her feet wet and Max could easily breeze along the relic's trail. So they would have ample time for...other things.

A few minutes later Minerva found herself wondering when the right time would be for Cassie and Max to start having children. Hmm...She wasn't getting any younger....

## Whispers in the Dark

## By Kira Sinclair

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

## 1

"YOU KNOW, as much as I enjoy this ritual, I'm really starting to resent you hogging my Friday nights."

Karyn Mitchell looked up from her half-painted toes and rolled her eyes at her best friend, Anne. "Funny, I don't remember inviting you, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I know what you'd be doing if I wasn't here..."

"Enjoying a nice, long bath?" Karyn raised a pointed eyebrow.

"Booorrrring." As she flopped down onto the sofa beside Karyn, ice cubes rattled in Anne's fresh drink. "You've been here almost two years—don't you think it's time to see something besides your gray cubicle and the inside of this apartment?"

"I like my apartment." There was nothing wrong with it. Or the fact that she preferred to spend her time safe inside it.

Capping her bottle of Ravished Red, Karyn tried not to let the familiar irritation surface. Anne didn't mean to push. She just couldn't seem to help it.

"And grease-stained pizza boxes and demolished cartons of triple-chocolate meltdown, apparently. But neither of those will help you find a man."

A joking smile crinkled her friend's bright green eyes. It didn't help. This was territory they'd been over before, and Karyn was getting tired of covering the same ground. The only thing that kept her from exploding was the fact that while Anne might appear thick-skinned to the rest of the world, she was really a softie at heart.

"I don't need a man."

Anne snorted, a sound that clashed with her blond, model-quality exterior, but completely suited the rebel she hid inside. "Every woman needs a man, someone to help you feel pretty, feminine...sexy."

"I wouldn't know sexy if it bit me in the ass."

"That's my point." A bright, mischievous smile flashed across Anne's face, lightening Karyn's mood. Anne had that effect on her...on everyone. Sometimes it was sickening. But, God, she'd needed that so much when she'd first moved to Birmingham.

Laughter. Something she'd only faked for years. Her family had smothered her. Cocooned her in bubble wrap and walked on egg shells around her. Even surrounded by people, you could be alone. She just hadn't realized how alone she'd been until she'd met Anne.

It hadn't always been that way. A mischievous child, she'd grown up the center of attention and relished every last moment. And as a teenager, she'd loved being the outgoing, friendly one. Not the most popular girl. But the one everyone turned to for advice and a shoulder to cry on.

Being happy had been easy. Then.

She missed that girl. Wanted her back. It had taken five years, but she was finally starting to find that place inside again. If she could just break through that last barrier to being whole...

"A good man would teach you 'sexy.'" Anne's mouth twisted into an up-to-no-good grin as her eyes flashed fun. "Now turn the radio on. The show's about to start."

Karyn groaned. She had a love/hate relationship with Dr. Desire and his radio show. There was something about that man's voice that made her insides tingle and turn to goo. Listening to him talk about relationships and sex for hours every night drove her crazy. Of course, she supposed it was self-torture, considering she'd given up all hope of ever having sex again.

"You're on the air with Dr. Desire. Let's put some spark back in your love life."

His familiar voice filled the room around her. Calm and pleasant, deep and dark, Dr. Desire had the uncanny ability to put her at ease and hype her up, all with that one catch phrase.

Comfort and confusion, that's what he offered. How could she want everything he talked about—a healthy, satisfying relationship plus sweaty, hedonistic, no-holds-barred sex—and yet still be unable to take that first step in finding it?

Listening to his show had become a nightly ritual, one she shared every Friday with Anne. It had started out as a sort of self-prescribed therapy. She'd hoped that hearing men and women talk about sexual relationships every night would take the edge of fear away, would get her juices flowing again. And it had, it did, but each and every time she'd attempted to put that energy to good use, the anxiety would resurface.

Holy hell, she was frustrated.

She wanted sex. She wanted a life. And she wanted someone to share them both with.

"How can he fulfill your needs if you don't tell him what you want? Listen, ladies, we aren't mind readers. You want a little adventure with your sex? Then spell it out for him. Trust me, he's probably willing to try anything once."

Karyn sighed and leaned back against her sofa. She rattled the ice cubes in her buttery nipple, wishing, not for the first time, that the warm buzz wouldn't go to waste. But she never drank hard liquor in public, not when there were men around to take advantage.

"Call him."

Rolling her head sideways, Karyn shot Anne a glare. "No."

"He'll have the answer."

She stared disbelievingly as Anne hopped up and hobbled across the floor toward the phone.

"Ah, no—he won't."

"Look, how can it hurt? You've seen how many therapists over the last few years?"

"Four in five years."

"And has anything they've told you to do helped?"

"No."

"Precisely." Anne duck-walked back to protect her wet polish. With a raised eyebrow and cocked hip, she thrust out the handset. "What do you have to lose?"

Staring at the thing like it was a mud-covered spider, Karyn said, "Uh, my dignity, self-respect, sanity? Any of those will work. There is no way I'm going on the most popular radio show in the city to spill my guts. Everyone I know listens to this show. You're the only person here who knows what happened. I plan to keep it that way."

"So lie, use a different name. No one will know."

"I'll know."

"You're assuming he can't help—"

"He can't. You listen to the show just as much as I do. He might know a heck of a lot about the male/female thing, but somehow I think my problems run a bit deeper than the normal issues he handles. I do not need a sex expert."

"That man is an expert on more than just sex. He knows how to handle a woman, make her feel special. Although, if you ask me, a sexpert is precisely what you need."

Anne frowned and Karyn thought, Oh, shit. Her best friend bright and animated...that was normal. Her best friend with a mission...that was just scary.

"That man could charm the panties off anyone—including you. He'd have you naked and panting before fears and your overactive brain could sabotage you."

Standing up, Karyn paced past her friend toward the stereo. She should just turn the damn thing off. Instead she turned back and asked, "What do you think he's going to say?"

Anne lifted one challenging brow. "It's more what I expect he could do."

"Do? What, you think he'll pimp for me? Find a man willing to take on the challenge?"

Anne twirled the phone in her hand. "Nope. I expect he'd help you himself if you asked."

Her knees went weak, almost like someone had reached in and pulled the bones straight through the bottom of her feet. "Asked. You expect me to ask Dr. Desire for sex?"

"Hell, yes."

"Hell, no."

"He's precisely what you need. He definitely knows his way around a woman's body. Any man who can talk about women and pleasure the way he does..." Her friend trailed off into a wistful sigh. "At least call him."

Karyn shook her head, not sure what to say. There was no way she could ask Dr. Desire for sex. On air no less!

Narrowing her eyes, Anne jabbed the phone toward her. "If you don't, I will."

Karyn's heart seemed to seize in her chest. Pulling her gaze away, she decided to ignore the pointed gesture.

Anne shrugged and started dialing.

Snatching the phone from her, midpunch, she stabbed the off button and hid it behind her back.

With a smirk Anne said, "I have a cell phone, you know."

Karyn growled under her breath. Arguing with Anne made her almost as frustrated as fighting with her big brothers always had. A tiny part of her missed those moments with her family, when she could be herself, when her older brothers had acted like annoying, interfering older brothers. No one except Anne fought with her now.

"Look, I'm not asking that man to sleep with me."

"Fine. But call him. It can't hurt to tell him your story, see if he has any advice."

Karyn swayed. Sure, she'd considered calling before. The only thing that had stopped her was an absolute certainty that it wouldn't do any good.

Crossing the room, Anne laid a hand on her shoulder. "You've tried everything else. What do you have to lose?"

She gave up with an exasperated groan. "What am I supposed to say to him? Hi, my name is Karyn and I'm a victim of rape?"

"Well, that depends on what you're looking for. I'd suggest you start with the fact you haven't had sex in five years and go from there."

Plopping down onto her sofa, Karyn dialed the number for Dr. Desire's hot line, 1-800-4DESIRE and cringed. It sounded a little too close to a phone-sex line for her peace of mind. But if this would get Anne off her back for a while it'd be worth any discomfort. She'd call, tell him her problem and just see if he had any suggestions.

What she wouldn't do was ask him for sex.

Her heartbeat quickened as the line connected and rang. The bundle of nerves in the pit of her stomach seemed to tighten and churn as she explained to the show's producer why she was calling.

After being placed on hold, Karyn breathed deeply in a vain attempt to dispel the emotions jittering through her. She'd explain her situation—leaving out most of the details—and then when he couldn't offer her anything constructive would hang up and forget she'd ever dialed the number.

She felt better, until she looked up into her friend's expectant eyes.

"I still think you should ask him for sex. I'm telling you, that man knows his way around a woman's body. The only thing you'd be thinking with him touching you is more, more, more."

The breathless way Anne moaned the words was not helping. "I am not going—"

"You're on the air with Dr. Desire. Let's find the spark in your relationship."

Karyn's eyes flew wide as she leaped to her feet, standing uselessly in the center of her living room. His voice slid down her spine, not from her strategically placed speakers, but from the phone pressed tightly to her ear. Her hand flexed around the curved plastic in a bid to hold on to something tight. She certainly didn't have hold of her sanity at the moment.

A vision of Dr. Desire, a carbon copy of the billboard she passed at least twice a day, jumped easily to her mind.

With a wide, white smile and rumpled, dark brown hair that always looked as if some woman had just run her fingers through it, the man was gorgeous. No red-blooded, breathing woman could argue that. But it wasn't just his rugged jaw or kissable lips that held her attention. Something deep inside those smoldering blue-gray eyes made her insides clench and melt whenever she drove past.

Even now, just the memory of that picture had her body heating. Heating more than it had for any flesh-and-blood man in the past five years.

"Now, don't be shy. I won't bite. Unless you want me to."

Karyn heard his laugh. Like his voice, it was deep and sexy and somehow soothing. She relaxed the muscles that had bunched at her back and sank blindly onto the sofa.

Her mouth opened and words tumbled out before she could stop them.

"I need you to sleep with me."

CHRISTOPHER FAULKNER nearly fell off his chair. He did bobble the microphone in front of him.

Considering the timid way this woman had started her phone call, that last statement had been a shocker.

Jerking up, he mouthed, "What the hell," to Michael, his forty-two-year-old producer. The man supposedly screening his calls just shrugged and went back to playing with switches.

Chris fought down the urge to strangle him. He'd wrangled with that sensation often over their five-year friendship. There was something about the other man's laid-back attitude that tended to grate against his nerves. Especially during the past few months.

Michael knew he didn't like to deal with this sort of thing on air. Hell, he could barely walk out his door without being accosted by some primped-up prima donna looking for him to rock her world. All they ever really wanted was an instant catapult to notoriety. Or money.

The novelty of fame had long since lost its shine. He really enjoyed helping people, but could have done without some of the headaches that went with the job.

Pasting a smile on his face—because the listeners really could hear when it wasn't there—he put every ounce of experience he'd gained over the past five years into handling the thorny situation Michael had dropped in his lap.

At least he'd learned something on his journey from ordinary nighttime DJ to megastar.

"Well, gee, I'm flattered." He forced out a laugh that fell as flat as the lie he'd just told. He was nowhere close to being flattered. In fact, he was much closer to annoyed.

"That's not...I didn't mean...Let me explain."

The young woman's voice floated into his ears through the headphones he wore. He heard desperation, which scared him, but also something underneath that caught his attention. Something sweet with a tinge of the same uneasiness he was trying to ignore. In a strange way it stirred a connection, a sense of kinship with the woman on the other end.

"I know this must sound crazy to you and, frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you cut me off, but please just hear me out. Honestly, I didn't mean what I said before. Really."

Her admission took a bit of the edge off. Barely.

She paused, sucking in air. The broken sound reverberated through his brain. When she started again her voice trembled and he wondered what had made her take this step. Whatever she was trying to say, it was obviously difficult.

"My name is Katy." Her voice faltered and drifted away for a moment before beginning again. "This is hard for me to talk about."

"Well, I can't say I'll sleep with you, Katy." He forced out another laugh, but even he could hear the brittle edge. "But I'd like to help. Tell me what's going on."

"About five years ago I was date raped. I knew the guy. Not very well, but enough to think I'd be safe with him. I wasn't."

A tight knot dropped into his stomach, punching straight through to his toes.

How had this girl gotten through? She'd already hit two of the auto-dump buttons—propositioning him and having a serious sexual issue, one that required professional help. He was no professional.

His unfinished business-management degree didn't really qualify him to deal with severe sexual hang-ups. And if, in the silence of his own mind, he'd thought once or twice about remedying that deficiency in his education...well, there'd never been a reason to admit that idiocy to anyone.

He stared hard through the glass at Michael. The other man's forehead was wrinkled even more than usual. Sure, now he cared. Where had that interest been five minutes ago?

Katy's voice continued, tightening and turning to an emotionless monotone while she recited the bare-bones facts he really didn't want to hear.

"It was terrifying and a long time ago. But I can't seem to move past it. I've tried so many things, listened to so many people. No one seems to have the answer."

"The answer to what?" The sound of his own voice coming through the headphones shocked him. Why had he asked her that?

"I can't have sex. I want to." The girl groaned softly, the sound lodging right next to the knot at the bottom of his stomach. "God, I want to. But even thinking about it—I freeze up."

His eyes locked with Michael's through the pane of glass between them, narrowing to slits. His jaw clamped so tight he thought the entire audience could probably hear the grinding sound.

This girl had a serious problem. Not the "my boyfriend won't go down on me," "my girlfriend won't do a threesome," "is this burning sensation something to worry about" kind of stuff he dealt with in a normal night. She needed some professional help. She did not need him.

This had disaster written all over it. His show was bubblegum and handcuffs, not emotional turmoil.

He'd fallen into the job as Dr. Desire. A few comments to a late-night caller and before he knew it, what had been a play-the-records, punch-the-buttons kind of job had turned into hours of sex and relationship discussions that led to more than he'd ever imagined. But he'd worked hard over the past five years to build a public persona, to provide confidence and helpful information to those seeking sexual answers and a push to try something new.

The people who called into his show—the people that got past Michael's supposed screening process—mostly wanted relationship advice or to share their own fantasies or be turned on.

He was prepared for that. He was not prepared for this.

"Katy, as much as I'd like to help you, I'm not a doctor. It sounds to me like you need to see a professional."

"I've talked to a therapist. Four, in fact. None of them helped."

He looked again at Michael, raising his hands in the universal sign for "What the hell do I do now?"

His producer's response was the cut sign—a hand across his throat. He'd like nothing better than to end this call, but he didn't think that would be a very good idea. Not for Katy. And certainly not for the show. His female listeners—who comprised more than half his audience—would raise hell. How could he extract himself without appearing cold and indifferent?

"Well, Katy. Maybe you just need to give yourself some more time. You had to have been young. You barely sound old enough to drink." He pushed out another laugh, trying to maintain the tone of the show despite feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"I'm twenty-six and it hasn't gotten any better in five years. That's a long time. I want a husband and kids. At the rate I'm going I'll be fifty before I have sex again." Another desperate sound echoed across the line and twanged the nerves at the bottom of his spine. "I don't think I could handle that."

"I'm sure that's not true. You'll have sex when you're ready. I have to ask—" although something told him he'd be better off if he didn't "—what makes you think you'd be any different with me?"

"I honestly didn't mean to say that. But I've been listening to your show for a long time and it's obvious you know what you're talking about. Maybe that's what I need, a man who really understands how to give a woman pleasure. Who knows how to ignore the fear."

Chris shifted in his seat, completely surprised that the quivery little dip in her voice there at the end had caught his attention.

"You should never ignore the fear, Katy. Listen to your body, it knows what you can handle."

Chris paused, leaning in closer to the mike. He really wanted to help this woman, but he couldn't, not without risking everything he'd built. His show walked a line between offering professional-sounding advice and providing an opinion. Chris tried hard to stay far away from that line. One toe over could cost him everything. One lawsuit because he'd said the wrong thing to the wrong person...Katy was just too close to that edge for comfort.

"I know you understand I can't sleep with you, but please find another therapist. Maybe this time his or her suggestions will work. The fact you were willing to call into the show tells me how important this is for you and how much you're willing to risk to get what you want. You don't need me. You need to trust yourself. Find a nice man who'll understand and go slowly with you. If you need the number of a therapist, stay on the line, and I'll get the information for you."

"Thank you."

He'd expected her voice to waver or maybe crack with disappointment. It didn't. In fact, she seemed almost, well, relieved.

"ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? I made a complete ass of myself in front of half the south."

"Sure you did...Katy." Anne winked before hobbling to the kitchen and coming back with a half-empty bottle of butterscotch schnapps. "No one but me knows that was you on the radio."

"And it better stay that way."

Anne smiled. "Of course."

Karyn fought the urge to say something snide to wipe the expression off her face. Her friend hadn't done anything wrong. She'd been the idiot who'd called and blurted out a request for sex.

"You know, I never would have said that if you hadn't been pounding at me about how perfect he would be as my sex stud."

Pouring another drink, Anne looked over the edge of her glass. "I think you said exactly what you wanted to. Not that it matters."

"Oh, it matters."

"Besides, I happen to agree with him."

"What? You're the one who told me to sleep with him—"

"Not about that. I think you need to find a man, Karyn. One who understands what you've gone through. One who'll go slow and take things one step at a time."

Karyn paced to her bookshelf and back. Realizing she still held the phone in her hand, she tossed it away in disgust. What? Did they all think she was stupid? Of course that was what she needed.

"Absolutely. And a guy like that isn't hard to find. Because telling a man on the first date that there won't be any sex in his foreseeable future due to the fact that I'm a rape survivor really turns men on."

"So, don't tell him."

Turning to her friend, Karyn cocked her head to the side and stared. "You're the one who said I need to find a man who understands. Kinda hard to do if I don't tell him."

"So, just not on the first date."

Karyn sank down onto the couch. Tears of frustration pricked the backs of her eyes. "That doesn't work either because then I spend the entire night worrying about what he expects and how I'll handle it."

"Fine, be miserable." Anne slipped down beside her on the edge of the sofa and wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders. "But nothing's going to change, Karyn, until you take a chance."

## 2

"WE HAVE TO DO something."

Chris's voice echoed against the impersonal walls of the station conference room. He sat in the padded seat to Michael's right and looked across at the two gentlemen he'd asked to join them, the station manager and their attorney.

"We agree. The entire show was dominated by calls about Katy for the third day in a row. Even though your ratings are up this can't continue. If we take no action there will be a backlash against the show eventually. Your listeners want and expect you to do something."

"Something we all know I can't do." Chris leaned over the gleaming surface of the conference table and studied the two men opposite him. To him they resembled aging bulldogs with their sagging faces. They walked around, their mouths pulled down into perpetual frowns as if their every decision affected the balance of the world.

Only, today their decisions affected him.

He hadn't felt this out of control in years. Yes, he had money, fast cars and a house he owned outright and had remodeled with his own two hands. But it was his show that was his security and stability. And at the moment, that security felt more like a smoke screen than something solid. If the show ended, he had nothing to fall back on. The Dr. Desire gig had landed in his lap. That kind of miracle wasn't likely to happen twice.

Which was why he normally kept a tight rein on his life and his show. But sometime in the past two days he'd lost that control. With or without the agreement of the men before him, he'd do whatever he needed to get it back. Chris never again wanted to experience the sickening sense of helplessness he had at sixteen when he and his mother had been evicted. One random, unfair event—her illness and inability to work—had cost them everything.

He would never be that vulnerable, that dependant, again.

Michael chimed in. "The listeners will eventually become less concerned and more forceful. And while I normally wouldn't worry, we've just moved into several major markets. If our ratings begin to slip we're liable to lose them as fast as we gained them."

Chris's stomach clenched for one brief moment at the thought before he pushed it away. That wasn't going to happen. "Michael is right. We need to do something, but I'll be damned if I know what. I obviously can't have sex with her."

The attorney's face flushed hot before returning to its regular mottled red. "Absolutely not. In fact, I'd advise against it."

"What if I took her out to dinner? A nice, impersonal meal. She said she hadn't been on a date in a while. That would help in one area without moving us into dangerous territory."

Three sets of eyebrows shot straight up, but he watched as they all rolled the thought around and considered.

"It might work." Michael spoke first, his enthusiasm for the idea gaining ground. "It would be a chance for her to meet you face-to-face, you could charm her, give her a T-shirt, CD. At the same time it would give us the opportunity to make a statement on air, something to the effect that we're doing everything we can to help."

Looking questioningly at Ken, Chris waited.

The attorney spoke slowly, weighing things out as he went. "We'd need to keep the details from your listeners. A simple announcement that you heard their concerns and that we're getting Katy the help she needs. For her protection, you can't reveal specifics, but want to assure everyone that you and the station are committed to helping this bright young woman through a traumatic experience."

Despite having made the suggestion, Chris wasn't entirely convinced it was the best idea. In fact, he wasn't exactly sure where it had come from.

Certainly, he'd taken female listeners to dinner before. More than he cared to count over the past five years actually. At first he'd enjoyed the attention Dr. Desire received from the female population. He'd wanted sex, and the women had wanted a brush with fame. Everyone had walked away satisfied. But lately, satisfaction hadn't been enough.

Obviously, this would be different. He wouldn't expect sex when the night was done, and he would make it clear to Katy that that wasn't his intention—for her sake, as well as his.

He turned the idea over one more time, examining it for pitfalls. If eating a simple meal with her allowed him to lose the sense of guilt he'd been fighting for the past few days, got his audience off his back and helped Katy, well, then maybe it would be worth a few hours out of his life.

Heath, the station manager, jumped in as devil's advocate. "Couldn't we simply say that without actually doing anything? I mean, we did offer her information on therapists."

Ken countered immediately, "Certainly, if we could guarantee Katy won't come forward to discredit the statement. If that happened, the show and the station would look worse than you already do."

Chris pushed up from the table, walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and looked out over Birmingham's skyline. Ruffling a hand through his hair, he could feel the tight pinch of a headache coming on.

"We don't know how to get in touch with her, that's certainly a problem."

Papers rustled behind his back before Heath said, "We had her call-in number traced. We have her real name, address and home telephone number."

Chris turned and stared at the station manager before moving his gaze to the attorney.

"Is that even legal?"

Ken shifted in his chair, but met Chris's ice-blue stare. "It's a bit gray, but nothing that could land anyone in jail."

"Isn't that a relief." Chris narrowed his eyes, boring holes into the other man.

"You should do it, Chris. It's the best way out of this. One night from your life and it's over. Charm the pan—" Michael stalled and cleared his throat. "Charm her a little. Piece of cake for Dr. Desire."

The impish grin he gave rubbed Chris the wrong way. But whatever Michael's faults—and they were many—the man did have his back when it mattered. At the moment he was making it difficult to remember that but...

Taking Katy out for a nice dinner would be simple for Dr. Desire. Chris on the other hand...he wasn't convinced. She'd expect him to be on, they all did. Smooth, sexy, sophisticated. Intelligent. Funny. Perfect.

Most women wanted everything from a man. Unfortunately, he'd done his job so well they all seemed to think he could give that to them. He was tired of trying. Tired of pretending that the persona he'd built was real.

One night out of his life.

"I'll call her. But if she doesn't want to do this, we all agree to issue a statement on air, anyway."

"Agreed."

Chris took the paper Ken held out to him and glanced down at the neat black ink against the white page.

"Karyn Mitchell." He liked that much better than Katy.

KARYN WALKED into her apartment, threw her keys onto the hall table and hung her purse and briefcase on the coatrack. Walking into the silent kitchen, she couldn't hold back a sigh.

Her head pounded, her shoulders slumped and a brick seemed to have lodged at the base of her spine. She knew stress, tension and exhaustion were responsible for her weary state.

It had been four days since that damn phone call. For the past three nights she'd turned on Dr. Desire only to hear his show become a heated discussion of her life and what he should do to help her.

Her hours at work hadn't even been safe. Every time she'd tried to add up a string of numbers today someone had popped their head into her cubicle to gossip about Katy.

Her so-called best friend hadn't been much better. Anne had teased and admonished, going so far as to try to cajole her into a double date. After hours of frustration Karyn had snapped at her. And felt guilty for it afterward.

But the frustration and anger hadn't lasted long. It was hard to keep her bad mood when Anne was around. She was always so...chipper. Or rather, that's what she showed the world. Even Karyn hadn't realized that the brightness and light Anne seemed surrounded with was a facade. Not until it had slipped. She'd truly known they were friends the night Anne had broken down and allowed her to see the emotions she buried deep inside.

That same night Karyn had opened up and shared her own deepest secret. She'd never regretted the action or the trust she'd placed in the other woman.

At the moment, however, she was seriously regretting sharing that secret with half the South, even if she had used an alias.

She couldn't believe it was happening all over again. She'd moved to Birmingham to get away from this kind of minute dissection of her life and choices. She'd spent years defending her actions to newspapers, TV stations, radio shows, her lawyers, the judge, not to mention the jury.

The job offer from Walker Technologies had provided her with a clean start, the chance to lose herself in the city crowds and forget the trauma everyone at home remembered when they looked at her. And with one five-minute phone conversation she'd inadvertently opened herself up to it all over again.

The one saving grace was that the city was discussing Katy's life, not hers. But she wondered how long that would last. Reporters had a way of digging up details, especially the ones you thought safe and secret. Unfortunately, the only thing she could do was wait and hope the interest died down soon. Doing anything else would just draw attention to herself.

She'd gone in to work this morning hoping to bury herself in the minutia of number crunching. It hadn't worked—she'd completely screwed up the monthly sales report and it had taken all afternoon to rework it. She'd become an accountant because she loved numbers, because they followed hard-and-fast rules that never changed. Today she wasn't so enamored of them or her job.

If only people hadn't kept interrupting her. If only she'd been able to concentrate on the numbers instead of Dr. Desire...

There was no escape. She kept telling herself that the interest in Katy would die down eventually, that something else would happen to catch everyone's attention.

At the moment, that wasn't very comforting; what would be was a hot bath, a good book and a glass of wine. The only food she wanted was a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream covered in fudge sauce. Comfort and solitude at its finest. She'd pay for it tomorrow at the gym, but it would be so worth it.

Opening the freezer, she pulled out the half-empty carton and grabbed a spoon. With a hip bump she closed the spoon drawer and headed into the bathroom to start her night of relaxation.

Pouring the wine, picking out her book and turning on some soft music all helped her settle. She slipped into the hot water with an appreciative sigh. The last of the stress that had built inside melted away with the rising steam. Closing her eyes, she rested her head and just sat for a minute, soaking up a luxury she rarely made time for.

After a few minutes of bliss, she reached for the ice cream and scooped a bite from the carton, letting the cold glob melt in her mouth and slip down her throat. The bold, heavy taste burst through her mouth, reminding her of the mint tea her grandmother had always made on sticky summer days when she'd visited.

Times like these she missed her family, even her mother. Yes, she'd needed to escape Darby, Mississippi, to put some space between her family's overprotective tendencies and her mother's inability to understand. It had been an important step in her recovery, one she'd needed to take.

The anonymity she'd found in Birmingham hadn't hurt, either. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the feeling that it was slowly slipping away.

She'd just scooped another heaping spoonful into her mouth when the phone rang. Reaching for the cordless she'd brought into the bathroom, she looked at the caller ID and groaned. She should have known better than to bring the phone into her haven of solitude.

Pounding the button, she answered, knowing if she didn't her brother would send up a hue and cry to the entire family.

"Hello, Blake."

"Hi, squirt, how's it going?"

She couldn't suppress the smile just hearing his voice caused. "Well, I was enjoying some downtime until you called. How can I convince you to get lost?"

"You can't. I'm the official family envoy. If I don't go back to Mom and Dad with specific information, we're both likely to regret it."

And wasn't that the truth? Growing up the youngest of three kids and being the only girl meant she was very protected as a child and teenager. If her parents hadn't worried about something, her older brothers sure had. It'd been a miracle that any guy had wanted to date her. Outgoing and confident, she'd been so eager to escape to college.

The overprotective atmosphere had only gotten worse after she'd been raped. It was her family's natural response, to circle the wagons and ward off anything else that could hurt her. And at the time, she'd appreciated their love and understanding. But it had gotten old awfully fast and was the main reason she'd placed a state between her and the rest of the Mitchell clan.

With a sigh of resignation she said, "Okay. What do they want?"

"You to visit. We haven't seen you since Christmas. That's seven months, in case you've lost the ability to count along with the ability to find your way home."

Karyn settled back into the steaming water, letting her hand play back and forth making waves. This would not end quickly, she could tell.

"I can't get away from work right now." And the thought of going back to Darby always left her slightly unsettled. The place held memories she'd been trying so hard to leave behind. She might not have been raped there, but she'd certainly gone back to live through the aftermath. The long wait, the trial, the media coverage, then the subsequent realization that her word hadn't been enough for twelve of her peers.

She'd worked so hard to get her life back. And aside from this one last major hurdle—her inability to relax and trust someone enough to have sex—she was doing pretty well. But the thought of returning right now left a sour taste in her mouth.

Not to mention how the family couldn't stop treating her like the wounded baby sister. Whether they meant to or not, they always seemed to reinforce her feelings of self-doubt and fear. The same emotions she was trying hard to shed so that she could move on with her life.

There had been a time when she'd been confident, invincible. She really wanted to find her way back to that woman.

"Look, Karyn, I understand why coming home is hard for you, but everyone only worries more when they don't see or hear from you for a while."

Everyone worried even when they did, so she didn't see what difference it made. And while she understood their reactions, they hadn't helped her much.

"The rest of us are getting together for Labor Day, a nice family picnic on the lake."

"I'll see what I can do, but I make no promises."

"I'm sure you have no concern for the messenger, but I'll pass that along. And don't be surprised when you get a call from Mom."

Oh, she wouldn't. "I still owe you payback for a few childhood incidents. I'll let you handle Mama."

He gave a derisive snort and paused for a moment before his voice went deep with concern. "I worry about you, sis. I know I probably shouldn't, but I can't help it. I've been watching out for you for twenty-six years."

"I'm fine. I'll try to get away. Tell Mom, Dad and Randall that I love them."

"Will do, squirt."

Before she could hang up, the familiar guilt crept in. "I love you, too, Blake. I know you're just trying to help and I appreciate your concern."

"Yeah, well, what are brothers for?"

"You mean besides torturing me as a child and tormenting me as a teenager?"

She heard his laugh resonate down the line before it went dead. Placing the phone on the edge of the tub, she settled back to resume her evening of self-pampering. At least as much of it as she could get in before her mother called.

Which was why when the phone rang again twenty minutes later, Karyn barely looked up from the book she'd been reading. Answering without glancing at the caller ID—there was no need—she said, "I'm fine. I'll try to be there for Labor Day but I make no promises. Give my love to everyone. Bye."

She'd moved the phone away, not wanting to give her mother a chance to talk her into chatting—she'd call back tomorrow or on the weekend maybe—when a single word stopped her dead.

"Wait."

The small sound echoed from the receiver. That was definitely not her mother's voice—unless she'd developed a severe case of laryngitis.

Looking at the caller ID didn't help; it showed Unknown.

"Hello?" The tiny sound reverberated out of the receiver.

Karyn nearly dropped the phone into the water. That voice sounded strangely familiar. Almost like...No. It couldn't be.

There was one way to find out. Holding the phone gingerly by two fingers, she put it to her ear, said, "Hello?" and held her breath.

"Karyn? This is Christopher Faulkner."

Oh my God. It was. Her book slid from numb fingers, landing with a liquid plop before swishing beneath the bathwater. Why was Dr. Desire calling her? And how had he gotten her number, her name for that matter?

She closed her eyes, a blush of embarrassment joining the flush on her skin from the heat. She did not want to talk to this man.

"Karyn?"

Dread sloshed through her body. She couldn't stop the knee-jerk reaction to cover herself and cringed as a wave of water splashed over the side of the tub, soaking the deep green mat on the floor.

"Why are you calling?" She knew the urge to rush for her robe was idiotic, but that didn't stop her from leaning against the cold acrylic to shield her naked body with the edge of the tub.

"Do you know who I am?"

A tingle rippled down her back, goose bumps following the path. She told herself the reaction was from the cool air across her wet skin.

Did she know who he was? Oh, she knew all right.

"Yes."

Pulling her legs up under her, she glanced across the room to her towel hanging on the rod by the door. Getting it would mean standing up. Standing up would mean a rush of water, something he would surely hear. For some reason she didn't want him to know how naked—and vulnerable—she was.

"Great. I'm calling to ask you out to dinner."

Whatever she'd expected, that had not been it.

"You what? Why?"

"I want to help. And while sex with you is out of the question, maybe a dinner date might move you in the right direction."

The right direction? Karyn bit back a bitter laugh. At the moment she wasn't even sure where that was.

Dinner. How in heaven's name did he think that would help her sexual frustration and inability to trust anyone with her body?

"What's in this for you?"

"I'd like to make an announcement on the show, nothing specific, just a quick mention that we're getting you help."

An attempt to control the unruly mess his show had turned into over the last few days. Maybe if she agreed to this, the fervor over Katy would die down and the entire city would stop talking about her life.

"Why don't you just say that, anyway? We both know you don't really want to do this."

Silence echoed across the line. Karyn wondered where he was. At the station, in his home, naked in his own bed? Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she wiped that mental image right from her brain. At the station. Definitely. His show would start in an hour or so.

"Look, Katy, I have a reputation to uphold. I won't go on air and lie to my listeners."

"I won't tell."

"Yes, but I'll know."

Her mouth opened to tell him, not a snowball's chance in hell, but she couldn't force the words out. A few hours from her life. A chance to put the entire situation behind her and maybe get his listeners to do the same. One night had the potential to wipe the slate clean, almost turn back time.

"Fine. But no media. No publicity. I don't want anyone to know who I am."

"Agreed."

Her heart sped up, not with concern, but excitement.

"I'll meet you at Masquerade Saturday night at seven. Do you know where it is?"

"Sure." She didn't, but she'd figure it out.

"Well, then, I'll see you in a couple days."

Karyn shifted sideways, forgetting about the waist-high water she sat in.

He chuckled, the deep, light sound tickling her heightened senses. "Enjoy your bath."

Unexpected heat melted through her. She cringed, but before she could make a snappy recovery, he hung up, leaving her dangling.

Flopping back into the water, Karyn closed her eyes and flung an arm across her flaming face. "I'm such an idiot."

## 3

"EVERYTHING'S SET?" Michael met Chris at the door, pushing back a throng of women to let him into Oxygen, a downtown Birmingham hotspot. These personal appearances were part of the job, but he really wished the marketing department would find someplace other than local clubs and bars. The place reeked of smoke, and the pounding music and flashing lights made it difficult to carry on a conversation. Although, sometimes that worked in his favor.

"We're meeting for dinner Saturday night. I reserved a private room at Masquerade."

"Private, huh? Please tell me you aren't considering making a move. I know you've been off your dating game lately, but that's low."

Chris frowned. He was not off his game; he was out of it entirely. But that was by choice. He was tired of pasting on a smile and playing someone else, someone he no longer wanted to be.

"Of course not. I'm trying to keep a low profile. Somewhere I can get in and out without anyone noticing me."

"Dr. Desire! Dr. Desire!" Two women slipped past the bruiser holding back the crowd and raced toward him, yelling at the top of their lungs. Chris took a bracing step backward and held his breath. Before they could reach him, another security guard provided by the club intercepted them.

With a wry twist of lips Michael said, "I wouldn't count on it."

"Those women knew I'd be here." Shaking his head, he moved across the room. "I promised Katy no publicity. No pictures, no interviews. And no using her real name on the air."

His producer shrugged. "Fine. Legal wanted as much, anyway."

"Great. Make sure everyone knows. The last thing I need is for this meeting to leak out. Then Katy really would have something to complain about."

Chris settled into the uncomfortable chair set behind a table at one end of the dark room. Glancing down at the stack of glossy black-and-whites, he suppressed a cringe. He hated autographing these pictures, but they were part of the personal-appearance contract he'd signed.

The man staring back was familiar, but not someone he recognized as himself. The concealing layers were visible, at least to him. Slicked-back, styled hair. False, white smile. Tailored suit, a carbon copy of the straining shoulder seams he now shrugged uncomfortably against.

He'd worked hard to develop Dr. Desire's public persona. The fact that it didn't quite fit hadn't always bothered him. But it was starting to more and more.

"Dr. Desire." A middle-aged woman stepped up to the table and leaned across to squeeze his neck like they were old friends. It was time to go to work.

He spent the next hour talking and laughing with his fans. His cheek muscles hurt from the perpetual smiling, and his throat could have used about five gallons of water.

Of all the things that came along with being Dr. Desire, the public appearances had become his least favorite.

Finally, just at the point he was seriously beginning to think his wrist would fall off, Michael spoke to the crowd. "Sorry, folks. Dr. Desire has to get back to the station. But be sure to check out the Web site for his next local appearance."

With a smile he could no longer feel, Chris waved as he slipped back out the door. Several feet down the block, his shoulders rose and fell on a sigh of relief.

"Remind me not to agree to another one of these for at least six months."

"Sorry, you're doing another in two weeks."

Rolling his stiff neck, Chris let out a groan.

"Publicity means money, for you and the station. Wait here for me. I need to check on something inside, then you can give me a ride back to the station."

When had he become a damn taxi? Whatever. It gave him a few minutes of solitude to unwind. These things always drained him. It was weird, the difference between speaking on air and speaking in person. The people were often the same; at least, they all wanted to talk about the same things. But at night, after the show ended and he left the studio behind, he was never as exhausted as he was after these in-your-face appearances.

Chris walked farther away, knowing that the bouncers who'd held the crowd back would soon let them go. Late-summer heat waved up from the pavement at his feet. Even an hour after sunset it still held every ounce of the August sun. But there was a nice, unusual breeze. It slipped past him, carrying the smells of the city.

Birmingham was nothing like the little Alabama town he'd come from. Back home the smell on the breeze would have been cow manure, freshly mown grass or a mixture of both. It would have held the mouthwatering scents of barbecuing meat and roasting corn, though neither of those would ever have been coming from his own trailer. Here he just smelled money, concrete and the Chinese place down the block. Not necessarily bad, just different.

"Chris."

He turned instinctively, realizing too late that the smooth voice was not Michael's.

Every muscle in his body froze. His skin flushed hot before going clammy cold. He hadn't seen his father for fourteen years. In fact, he'd only laid eyes on the man once in his life.

As far as he was concerned, that was once too many.

"How are you, son?" With a blinding smile that reminded Chris a little too much of the pictures he'd just signed, Darrell Odom cuffed him on the shoulder in greeting.

Shock quickly gave way to a bone-clenching anger. The one time he and his mother had needed the sorry son of a bitch, he had laughed in their faces and told his mother she was a stupid piece of ass for getting herself in trouble in the first place.

"What do you want?" He bit out each precise word. Every cell in his body screamed at him to take the shot he'd wanted to all his life, to pummel the perfect white teeth, golden tanned face and bright blue eyes until they were an unrecognizable mass. He wouldn't, his mama had taught him better. And if he did he'd be no better than his father.

As far as Chris was concerned, he wanted nothing from the man, especially not the questionable moral compass he seemed to operate by.

"Can't a father say hello to his son?"

"Not you. Let me guess, your latest mark wised up and threw you out on your ass." Chris smiled. A small spot in the center of his chest warmed as his father's jaw clenched, confirming his suspicions. "She catch you with another woman or just in your lies?"

Darrell's smile vanished. The change was remarkable. The jovial, polished man he'd been two seconds ago was replaced by someone Chris never would have recognized in a crowd. For the first time he wondered just how old his father actually was. He'd never asked his mother.

Ripples of lines bracketed the man's drawn lips. Deep furrows creased his forehead and the healthy glow he'd radiated vanished to a pale shadow of what it had been before.

"Fine. You're an adult now—"

Like the man had ever known him as a child.

"The bitch I was with threw me out without a cent. No warning, no nothing, just changed the locks. I don't even have a spare set of clothes. I just need enough to get back on my feet, to get a place to stay, some clothes to wear. Ten thousand should do it."

Chris's body flushed hot, and a shot of adrenaline coursed into his veins. He'd been waiting for this day all his life. He'd often railed at God and fate for what had happened to his mother. She'd worked so hard, spent every moment of her life paying for a mistake no one had loved her enough to forgive.

He'd carried the weight of knowing that mistake had been him. And that no matter how perfect a child he'd been, how excellent a student, he couldn't save her. In the end he'd watched as cancer had eaten her from the inside out, knowing that if she'd had a better, easier life—some insurance—that life might have lasted longer.

Now the man who could have helped them and had refused was standing with his own hand out. Life was cruel. But fate had a sense of humor.

A harsh laugh that Chris didn't recognize as his own echoed through the falling night. "Let me get this straight—I watched that night as you denied I was your son, as you told my mother she was an idiot for not aborting me and that any messes she'd made were hers to clean up. You refused to give us even $500 and here you are asking for twenty times that. You're joking, right?"

Darrell's face turned deep red beneath his too-perfect tan. "I know you have it. I didn't have five hundred to spare."

"You mean your sugar mama wouldn't give money to the mother of your bastard son. You make me sick. You're not getting a penny from me."

Chris turned to leave, rubbing at his chest to ease the tight band there. Somehow that hadn't felt as good as he'd always assumed it would.

Staccato steps on the empty sidewalk alerted Chris that the moment wasn't over just yet.

"Don't you walk away from me, boy."

Darrell grabbed at his arm, but Chris was too quick. He spun around, stepping into the man to stop him short.

His father's blue eyes glowed with an ominous heat. "Your mother should have taught you manners, son."

"Don't you mention her to me, you bastard. Ever. You don't know anything about her, about what you sentenced her to that night you refused to help."

The familiar anger and helpless fear rolled through Chris's blood. His fists clenched against the hunger for retribution. It would be so easy to inflict a tiny slice of the pain his mother had experienced. The pull of vengeance was almost hypnotic. But the man before him wouldn't pay the price; Chris would. Dr. Desire would. And it wouldn't bring his mother back.

Taking a deliberate step back, Chris put enough space between them to make physical contact impossible.

"Let me give you some advice. Go back to whatever dimwitted divorcée you were conning this time, get down on your hands and knees and beg her for forgiveness. You have a better chance with her than you do with me." Chris smiled, his muscles no longer numb, each and every one aching in protest. He kept the facade anyway.

"Aren't we all high-and-mighty, Dr. Desire. You're no better than I am."

"The hell I'm not."

"We both make our living off seducing women. The only difference is they pay me direct. You have that nice corporation cutting you the check. The end result's the same, boy." He smiled a perfect smile that sent ripples of unease across Chris's body. "Sex sells."

Chris stared, speechless. His brain swirled on the words, but he couldn't form a coherent response.

"I'll let you think about that awhile. See you around."

His father was halfway down the block before Chris had his mouth open and a logical argument ready. Too late. People streamed from the club he'd just left as his father passed by the front door. Yelling at the man now would draw attention he'd rather not have.

Out of the crowd Michael appeared, grabbed his elbow and steered him across the street to his waiting Porsche.

"Who was that you were talking to?"

"No one important."

It wasn't true. He was nothing like his father.

DARRELL SAT IN HIS CAR and fought down the rage. The candy-apple-red Jag was about the only thing of value he owned, and he only owned that because he'd sweet-talked Virginia into putting the title in his name. It was amazing what women would do if you gave them a mind-blowing orgasm.

Selling the car wasn't an option, he wasn't ready to part with it just yet. It was sleek and red and young, and it reminded him of the youth he'd squandered bowing and scraping to women in order to get by.

He'd deserved so much more.

There was another way back to the lifestyle he'd grown accustomed to, the lifestyle he deserved. But it required start-up capital, something he didn't have. But his son did.

Taking a deep breath, he unclenched his hands and laid them over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. He stroked the soft curve up and down. The feel of it always reminded him of a woman's skin, that smooth, silky place just on the underside of a ripe breast.

It wasn't just the money he missed. His sexual appetites were huge, which was why having only one woman never satisfied him. Or rather had never satisfied him. Just one more item on the list of things old age had taken...right along with his looks, his boyish charm, his charisma—everything he needed to function in the high society world of wealthy divorcées.

Damn it! He needed that money and he needed it fast.

Down the street he watched his son speed away in a sports car that strikingly resembled the one he sat in. A small smirk tugged at his lips. They were the same.

He wasn't ready to give up just yet. He hadn't spent almost forty years of his life manipulating people into giving him whatever he wanted for nothing. He'd find an in with his son.

Or a weakness he could exploit.

His parting shot had certainly hit home. Darrell hadn't missed the disbelief and utter denial that had skated across Chris's face. So the boy didn't like the idea that he was the apple to his tree.

Well, it was certainly a start.

Maybe tomorrow he'd pay a visit to his famous son's place of employment and see what he could shake out of those branches.

WHY HAD SHE AGREED to this?

Karyn's foot tapped up and down against the polished hardwood floor beneath the table as she waited for Dr. Desire to show up. Her heel clicked in a rhythm that, coming from anyone else, would have annoyed the hell out of her.

She couldn't stop.

At least there wasn't anyone to bother. She sat alone in the quiet room he had reserved for them. Her eyes swept across the cozy space. The dim lighting, flickering candles and mood music all set her nerves on edge. Apparently Dr. Desire hadn't told the restaurant this wasn't a real date.

Karyn tried desperately not to fidget. Or admit that a part of her really wished it were a date. A mixture of anxiety and anticipation churned at the bottom of her stomach. She had no idea what to expect, from Dr. Desire or herself.

"Karyn."

His voice reached her first as he entered the room, melting down her spine in that familiar trail, turning her bones to liquid mush.

He was tall and broad and his presence shrank the already-intimate space. The sheer force of him seemed to consume the excess oxygen in the room, to condense the surroundings to nothing more than a block of space too tiny for them both to occupy—without her brain going fuzzy and her skin flushing hot.

Those billboards did not do him justice.

Karyn knew she was staring, but couldn't help it. Her first real life glimpse of Dr. Desire had her tongue seemingly glued to the roof of her mouth.

His lips curved into a crooked, charming grin, the same one she'd driven past almost every day for the past eighteen months. Candlelight reflected in his blue-gray eyes, catching the smallest glint of mischief lurking there. Maybe it was the flickering light, but she really thought they were more captivating in person.

He stopped by the table, towering over her.

She looked up and up into his sexy face and had to swallow hard to wet her suddenly dry mouth. Her foot kicked into double time beneath the tablecloth. Heat burst through her body and her nipples tingled in a primitive response she hadn't experienced in longer than she could remember.

He packed one hell of a punch.

"Karyn?"

She shook off the daze, cringing at the impression she must be making. By nothing more than walking up beside her, Chris had started a chain reaction inside, awakening places on her body she'd thought long dead.

She stared up into his intense eyes and wanted to cry in frustration. Sure she'd made her share of stupid mistakes in life, but what had she done to deserve this cruel twist of fate? The one man who'd finally revved her engine and he'd already said no. Not just no, hell, no, wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot-pole no.

"You're not Karyn? I'm sorry. They told me..."

She still had to get through dinner, preferably without embarrassing herself more than she already had. "Yes. I am...Chris." Standing, she tried hard not to bite her lower lip, a bad habit that tended to surface when she was overwhelmed, and motioned to the chair opposite her. Hopefully the table hid the humming energy that made her knees tremble. At least her foot had stopped tapping.

"I'm sorry I'm late. Business." With his head cocked to the side, he offered a lopsided grin equal parts charm and remorse.

His heat reached out and touched her, mixing with the visceral response still bursting inside. Her entire body warmed, and moisture gathered beneath the unruly mass of hair she'd pulled tight at the nape of her neck.

His eyes snagged her own across the intimate space of their little table, making her feel...caught. Not like a butterfly with its wings pinned down for display. No. The sensation was more like the pull of gravity right before a plane took off. Like some force of nature was holding her back, gathering strength before letting go so she could fly.

She blinked, thinking herself completely insane. She tried to look away but found her gaze drawn back to the magnetic energy he radiated with seemingly little effort.

A shiver of awareness slid down her spine at the intensity of his study. His eyes roamed every inch of her face. Usually that kind of masculine stare would have set her nerves on edge. She was on edge all right. But it had nothing to do with nerves.

Reaching for her water glass, Karyn gulped a swallow, needing busywork for her hands and mind.

He must have taken her silence and hasty chug of water as signs of fear.

Laying his palms flat on the table in front of him, he said, "I want you to know you have nothing to worry about. No expectations. No pressure. We'll have a nice dinner. That's all."

She realized his words and the look of studied sincerity were meant to put her at ease. And if she'd had her normal reaction to a man sitting intimately across from her, they might have been necessary. But Chris Faulkner would not hurt her. She knew this to the soles of her feet.

Fear. Anxiety. Calculating the risks. She thought of none of these normal things. It was the image of those tanned, large, roughened hands on her instead of on the snowy tablecloth that had blood whooshing in her ears.

And that surprised her. Yes, in the safety of her mind she had admitted she had a physical response to Chris, to his voice, to the sky-high images that seemed to pepper the city. What red-blooded woman wouldn't? He was gorgeous and had the sort of lazy, husky bedroom voice that drove women crazy.

What she hadn't anticipated was for those rumblings to be exponentially amplified by his actual presence. The reaction she'd had to his picture was safe. She'd never figured on having the opportunity to meet him in person. Now, all she could hear was Anne's voice in the back of her head repeating over and over, "That man knows his way around a woman's body. With him, fear wouldn't be an option. He'd have you naked and panting before you could blink."

She wasn't naked, but the room had definitely become stuffy. She went to tug at her collar only to realize she wasn't wearing her normal high-necked blouse but a low-cut, gauzy silk confection that rubbed deliciously against her skin.

"Karyn?"

His hesitation and low-pitched sound of concern pulled her focus up. Slowly she took in his charcoal-gray suit and white dress shirt, open at his strong throat. Sophisticated and urbane, there was no mistaking him for any man other than Dr. Desire.

She looked up into his dark-blue eyes, at the swirls of gray and flecks of the palest green, and knew this man had it all together. The core of her body clenched.

A smile, one she hadn't seen slip since he'd walked in the door, tipped the corners of those breath-stealing eyes heavenward. Intelligence, laughter, reassurance. Anne was the only other person who'd given her this immediate sense of ease—if you discounted the hum of energy jingling her spine right now.

"Yes." The word came out breathy, almost lost in the muted restaurant sounds from outside the room.

"Are you okay?"

No. She wasn't. For the first time in five years, her body had flooded with heat. A heat she remembered, one she'd feared never feeling again. One she wanted to embrace, explore, capture.

"Yes. I'm..." surprised, excited, achy "...fine."

"Why don't we order some champagne? It'll help settle your nerves."

What nerves? Any nerves she'd felt had melted away the moment he'd walked through the door.

CHRIS WATCHED Karyn from across the table.

She wasn't what he'd expected. When he'd pictured her in his mind she hadn't been ugly—but she hadn't been beautiful, either. Plain, average, unexciting. That's what he'd expected.

What he'd gotten was nothing close to unexciting.

She was understated. But she was also...pretty. Fragile. Surprising.

Wisps of auburn hair, dark with only a hint of red, fluttered against her cheeks. A long, shining column spilled over one shoulder, a burst of color against her pale-green shirt. But it was her face that held his attention. Thin, her cheekbones high and sharp, her pale skin seemed to glow luminously in the candlelight.

He'd seen his share of beautiful women in candlelight. Karyn would never be classified as beautiful. She was something more...unique.

Her deep brown eyes flashed with golden glints he could see from half a table away. They were direct, and despite what he'd expected, calm. He fought the urge to breathe in her scent, to let it linger in his senses.

That would not be smart. The beginning tingle of attraction was already racing to the base of his spine. His body tightened. They were familiar signs, ones he'd recognized since he was fourteen and had his first sexual encounter with the older girl next door.

The fact that Karyn was the first woman to rev his engine in months meant nothing. Well, nothing other than the fact that it had been too long since he'd had sex.

It just hadn't been satisfying lately. Oh, he and his partner had both enjoyed orgasms—Dr. Desire couldn't provide anything less—but Chris hadn't been able to shake the feeling that there was something missing. He was tired of playing a role, second-guessing every touch, taste and word against a list of expectations.

The kicker was they were expectations he'd built up himself. Dr. Desire was a prison of his own making. Women never seemed interested in spending an evening with Chris, they wanted his alter ego.

Karyn was no different. She'd called in to the show wanting something from Dr. Desire, something he wasn't able to give. Looking across the table at her, he watched the sharp edge of her white teeth crease the flesh of her bottom lip, the first outward sign that she wasn't as calm as she wanted him to believe.

One thing was certain: Karyn was not a candidate to break his dry spell. There were consequences, and he didn't just mean for her. His job, his show, the responsibility he had to his listeners, it was all too important to throw away on a sexual whim.

Despite what his fath—Darrell seemed to think, he had standards. Somehow, over the past few years, Dr. Desire had gotten a reputation. Rumors abounded about his sexual prowess, his conquests. Women he'd never met claimed to have spent time in his bed. He hadn't been a monk by any stretch of the imagination, but honestly, if he'd had sex with half the purported number, he would never have slept.

Mutually satisfying sexual gratification—that part of his reputation was all true. That's what the women he did make love with wanted from him and, frankly, that's all he had wanted from them.

Karyn. Karyn needed much more than that. Time. Patience. Understanding. He didn't think he had any of those things.

Not to mention sleeping with her could kill his career. The last thing he needed was for a sensationalized news story to show up about how he'd taken advantage of a rape victim. His listeners wouldn't appreciate that at all. And at the end of the day, the listeners were all that mattered. If he lost them, he lost the show.

Gwen Adair, a reporter for the local newspaper, had been dogging his every step lately, looking for something to make headlines with. She hadn't taken his gentle decline of a rather obvious sexual offer several months ago very well. And while most of the things she'd printed about him so far had been insignificant, he didn't intend to give her something real.

He might have simply fallen into his role as Dr. Desire, but no self-respecting trailer-trash kid would be stupid enough to throw his golden meal ticket away, especially not for sex.

Even sex that his body told him would be fantastic.

Grappling with his control, Chris thought charm, and smiled.

Their waiter approached the table and took his champagne order. Leaning over, the man also poured more water into Karyn's glass. It hadn't been anywhere close to empty; in fact, it looked like she'd taken maybe two sips. She glanced up, smiling slightly at the other man with those big, brown eyes.

A seed of something he couldn't quite name lodged somewhere in his chest. His eyes narrowed as he watched the two interact.

He didn't appreciate the other man's blatant interest in his date. Or the way he crowded into Karyn's space. But as Chris's attention swung back to her, the seed dissolved. He couldn't miss the way she slid back into her chair.

She chuckled at some inane comment, and understanding dawned. She was trying to project the image of a carefree woman. But Chris heard the strain in the delicate noise, and her wildly tapping foot beneath the table didn't escape his notice, either. It brushed against his pant leg with each upswing.

As the man slid away to fill their request, Chris watched her chest rise and fall on a silent sigh of relief.

"Why didn't you just tell him to leave you alone?"

"What?" She glanced up, her wide brown eyes looking directly at him, into him.

His breath caught and held while he studied her. Determination, acceptance and a tiny spark of fear clouded her gaze. But as he watched, the golden specks caught fire and flashed with something completely primitive and completely feminine.

Something deep inside him responded. His heart sped up and the blood quickened, rushing downward. He leaned forward, wanting to be sure it hadn't been a trick of the light, but as he did she blinked and it was gone.

"Why didn't you tell him to back off? You were obviously uncomfortable with him standing so close."

She looked away for a moment before answering. "Because it isn't his problem. He didn't do anything wrong."

"But neither did you."

Her lips ghosted up in the faint beginnings of a smile before flatlining again.

He would have said more, but the man returned with their bottle at that moment. Through the uncorking ritual, Chris watched her.

Her delicate fingers grasped the stem of her glass flute, settling the rim between her lush lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top. Her disproportioned mouth was the one anomaly to her appearance. One he liked. Something that made her unique and delightfully imperfect. Her pale throat worked over a mouthful of the bubbling wine as her eyes scanned the oversize menu before her.

How this woman had gotten through the past five years without touching a man, let alone sleeping with one, he couldn't figure out.

"I hope you're not nervous or embarrassed."

She laughed, the last thing he'd expected. But the sound rolled through him, reverberating inside his chest like the pounding bass in the classic rock he loved to listen to late at night, alone in the dark after his show.

"So it's pretty common for your dates to proposition you before dinner even begins? That's good to know."

Her ability to laugh at herself and their unusual situation impressed him. And her strength astounded him. Unless you knew what signs to look for, you'd never guess that she was anything but relaxed.

"As a matter of fact, I'm pretty used to that." He flashed her a smile meant to bring back that laugh. "But I don't usually agree to dates with those women, so you're a first."

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth as the spark in her eyes dulled and her cheeks bloomed red. "However, I have been on a ton of first dates and, as you can see, have lived to tell the tales. I promise this won't hurt. You might even find you like me."

"I already like you, Chris."

"You like my public persona. That guy isn't all I am."

Now why had he said that? It didn't matter. She could like whoever she wanted—Dr. Desire, Chris Faulkner, the waiter. After this night it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. No matter how appealing and beautiful she was, he wasn't getting involved. End of story.

"I'd like to think I'm not that shallow. I realize your job isn't all there is to know about you. But I've learned a lot, more than you probably think, by listening to the advice you give."

"Like what?"

"I know that you have a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor."

Chris rocked back into his chair, dropping the menu he hadn't really been looking at anyway.

"Usually those comments are at the expense of someone's pride, and afterward I feel horrible."

"See, I knew it. Under that tough, man's-man persona there's a softy. You're a nice guy."

"No. A nice guy wouldn't say the stuff in the first place. Or wouldn't continue saying it. I said I feel guilty, but only for a second."

"Well, that's because the person on the other end usually needs some sense knocked into them."

Maybe she did understand him. He'd often thought he'd carefully compartmentalized his true persona from the polished, charming Dr. Desire, the voice and personality that garnered ratings and multiyear contracts. Maybe not.

"That's one reason I called the show. Not because you were soft and nice. But because you're hard and tough and usually right. I trust you to tell me what I need to hear."

"What do you need to hear?" His voice dipped lower than he'd intended. He hoped she hadn't noticed. The last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable.

She waved her hands between them. "This is not supposed to be a pop psych session. Just dinner."

She was right. He'd walked into the restaurant intent on proving to Karyn she could enjoy a nice dinner out with a man, a stranger, without having to deal with the complicated issues. He'd specifically set out not to turn on Dr. Desire. He wanted to stay as far away as possible from that proposition she claimed had just slipped out. He didn't want to give her another chance to mention what she needed from him, how he could help solve all her sexual problems.

He couldn't solve anything. At the moment, however, his libido was sorely tempted to try.

## 4

ALL THROUGH DINNER Karyn felt as if she was walking a tightrope. Despite the fact that every cell in her body seemed swollen, excited, expectant, somehow she managed to keep her reaction to herself. Or she hoped she had.

Leaning toward him across the table was normal, right? She wanted to hear him over the kitchen clatter coming from behind the doors. And so what that she'd forgotten and let their hands touch. Accident. Pure accident. She just hoped Chris hadn't noticed that when dessert arrived and her tongue darted across her lips in anticipation, she hadn't been staring at his chocolate tart.

"You should try this. It's wonderful." Chris looked at her across the table, his fork halfway to his almost-empty plate, a thoroughly satisfied smile on his face. Chocolate could do that to a person.

She started to protest, opening her mouth to insist she was full already. But he didn't give her a chance. Chris reached across the table, putting his fork loaded down with rich creamy mousse and a buttery, flaky crust into her mouth. Her lips closed around the cold metal in reflex. The sinful treat melted on her tongue.

Their eyes collided. Electricity snapped from his hand to her lips through the conduit of the fork. He jerked back, pulling it through her still-pursed lips. It stayed suspended between them, wavering slightly from the force of his hold.

She swallowed, not tasting the rich pastry anymore, but what she imagined his kiss would be like, spicy with a hint of sweet temptation.

He cleared his throat, the sound seeming to break their connection. "I'm sorry."

"No. It was wonderful."

Karyn dropped her eyes to the tablecloth before her, trying to regain her focus.

This is not a date.

She let the words swirl around in her brain. Maybe this time she'd remember them.

Life was so unfair. The first man she'd been attracted to—and if that wasn't the understatement of the century, she didn't know what was—in five long, lonely years, and she'd had to blow it by propositioning him on the radio. She was going to kill Anne.

Thankfully their waiter broke the tension. "Would you like anything else? More wine? Coffee?"

Karyn looked to Chris. It was a natural gesture, something she hadn't experienced in too long. Looking to someone else, a man, for his opinion before making a decision. It wasn't that she couldn't do it on her own, it was just...nice.

With a raised brow, he asked a silent question. The intimate gesture tightened her chest. She ignored the twinge of longing that went with it and gave a negative shake of her head.

Breaking the connection, he responded, "No thank you," paid their bill, held her chair and led her through the crowded restaurant to the front door.

He didn't touch her, like he probably would have with a real date, and she didn't know whether to be grateful or upset.

He'd been very considerate, making sure nothing he did or said might upset her. And really, she appreciated it. But God, she wanted his hands on her. At the small of her back guiding her out. Wrapped around her shoulders, tucking her in tight to his body. Running over her naked, heated skin.

She dragged a breath in through clamped teeth, letting the tiny whistle distract her. Why him? Why now? Why the one man she couldn't have?

Before the double doors leading outside, he stopped and pulled her from the flow of traffic.

"I enjoyed this. And you didn't seem to be too uncomfortable."

"No. I had a good time. I really appreciate your help." She smiled, hoping none of the sexual attraction suffusing every pore shone through her face.

"Sure." Chris's gaze jumped around, his smile a little strained.

Feeling awkward herself, because for some strange reason she really didn't want their night to end, she took a halting step away from him.

"Well...thanks."

Was it her imagination or had he taken a step toward her?

"I hope everything works out. If you still need information on therapists, call my producer, Michael."

Therapists. She didn't want to talk about therapists with him. She wanted to kiss him senseless. Or rather, she wanted him to kiss her senseless. But she nodded anyway, ignoring the feeling fizzing in her veins, and turned to go.

Pushing through the tiny lobby out into the hot, muggy August night, Karyn sensed Chris following behind her. The heat off his body rivaled the heat still curling up from the sidewalk an hour after dusk. Her hands fisted around the straps of her brown, all-purpose purse. In a bid for distraction, she began rustling inside for the keys to her car. She lifted up old receipts, her stuffed wallet, cell phone, but couldn't find her keys. They were in there somewhere; she distinctly remembered throwing them into her own personal black hole before she'd walked in the door.

"Problem?"

"No. I can't find my keys, but they're in here somewhere." She hoped he'd go on ahead.

Walking and rummaging at the same time, she drew up short when Chris's hand locked around her elbow. Looking up in surprise, she stopped at the sight before her. Her breath backed into her lungs and the panic she'd expected all night rushed in. Her hands shook, almost dropping the messy jumble of her life onto the pavement at her feet.

Chris reached around and plucked the dangling leather from her numb fingers before the disaster could get any worse.

A half-dozen people, with flashing cameras, digital voice recorders and notebooks in hand, stood before her. So intent on finding her keys, she'd crossed the parking lot completely oblivious to the tiny cluster around the cars.

"Dr. Desire, introduce us to your date."

"Who's your latest conquest?"

"Is it Katy?"

"Are you going to sleep with her?"

The words flew, making her head spin and startling her out of the jaw-dropping stupor she'd been shocked into.

But before she could do or say anything—probably something she'd regret—Chris took over.

"Now, guys, I'm sure you can understand why I don't want my dates being accosted. Pretty soon no one will want to go out with me. And that would not help my reputation at all."

Chris's laugh rolled over the crowd, the men and women joining in. He flung an arm across her shoulders, the muscles beneath his embrace pulling tight.

Sure, now he touched her.

"So is this Katy, your little rape victim?" A husky voice from the back rose above the noise.

Her heart sped up, pounding in her ears so loud it muffled all other sounds.

A classic brunette detached herself from the back of the group, splitting them like the red sea and floating up to Chris on heels so high Karyn didn't know how the woman walked without breaking her ankle. She stopped before him, close enough that if she breathed hard her breasts would rub against his chest.

"No, Gwen, this is Karyn."

Ice-blue eyes flicked to Karyn, traveling up and down. They missed nothing. She fought the urge to reach up and smooth the stray strands of hair that insisted on blowing in the stingy summer breeze. Ms. High-and-Mighty certainly didn't have a hair out of place. And Karyn would bet the woman didn't sweat, either. Her glands wouldn't think of rebelling.

Apparently even more confident after what she'd seen, the woman turned her attention to Chris, moving even closer—though Karyn didn't see how she could have accomplished that without defying the laws of physics.

"You've heard the calls, Chris. The public wants to know this woman's story. Don't forget, you serve the public, too."

"Wrong, Gwen. I serve my listeners. My job is to help them and no matter what you—" Chris looked out into the crowd, his dark eyes going flinty "—or the rest of you think, exposing Katy to public scrutiny wouldn't serve any purpose other than to embarrass and hurt her. I'm certain if she wanted to share more of her story, you'd be the first ones she'd call."

"No." Gwen's cold eyes met Karyn's. "She called you."

Ignoring that parting shot, Chris let his gaze sweep across the crowd. His lips curled into a smile that just an hour ago she would have believed, and said, "Good night."

Keeping his arm around her, Chris steered her away from the crowd. But instead of heading toward her car, parked four rows away, he stopped at a flashy sports car several feet from the watching press.

Opening the red door, he placed her into the passenger seat before rounding the car and slipping in the driver's side.

He put the key in the ignition, but didn't crank the car. He simply sat for a moment, staring ahead.

"I'm sorry about that."

"How the hell did they know where we'd be?"

"I have no idea." His hands flexed around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. "But my guess is some intern or assistant thought they'd make a quick buck."

He turned in his seat, draping an arm over the steering wheel to face her. "I'm really sorry. I only told a couple key people at the station. Somehow it went further."

She grabbed on to the anger flowing through her, using it to combat the terror she expected to hit at any moment. Sitting in this car, so close and confined with Chris should make her quake inside.

She was disoriented and surprised when it didn't.

She'd been raped in the backseat of a tiny sedan. It wasn't a sports car, but more like a molded metal box on wheels, amounting to the same thing.

Not only wasn't she panicking, but she actually turned to face him. She wasn't thinking about how close he was so she could calculate an escape. No, her mind whirred, plotting how she could get closer.

Her anger melted away, replaced by another emotion, equally hot and passionate. She pushed it back. He'd already turned her down once. She wasn't about to subject herself to another round of humiliation.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I appreciate you lying to them, but I could have handled myself. I might be a little damaged but I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were."

"Maybe not, but you certainly implied it with that knight-in-shining-armor routine back there."

"You said you didn't want publicity. So I took care of it."

"Look, I've had experience handling the media. I'm a big girl and can swim just fine with the sharks. But I prefer not to."

His gaze sharpened. "All right. Next time I'll go ahead and tell them who you are. Would that be better?"

The temperature inside the car inched up. Karyn realized their argument wasn't entirely responsible for the shift in atmosphere.

Twisting so she could peer out the tiny back window, she registered the circling vultures still waiting. A couple of flashes popped in the ever darkening night.

"Whatever. Thanks for dinner. I appreciate your effort. Have a nice life." She moved to open the door, but before she could, Chris reached out a hand to stop her.

"You can't leave."

"The hell I can't."

"No. How will it look?" Chris nodded his head sideways, toward the back window and the tiny cluster of people standing behind them.

Damn! He was right. If they left in separate cars, they'd know immediately that she wasn't just some date he'd taken out on a Saturday night. And they'd see her license plate number.

Turning back to face him, she glared. "Great. So what do you suggest?"

"Ever been to Hickman's Point?"

Hickman's Point? "No. And we're not going."

Any other time, Karyn might have thought she'd died and gone to heaven. The sexiest, most charismatic, most amazing man she'd ever met was asking her to go parking. But not because he actually wanted to kiss and touch her.

If he had, she'd have said yes in a heartbeat.

No. She'd been the one fantasizing about all the fun they could have in the compact sports car. He wouldn't even understand how significant that fact was to her. She hadn't fantasized about anything besides winning the lottery or landing a promotion in five years.

And here he was, sex on a platter, and all she could think about was licking him clean—and he just wanted to throw the press off their trail. It was enough to make a girl cry.

When they pulled up to her apartment several minutes later, she didn't question how he'd known her address. He'd found her phone number and her real name. Getting out, she headed for her front door, leaving him and her chance for an ordinary life behind. This man had shown her a glimpse of normalcy. Somehow she didn't think that would readily happen again.

"I'm really sorry about the way this turned out, about the reporters."

His voice floated to her on the late-night breeze. The hot August night had cooled a little, not enough to need to cover her bare arms, but enough that the gentle wind felt refreshing on her skin. And if she hoped for a moment his hands would brush across it instead, she pushed that thought out of her mind.

"It's not your fault."

"But it is. I'll find out what happened, who leaked the information."

Stopping at the door to her ground-floor apartment, she turned around to face him.

"It doesn't matter, Chris. No harm done. Please, just forget about it."

"Let me get your car at least."

"I'll take care of it tomorrow." With sudden conviction, she decided it wouldn't matter if her Honda sat in the parking lot all night. Tomorrow was Sunday. She'd deal with it later.

"I'll take care of it. Please. Give me the keys."

"No, really—"

"Give me the keys, Karyn."

That firm, dark voice skittered across her spine, sending a wave of awareness with it. Another shot of adrenaline pushed through her veins and suddenly she didn't seem as drained as she had a moment ago. Before she realized what she was doing, she'd reached into her bag, pulled out her pile of keys and dropped them into his waiting palm.

"Which one's your house key?"

She pointed mutely at one of them.

He stepped up to the door, and she found herself pushed into the corner, trapped by the edge of her porch and the solid wall of man before her.

Despite the gentle evening breeze, her skin felt hot and tight.

He took the key, ignoring her completely, inserted it into the lock and twisted. She heard the rasp of metal against metal, the loud pop as the lock released. But all that only registered in some back corner of her mind.

Her senses were filled with Chris. The gentle sound of his breathing. The warm, musky scent of his spicy cologne. The underlying smell of confident, sexy male. The scent swirled in her mouth, running over her tongue and taste buds until she had to resist the urge to dart it out for a fuller taste.

Her eyes traveled from the tailored suit jacket he wore to the cotton dress shirt underneath, the bunch and play of muscles beneath the fabric as his hands worked at her door. The flex and pull called to her like a snake charmer, mesmerizing her to touch.

Touch. The one thing she hadn't done. The one sense that hadn't been filled with him all night. A brief brush of fingers wouldn't be enough. She wanted to run her hands over the muscles and lose herself in the press of him beneath her.

She hadn't felt this way in years. This driving need to take, to fulfill her basic purpose for existing. She was so worried it was a fleeting experience, one that would disappear with him.

She couldn't stop the motion. Her hand lifted. Her palm pushed through the heavy night air. And as he turned to her, holding open the door, she reached for him.

She heard his sudden intake of breath as her palm connected with his chest.

Heat. It was the first thing that registered. The heat from his skin seeped through the tightly woven strands of cotton to radiate up her arm and leave her slightly breathless, like when she'd fallen out of her tree house as a little girl.

The valleys and planes beneath registered next, filling the curve of her palm before dropping away. The need to explore pounded in her temples, through her blood. And so she did, letting her hand shift over him, up to touch the swirling dark hair that peeked out at his open collar and down over the ripples of muscles marching across his abs to the waistband of his slacks, her fingers playing dangerously at the edge.

Reality flashed into focus with the same glaring intrusion as the photographers from an hour before. What was she doing?

Karyn would have taken a step away, for herself and to show him something had changed, but the wall at her back prevented her from doing so.

Her gaze stayed glued to his chest. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but she couldn't seem to drag her gaze up to look into his eyes. She wasn't sure what she'd find there, but something told her it would be nothing she wanted to see.

His chest rose with even breaths. One, two, three in. One, two, three out. She counted and waited, holding her own breath, not sure what she wanted next.

Chris reached out, put a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head up until her eyes caught his.

They were dark and deep and swirling with something she didn't feel the need to dwell on.

They stood, staring at each other for a moment. She had no idea what he was seeing in her, her emotions were so jumbled up inside even she wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, what would show through.

He was going to kiss her. She saw the spark of decision in his eyes, the slight lean of his body as he moved toward her.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Karyn."

Her mind flashed to one of his shows, one where he'd admonished a caller for upsetting his date by not remembering her name. "Guys, if you can't remember her name make something up, darling, honey, sweetheart. Chances are you won't be calling her back if you already can't remember who to ask for in the morning. But don't ruin her evening just because you're a prick."

Well, at least he'd remembered her name. As he moved forward, she braced herself for the coming kiss. She wasn't entirely sure what her reaction would be, but she wanted to know the feel of his mouth against her own. Wanted Chris to be the first man to touch her in that intimate way since that long-ago night. Her lips parted in anticipation, and her eyelids fluttered shut.

Her last thought as the gap between them closed was whether or not the fact that he remembered her name meant he'd be calling in the morning.

Right before his lips brushed across her...forehead.

SON OF A BITCH! What the hell was he doing?

Chris walked down the sidewalk toward his car, cringing at the loud echo of Karyn's door closing behind him.

He wanted to turn around, yank open that door and kiss the fire out of them both. But he wouldn't.

Damn. All he'd done was touch her forehead and his cock was hard enough to chisel rock. The mere thought of his hands running over her naked skin aroused him faster and more strongly than actually touching a woman had in months.

Slipping behind the wheel of his Porsche, he fought the throbbing urge to get right back out. Sex with Karyn wasn't a possibility. She might think he could solve her sexual issues, but he couldn't.

He'd seen the expectant look in her eyes, the way her lids had fluttered closed with complete abandon and trust. She shouldn't trust him. He couldn't save her.

And even if he wanted to try, doing so had the potential to topple the persona he'd built his life around. And once the facade was gone so was his livelihood, his safety net.

Wild energy buzzed through his blood. Maybe he could channel it with speed. He certainly couldn't bleed it off the way his body urged.

It had to be some cruel twist of fate. The only woman he'd wanted in months and he couldn't have her. Couldn't with a capital C.

Dr. Desire wouldn't have this dilemma. He'd instinctively know the way to get what he wanted without jeopardizing anything important.

Chris on the other hand...He knew there were inescapable ramifications. His show was the only thing separating him from the tenuous existence of his childhood and painful feelings of powerlessness and inadequacy that he never wanted to experience again.

The image of his father popped into his brain. A grown, weathered man well past his prime—who looked too much like him for comfort—standing with his hand out, begging for money.

Chris would not let his life dissolve back into that, into depending on anyone but himself for survival.

He had a decent life. He'd worked hard for what he had. No matter how much he wanted to lose himself in Karyn's untapped heat, it wasn't worth the risk.

His raging hard-on didn't agree with him at the moment, but he'd ignore it until it did.

He couldn't sleep with her.

What he could do was find out who had leaked the information about their dinner. And when he did...someone would pay.

## 5

"WHAT THE HELL is going on?"

Karyn jerked, stabbing herself with her pen and sending black ink gliding across the back of her hand. She blinked at Anne, disoriented and a little unsteady.

"What are you talking about?"

"This," her friend replied, slapping a folded newspaper on top of the fifty-page, minuscule print, year-to-date expense report she'd been reading before Anne's incredulous voice had interrupted.

Karyn stared; she'd never seen Anne so agitated. Leaning forward, she furiously scanned the page.

"There's a gala at Ashcroft on Saturday?" Karyn looked up. "You want an invitation? You're the one with family in high places."

"No. Not that." Anne glared and pointed to the bottom of the page. "This. The story about Dr. Desire. Accompanied by a picture of him with you."

"What?" Snatching the flimsy paper from her desk, Karyn stared at the unmistakable picture of Chris...with his arm draped around her shoulders.

It had been three days since their "date," long enough for her to hope that the photographers who'd been outside that night had decided she was too boring to mention. Apparently not.

Scanning the short paragraphs beside the photo, Karyn realized she was boring. It was Chris they were interested in. There was a brief line of speculation about who she was, but most of the story focused on bashing Chris's reputation. After reading the byline—Gwen Adair—a few things fell into place. She'd thought there had been some nasty undercurrents between the brunette and Chris the other night. She'd simply been too preoccupied to care.

Karyn took in the image, the way Chris leaned toward her, their bodies touching from shoulder to hip. The smiling intensity in his eyes. The seemingly happy couple.

A mixture of emotions bubbled up inside.

On the forehead. God. Every time she thought of it she vacillated between a desire to smack the man senseless or kiss them both sane.

How could he? There she'd been, about to take a giant step, one she'd been dreading for the past several years. And when she was finally ready, he'd kissed her on the forehead. The forehead.

Something pricked the center of her palm. Karyn looked down to find the newspaper crumpled in her fist.

Ever since that night, he'd visited her in her dreams, leaving her hot and needy in the morning. Looking down at the crumpled image of him, she couldn't stop the slow roll her tummy took.

"You never said anything. You had a date with Dr. Desire and you didn't tell me?" Anne's voice bounced off the cube's flimsy gray walls.

Karyn shot up from her desk, pulling her friend in and down.

"Shush."

"A little late now." Anne snatched the paper from her hand, pointing at the picture. "Everyone already knows." Her eyebrows beetled with concern. "How could you not tell me, Kar? I'm supposed to be your best friend."

Pushing her into the cheaply upholstered chair stuck in the corner, Karyn whispered, "You are. It wasn't a date...precisely."

Anne cocked an eyebrow. "You look cozy enough in this picture. Besides, that isn't the point. The last thing I knew you were wishing you'd never made that phone call. Now you show up in the paper with Dr. Desire plastered against your body."

"He is not plastered. He was just acting for the reporters, nothing more."

Anne let out a derisive snort. "If he's acting, then he missed his calling. He shouldn't be behind a microphone; he should be in front of a camera."

Karyn leaned forward, closing the space between them. Unease bubbled through her as she glanced once around before whispering, "Look, the station found out who I was. He called and asked me to dinner so they could announce on the show they were getting Katy help. No big deal."

"No big deal." Anne shook her head, the look on her face an upsetting mixture of hurt and disappointment. "God, I should be so mad at you."

"I'm sor—"

"But I can't be." Her friend waved the unfinished apology away and pushed forward with eager anticipation. "Tell me everything."

Karyn let out a sigh of relief. But that didn't mean she was willing to spill her guts. "There isn't—"

"You owe me details, Karyn." She scooted her chair closer so they were face-to-face. "Immediately. Every dirty, sordid one."

Karyn gave her as many as she could, weaving fact and a bit of fiction together so she wouldn't have to admit her lapse of sanity on the front porch.

"Besides, it doesn't matter what happened. I won't be seeing him again."

"How do you know that?" Anne reached for the newspaper and pointed to the picture there. "The man in this picture looks pretty into you."

"Trust me. He didn't even knock when he dropped off my car. He left the keys in the mail slot."

"If you say so." Anne gave her an I-won't-waste-my-breath-arguing smile and left in her usual blur.

Allowing herself one last look at the picture—ignoring the impulse to run a finger over his body—Karyn folded the paper into a neat, tidy square. She was just about to toss it into the trash can beside her desk and get back to work when Anne's voice rang out through the partitioned space.

"Oh my God."

Leaping from her desk, Karyn stuck her head around her wall, certain she was about to see smoke pouring from a cubicle. Instead Anne crouched on the floor, papers scattered at her feet. A man knelt beside her, his back to Karyn, helping her gather the pages.

He made a low, rumbled reply to something Anne said, but Karyn couldn't hear the words. Her friend laughed, looked up into his face and gave her patented model-bright smile.

She shook her head. Anne just had the ability to flatten men, figuratively and literally.

She was about to walk over and rib her friend when the man turned and stopped her dead.

He might have on tight blue jeans and a T-shirt instead of his trademark GQ suit, but from the profile there was no mistaking Dr. Desire.

"Oh, hell!"

KARYN'S VOICE CAUGHT Chris's attention and he whipped his head around to find her. She stood, stock-still, half in and half out of a cubicle. Next to the drab gray surroundings, her red-brown hair and dark eyes stood out. Somehow she managed to combine confidence and fragility into the same amazing frame.

But it didn't matter. He was not here to be entranced. He was here to apologize.

He needed to make sure she was okay. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the sense that he'd left something incomplete, though he'd been battling that unsettling feeling ever since he'd walked away from her front porch.

This was a simple, quick errand.

His eyes traveled the length of her lithe body. She wore a T-shirt of some silky-looking material that clung to her every curve paired with a skirt that left her legs bare. From his vantage point crouched on the floor, he had a perfect view—and few defenses against the sight of her.

He'd convinced himself it had been a figment of his imagination, the all-consuming attraction he'd fought as he'd driven away. Her pull couldn't be that strong. Not on him. He was jaded. He'd seen and heard it all.

But as he looked up into her face, chin cocked, shoulders thrust back, something between anger and desire flooding her eyes, he realized he'd been wrong. His memory hadn't exaggerated the sensation. It hadn't even come close.

He should leave now, before he did something stupid like act on the fantasies inundating his brain. And he would. As soon as he apologized like he'd planned.

"Can I have those back?"

The perky blonde with the perfect curls was looking up at him expectantly.

"Absolutely. Sorry."

Shoving the crumpled mess into her hands, he crossed to Karyn, promptly forgetting everything but her.

"What are you doing here, Chris?"

The sharp, crisp sound in her voice should have given him pause, but the tiny flame flickering in her eyes was enough of a distraction that he didn't let it bother him.

"We need to talk. Do you have a minute?"

She stared. He could see the protest forming, watched her lips pull into a negative pucker. But before she could get it out he found himself with an unlikely ally.

"Sure. She can take a break." The blonde appeared at his elbow, crowding into the tight aisle, a huge smile on her face and a not-so-subtle look in her eye. "You were just going to run down the street for coffee anyway. Right, Karyn?"

He couldn't hide his smile when Karyn scowled.

"Actually, I'm in the middle of this expense report." She turned to him with a falsely apologetic expression. The fact that she wanted nothing to do with him should have stung. Instead it made Chris want to rile her a bit. "Then I need to run the receivables, cash flow.... I've got a major meeting first thing in the morning."

"Your meeting's tomorrow, mine's today. And I need a boost of caffeine before I head into the lion's den." The blonde, clearly Karyn's friend, turned her full attention to him. He had no doubt it was a tactic meant to cut off any protest. A clever one.

"Who knew selling boring mechanical widgets could be such a blood sport? No one mentioned that in marketing class. Of course, no one thought I'd actually be using my degree so maybe they didn't think I'd need to know."

He watched Karyn throw a daggered look at her chattering friend and clamped his teeth tight against another smile. He really liked this woman.

Leaning against the cloth-covered wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, and for the first time since he'd walked into the restaurant the other day, he finally felt back on solid ground. "Surely you're not going to leave your friend high and dry? I'm happy to go with you. Kill two birds with one stone."

Karyn looked from one to the other, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. The blonde cocked an eyebrow and murmured something about opportunity and hiding. Through clenched teeth Karyn said, "Fine. I'll get my purse."

She might not have been happy about it, but at least she was going. He listened to the small sounds coming from inside her cubicle: her desk drawer rolling open and slamming shut. A muffled curse and the telltale jingling of keys.

"Where's my cell?" floated out on a grumble, making him swallow a laugh.

"We might be a few minutes. I'm Anne, Karyn's best friend."

Chris stuck out his hand. "I'm Chris."

"I know who you are." The blonde sidled a bit closer. From anyone else he would have taken the move as a blatant come-on, but not from her. Not paired with the mama-bear-protecting-her-young scowl that crinkled her eyes.

"You better not do anything to hurt her. She's had it rough, but you already know that, don't you?" The smile she flashed had nothing to do with humor.

After having known her for all of five minutes, he'd bet his custom-designed pool table that she rarely showed this fierce side of her personality to anyone. He didn't know whether to laugh over her misguided notion that Karyn needed protection from him, or applaud her for her loyalty.

Fighting the urge to hold up open palms in a gesture of surrender he said, "We're just friends."

"Yeah, right." She shifted away. Somehow the widening gap between them didn't make him feel any more comfortable. "I know lust when I see it. Just remember I've got her back. Karyn might not stoop to revenge, but I have no problem with physical retribution."

The fact that she recognized the attraction he was trying desperately to deny set his nerves on edge. He obviously wasn't doing a very good job.

"Really. We're not involved."

Anne shrugged. "Whatever. Just remember."

Before he could pursue it further, convince them both that he meant what he said, Karyn reappeared. Snagging him by the elbow, she tugged him around and whisked him down the hall.

As they walked through the Art Deco lobby, he had the completely insane urge to whistle. For the first time in days he felt happy. Shit, for the first time in months he felt happy.

But Karyn obviously wasn't. She marched out before him, the double glass doors almost swinging back to slam into him. It didn't take a self-proclaimed expert on women to know she was pissed. He could only assume it was the picture.

The wet August heat slapped him in the face as they stepped out onto the blacktop parking lot. He'd lived in the South all his life, but somehow the breath-stealing heat of the city was completely different from the smoldering earthy summer of home. Of course, Logan's Cross didn't have miles of high-rise buildings to bounce the heat around.

Grabbing Karyn's arm, he slowed her pace and steered her over a couple of rows to his car.

"I think I should drive."

"No. I'll drive."

"Angry driving is dangerous. I'd never forgive myself if something happened." He stared into that expressive, impressive face. She was soft, silent, strong. But underneath that controlled exterior he detected a passion she hadn't tapped, didn't trust and possibly didn't understand.

Fire flared in her deep-brown eyes, triggering an overwhelming urge in him to help her channel that anger, that passion.

Jerking out of his grasp, Karyn turned on him, her back pressed to the passenger door. "What are you doing here?"

"Going for coffee. I thought that's what you wanted."

She narrowed her eyes, her mouth, even her cheeks pulled tight. He could see the storm flashing behind those deep brown pools, knew she wanted to unleash several choice words. But she wouldn't. The insides of her cheeks were going to hurt from biting those words back. He would advise her to just let go.

Through clenched teeth she said, "Why did you come to see me?"

He had no idea. Oh, when he'd left the office he'd known why he was driving halfway across town. But now he wasn't so positive. Now, standing a foot from her, the tempting scent of something fruity, seductive and female was clouding his brain, his focus, his purpose. He wanted nothing more than to close that gap, to lean into this woman and take what he hadn't the other night.

Shaking the thought from his head, he tried to concentrate on something other than her.

"I wanted to make sure you were all right and to tell you it was an employee of the restaurant who tipped off the press. He won't be doing that again."

"You wanted to make sure I wasn't pissed about the picture."

"Well, if we're being honest, yes."

The last thing he expected was to hear her laugh. And while the rolling cadence echoed somewhere close to his abdomen, there was something disturbingly wrong with the sound.

"I don't see how that's funny," he said.

She sucked in a deep breath. He was close enough to hear the reverberation, to see the heavy rise and fall of her chest. A flash of how that movement would feel against his naked skin almost stole his breath.

Damn, what was wrong with him?

"At least you're honest. Ulterior motives. That makes sense after the other night."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say after the way our night ended I only expected to see you on park benches and passing buses."

Now he was really confused.

"How it ended? What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. It's not important anymore. Are we going for coffee or not?"

Crap. If there was one unequivocal thing he knew about women it was that the word nothing was a lie. But he honestly had no idea what the true problem was.

"Obviously it is important to you. Are you upset that I didn't call? Because we agreed the other night was a one-time deal." Although, he'd found himself picking up the phone several times over the last few days, usually after thinking about that night and her porch.

Of course he'd quickly slammed it back down. This woman had way too much baggage, a hell of a lot more than he could handle. She needed something from him he simply wasn't qualified or prepared to give.

She shifted, her swaying hips snatching his attention. Blood rushed from his head straight to his cock. He took a half step back in an effort to relieve the pressure.

Why? Why was she the only woman in months to bring on this sudden, intense reaction? He talked about sex every day. Women threw themselves at him all the time. So why was the one off-limits woman, a woman more damaged than he was, the only one to make him want this way?

"Oh, I understand. I understand completely. If being constantly reminded that our date wasn't real hadn't been enough, having you kiss my forehead certainly was."

Her teeth were clenched so tightly, he could practically hear the enamel cracking from the pressure. Her eyes glowed with emotion, those shots of gold pulsing, pulling him in.

He fought against the attraction. Even in anger she looked fragile. He'd promised himself, everyone at the station, but most importantly Karyn, that he wouldn't touch her. And he wouldn't. Because while his body thought doing so might just be the best damn thing in this world, his mind said it might just be the worst mistake he'd ever make—and he'd made plenty.

It had been a battle between his integrity and desire, but when he'd walked away the other night, knowing she'd had a mostly pleasant evening, he'd felt the sacrifice well worth the effort. He'd done as much as he could to help her.

Yes, he'd known she'd wanted a kiss in the shadows of her dark porch. He'd have been an idiot not to. He hadn't fulfilled that desire, not only because he'd known how wrong touching her would be for both of them, but because he'd wanted that kiss more than his next breath. He'd denied himself and whether she realized it or not had probably saved her from a bad situation.

Looking at the woman—shoulders thrust back, emotion pinking her cheeks, and that damned determined stare—he wasn't certain he could manage to deny himself again. Her pull was just too strong, and he'd gone without a woman in his bed for so long. He tried to ignore the taunting voice in his head that told him no one else had been worth the risk, to his career or to his sanity.

"Look, I did you a favor. You were in the moment. Later, you would have regretted the impulse." They both would have.

"I've waited five years. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to want sex, to crave the touch of another human being, but to not be able to have it? Trust me, regret wouldn't have come close."

His stomach caved and his penis swelled tight against the fly of his jeans. He had some idea.

He took a step toward her, unable to stop. "Trust me, sex with the wrong person isn't that fulfilling. That isn't what you need."

"How do you know what I need?" Her words lost their biting edge, instead turning soft and liquid along with her eyes.

"Dr. Desire, remember?"

Her tongue sneaked out, darting over that swollen bottom lip. "You don't have all the answers."

Her voice echoed through his brain. He might not know how to solve her problem, but he certainly had the personal sexual experience to back up the advice he gave on his show. He knew women, knew how they thought and what they wanted. And if her words fisted in his chest, wrapping around the one kernel of doubt he kept hidden from everyone else...he'd simply ignore it.

The sexual awareness pulsing through him wasn't so easy to dismiss.

"A kiss? Is that what this is about?" Chris took another, deliberate step forward, framing her with his body. He could show her a few of the answers he did have. "Far be it from me to deny a woman."

Even as the barest shift of body brought him flush against her, his brain screamed, Bad idea.

Acceptance and anticipation chased through her eyes. He paused the barest moment, giving her one last chance to protest before moving in to take what he wanted. Once their mouths touched it would be too late.

Her fingers curled into fists at her side. Her eyes blazed, but she made no move for freedom. And as her head tipped back, her lips parted in invitation, he couldn't suppress a groan.

Leaning in, he left a butterfly touch on her lips. It wasn't enough. Electricity flowed out with a snapping connection, starting at the point where they joined, bursting through his body with a jolt. The sensation spread, zapping anything that resembled coherent thought.

He buried his hands in her hair, cupping her head and angling for access.

Sweet and subtle, the taste of her was surprising. He'd expected something indulgent, tropical, like a lazy sunrise morning at the beach. Instead she reminded him of home, of the comfort and stability he'd always craved as a child, with the twinge of something exotic beneath.

Trying to push the errant thought away, he deepened the kiss, opening her mouth with the force of his own and sinking inside.

She made a small mewling sound, loud enough to penetrate the fog of desire and make him pull back. Until he realized it hadn't been a protest. Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. Her tongue made a foray of its own, tempting, teasing, darting in and out.

Their angles changed again, each of them fighting for a closer, better fit.

He nipped. She bit.

He sucked. She licked.

His world focused and coalesced to one point. The exact space their bodies met.

Suddenly the sound of voices broke through the all-consuming haze, reminding him where they were—a public parking lot. At her office. Where anyone could look out and see Dr. Desire practically sucking a woman whole.

Breaking apart, he registered their bodies, flush in all the right places. Hers pliant and soft everywhere his was rigid. The throbbing pain of denied desire pulsed through his veins and in his temples, and centered at his straining erection.

Taking half a step back, he gave them both the breathing room he desperately needed.

Reaching with a slightly shaky hand, she touched her swollen lips. Her fingers couldn't hide the half smile and pleasant surprise in her eyes.

"I guess you do know what you're doing."

## 6

KARYN'S BODY HUMMED.

That was some kiss. And she wanted more.

Of course, from the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd known. Known he could cut through the protective layers she'd built up. Known he could turn her on like no one before. Known that with him nothing else would matter.

And she'd been right.

Not that he seemed to care.

Chris blinked down at her, his eyes glazed with the same arousal still writhing through her body. But as he took another minuscule step away, it became crystal clear he had no intention of a repeat performance.

"What are you afraid of?" The words burst from her like an accusation. Karyn hadn't meant them to be, but...

She was supposed to be the one afraid.

Chris stared. His breath sucked in a little fast, which made something deep inside her...proud. She had done that to him. Clouded his mind, kindled lust in his eyes—and the masculine ridge snuggled next to her body had been hard to miss.

She'd relished the ribbon of awareness that had snaked through her body, heating her senses and leaving a trail of tingling skin in its wake. The feeling was incredible. There was something eternally feminine about it. And powerful.

She'd never felt that kind of passion. Or that desired. She wanted, no craved, to feel it again. And Chris's sexual interest was unmistakable. So why wouldn't he help her? He wanted her. She needed him. This should have been easy.

His jaw tightened and she knew it wouldn't be easy. "What are you talking about?"

"I know you find me sexually arousing. It was a little hard to miss during our kiss. So why won't you help me?" She moved closer, wondering if she'd had the experience, could she have pushed him over the edge. "You've had countless affairs. All I'd need from you is a few nights."

His body stiffened, and not in the way she wanted.

"Are you afraid of my past? That I'll fall apart on you? Or decide I'm madly in love with you? Or that you won't be able to help me?"

A frown touched his lips. "No. I could help you. I just don't think it's a good idea for either of us."

She reached up, placing a finger to the creases at his brow. "Admit it. You want me."

Karyn didn't know where the words had come from. Or the courage to utter them for that matter. She'd never been sexually forward, not even in her high-spirited teen years, but with Chris it seemed right. The fact that she could put him on edge gave her the tiniest surge of power. She liked the feeling. It was completely different from the lack of control she'd lived with for years. Seductive and tempting, she wanted to feel it again.

"Of course I want you. I'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to. You're beautiful. Intelligent. Strong."

He leaned forward and for the briefest moment she wondered if she'd made a tactical error. He was in her space now. There was plenty of room to back away, and maybe that's what he wanted her to do, but she didn't. She didn't have to. The unease wasn't there.

"What man wouldn't want to stroke your skin, to discover how smooth and silky it felt against his rough hands? Or to taste you right before pushing deep inside you?"

Her breath hitched. His whispered words made her sex ache. She'd never been turned on just by words before, but the mental images that flashed through her mind had her thighs clenching together against the slippery proof of her desire to have each of the visions come true. She wanted that. With him.

"That's what I'm offering. So what's the problem?"

Her heart squeezed and her skin blushed hot as she realized she'd just propositioned Dr. Desire. Again. Only, this time it hadn't been an accident. She'd meant every last word.

Karyn tilted her face to his, rolling her shoulders back, leaving her neck and chest exposed. Electricity arced between them. She was half-surprised that visible sparks of energy weren't shooting off.

Chris picked up a strand of her hair, sliding it through his fingers before wrapping the ends around his forefinger several times. "You mean aside from the fact that I've promised my boss, my attorney, my producer and you, not to mention myself, that I won't touch you?"

"Is that what you're worried about? No one else needs to know. Not your boss, the attorney, anyone."

She pulled her head to the side, unwinding the strands he still held. She couldn't think while he was playing with her, making her mind go haywire.

"Look, Chris, I haven't felt this way in five years—longer than that if I'm being honest, and I see no reason not to be. I can't explain it. All I know is that while the thought of sex with any other man leaves me cold, the thought of you touching me and coming inside me sends me up in flames."

Her body quivered at the thought of him doing just that with a skittishness she didn't know where she found the inner power to ignore.

She needed him to understand how important this was to her. How much she was willing to sacrifice. Her pride. Her dignity. Anything would be worth taking that last step to freedom and a normal life.

She wanted the chance to find what her oldest brother Randall had. Happiness. Someone she could share her life with. Children to cuddle and to be playmates with her incorrigible niece. But something deep inside her wouldn't let go, would not let her forget and move on.

She didn't know why or how, but Chris made her feel things she hadn't thought possible. He awakened something inside that she'd thought dead. That stupid phone call, those few humiliating minutes she'd wanted to take back, they'd been worth it. Because of him. She could almost taste her future—finally like everyone else's—and see it reflected in his still aroused eyes.

She knew his reputation. Everyone in the city knew. While he refused to talk about his own conquests on air, the women he slept with were all too happy to crow about their experiences with Dr. Desire. And while she sometimes wondered if half of them were true, that didn't matter to her.

She didn't need his notoriety, just his experience, his knowledge—and a few nights from his life.

She had no expectations about the first time. She might have a complete emotional breakdown. But whatever happened, she'd be able to put the experience behind her, locking it away with everything else.

When he left, it would be over and she would move on.

He had to understand. "This is the last step for me. I know in my heart once I get through this first time I'll be fine. You're the link, the bridge between the past and my future. I don't understand it. But I stopped questioning fate a long time ago."

His hand slid from her shoulder to hang at his side. The distance between them hadn't changed. They were still close enough for the heat of his skin to warm her own. And yet he was withdrawing from her as surely as if he'd gotten in his car and driven away.

Desperation surged up like a shot of adrenaline. She couldn't lose this chance.

"If I'd met you off the street, in a bar, and come on to you, you wouldn't have had a second thought. We'd have been naked within hours. The only thing holding you back right now is my past. The same thing that's been holding me back for five years."

She watched his eyes narrow, hoping the expression meant he saw the truth in her words.

"Whatever you need from me to make this work, just say it. Whatever you're worried about, tell me and we'll work around it. I only want sex. I don't want anything else from you. No need to take me on a date, buy me dinner or send me flowers. Romance not required. Just sex. Whenever you decide you want out, we end it. And I promise never to see you again. Never to try and contact you. Never to call your show. Not even to ask the friend of a friend's cousin how you are. You set any ground rules you want. And when it's over, it's over."

Chris looked down at her, his eyes unreadable. The frown lines were back. She wanted to smooth them away again, but didn't think now was a good time to touch him.

He surprised her by reaching out himself and trailing his index finger gently down her cheek.

"I'll think about it."

SOMETHING CLOSE TO JEALOUSY rolled through Darrell's stomach as he watched his son and the pretty little redhead. He missed the thrill of the chase. The surge of power he got the moment he knew he had a woman in the palm of his hand. There was nothing like that feeling, when everything coalesced to perfection, when his brilliance and human nature combined to give him whatever he wanted.

And the boy was a chip off the old block. He watched as his son moved in for the kill, pulled a finger down the little girl's cheek and then...walked away?

Maybe the boy didn't know what he was doing after all. Although, listening to his show, he would have thought differently. Maybe the boy lied. Hmm, perhaps he could use that.

The girl stayed right where she was, alone in the parking lot, staring after his son's retreating Porsche. He took a good look at her. Nice legs. Pretty enough face.

She looked familiar though.

He reached across to the passenger seat for the newspaper he'd flung there. Spreading the pages out so that he could get a good look at the picture, he compared her to the grainy black-and-white image of the woman next to his son.

Yep, same one.

The caption named her only as Karyn, a friend of Dr. Desire's. Huh, he'd bet his last fifty bucks they were a hell of a lot more. That kiss had been far from friendly.

But that really didn't concern him. Chris could sleep with whomever he wanted, and more power to him. What he wanted was an angle in, something to convince his son either he was a good guy and deserved a break or something he could hold over his head until the man wrote a check.

Darrell wasn't picky. Either one would do.

Underneath the caption there was a brief story about his son and someone named Katy, a rape victim who'd called into the show last week. He remembered the call and the tizzy Dr. Desire's listeners had been in ever since.

The reporter, Gwen Adair, asked questions, like where the woman was now and why she hadn't come forward despite the public's interest. She practically accused the woman of starting a riot only to duck away because she had something to hide.

The reporter ended the piece with a hint that perhaps the woman in the picture was connected to the call. She stopped short of stating it outright, but the implication was there.

Gazing across the parking lot, Darrell mulled the thought over. Could Karyn be Katy? Honestly, he couldn't care less either way, but the allusion of the story was that if she was, there might be a hell storm of scandal attached to the discovery.

Perhaps Chris would be interested in keeping the truth a secret. Interested enough to pay...

Sinking back into the comfortable leather seat, Darrell watched Karyn walk slowly back into the building. They'd obviously been having a spat when they'd come out. And apparently, she hadn't been left with the warm fuzzies if her demeanor going back inside was anything to judge by.

The skin at the back of his neck prickled. There was something here. At least something worth a few more minutes of his time. It wasn't like he had anything else to do today.

Looking down at his shirt, he realized there was a small stain right below the point of his collar. With a sound of disgust, he jumped out of the car, walked around to the trunk and pulled out a spare shirt from the packed suitcase he'd managed to sweet-talk out of Gloria, Victoria's housekeeper.

He threw the old one down with disgust. He really needed to find someone he could convince to do his laundry. He'd exhausted Gloria's tender feelings.

Using the side mirror, he checked his reflection. It shouldn't take long to get a little background information on Ms. Karyn. All he needed to do was find a receptive woman at the company. If he was lucky, a receptionist on a break.

In his experience, there were a few hard and fast rules when it came to the female race. One was that they loved to listen to themselves chatter. And if what they were droning on about could be considered gossip, they loved it even more.

CHRIS STARED ACROSS his living room at the blank face of his monstrous TV. The game was on. He should have been watching it. Should have had a beer and his buddies there to enjoy it with him.

But that's not how he wanted to spend the night. That's not how he'd wanted to spend the past three nights. He'd wanted to be with her, with Karyn.

He'd imagined her here, everywhere, in the home that he'd built for himself. Sharing the huge bathtub he'd personally tiled. In front of the fireplace he'd repaired. Her legs tight around his waist and her back flush against the walls he'd textured and painted.

Chris had never brought any woman home, had never even envisioned a woman in his space. It was his. He'd worked hard for it, not just the actual blood and sweat he'd shed, but the hours of public appearances, and answering questions on air, and dealing with the headaches of radio life. But every last second of that had been worth it, knowing that this place was his, always his. No one could take it, not even the bank.

Now Karyn was in his head, in his blood and in his house. Her words, that voice, that kiss, they all rang inside.

He needed to talk to someone, someone who would understand. Normally Michael was his sounding board, but that was completely out of the question. If he admitted to his producer that he was even considering sleeping with Karyn, his butt would be in the conference room so fast his head would spin. And he'd been there enough lately.

His head dropped back against the leather headrest of his massaging recliner. It had been the latest and greatest thing when he'd been looking for furniture to fill his home. It was comfortable, deep and relaxing. And it only made the fact that there was no one else to call even harder to ignore.

Chris looked around his house, at the state-of-the-art sound system, the wall-mounted television and the sculpture some gallery owner had convinced him was "perfect," and realized he could count the people who had seen it on one hand.

That fact had never bothered him before. In fact, he'd relished the independence and solitude he'd surrounded himself with. Tonight it wasn't enough.

He wanted her here to share it with him.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Jumping up, he stalked through his darkened house, not precisely sure where he was heading until he had his car keys in hand. He'd go for a drive. Clear his head.

He was halfway down the sidewalk to his garage when a movement from the shadows caught his attention.

A man materialized from the darkness. He couldn't tell right away who it was, but the churning anger and disappointment should have been clue enough.

"Where are you heading so late?"

"I'm a little too old for you to start the curfew dance now. You missed those years. And all the others, come to think of it." Chris wanted to continue down the walk, get in his car and drive away, but something made him stay.

He'd seen his father more in the past week than he had his entire life.

"I just thought you might be meeting your latest girl. Wondered if she had a sister."

The urge to wipe the smarmy smile off his father's face was overwhelming. Somehow he found the strength to resist.

"I don't have a girl. And if I did I wouldn't let you in the same zip code with her sister. You aren't getting any money, so you might as well move on to someone else."

The other man shrugged. "I figured that. I admit I was upset, you've got more than you need, but I suppose I can understand. I wanted to know if I could park my car in your driveway for a few nights. I'm living out of it and the cops downtown seem to have gotten wise to me. I'm tired of getting chased away at two in the morning. I'm not getting that much sleep anyway. It's hard to in a two-seater."

Chris closed his eyes, fisted his hands and fought down a brief surge of compassion. This man was a con artist. He knew how to play on human weaknesses, like forgiveness and an instinctive need for a parent's love and approval.

"No. You cannot park your car in my driveway. You cannot have any money. I don't even want to share oxygen with you. Leave. Now."

Darrell held his hands up and let his lips twist in a semi-smile. "I understand. It was worth a try. See you around."

Chris watched his father walk across his rolling green grass to the sporty little Jag at the curb. A twinge of remorse almost made him yell out, but he stopped just in time.

The bastard had made his own bed. Now he could sleep in it.

And if Chris enjoyed the justice that had taken fourteen years to materialize, then that was just a little of his own inner SOB surfacing. At least when his father had condemned him to sleep in a car, his mother had owned a nice, big sedan.

KARYN PUTTERED AROUND her kitchen, throwing diced chicken into the sizzling pan and mumbling to herself, "I'm pathetic. That's all there is to it."

There was no other explanation for why she'd turned down Anne's invitation to a Saturday night out in favor of eating alone and brooding.

Last night, during their weekly ritual, her best friend had done nothing but nag. "There's no reason you can't go out with me now. You've been on a date. You said yourself it's time to move on."

But she didn't want to. She had no desire to hit the Birmingham singles' scene with her vivacious friend. She'd never liked the sharp smell of alcohol, overpowering men's cologne and desperation that always permeated those places.

None of it had ever appealed to her under normal circumstances. But add to that the fact that she already knew the man she'd prefer to be with...

And the fact that he'd made it clear he didn't want her? That was what made her pathetic.

Shaking her head, Karyn turned to grab the vegetables she'd chopped when the phone rang. Her heart gave a loud thump against her chest before settling back into place. Jumping every time the thing rang was getting old. Chris was not going to call her out of the blue. Not again.

Grabbing the handset she'd left on the counter, she looked at the caller ID and groaned before answering. She'd begun to think something had happened to her mother; she'd expected this call days ago.

"Hello, Mama. How are you?"

Her mother's voice echoed across hundreds of miles and through thousands of feet of cable. "I'm fine sweetie...now that I know you're not lying in a ditch somewhere." She still had the ability to make her feel like an ungrateful, self-absorbed teenager up to no good.

Karyn fought back a sigh, but let through a smile. Always the same. Her mother had perfected the guilt trip by the time she'd hit five. Karyn knew the habit hid concern for her children, but it had worsened the older they'd gotten.

Her mother had gone into overdrive after the rape. The more media coverage, court dates and accusations she'd gone through, the more smothering her mother had become. She'd tried to talk to her, but it hadn't helped.

"I'm fine, Mama. I know Blake told you that."

"No. What your brother told me was that you probably weren't coming for the family get-together—again. And that you seemed a little depressed—again."

She rolled her eyes. "I am not depressed, Mama, and Blake didn't tell you that. I'm fine. I'm happy. And I said I'd try to come, but couldn't make any promises." Which, she was certain, was exactly the message her brother had passed on.

"You haven't visited in months. I knew this would happen when you moved away. There's no reason you couldn't get a perfectly nice accounting job closer to home."

"Probably. But I like the job I have."

Her mother's harrumph echoed down the line. Karyn smiled; only her mother could put such disappointment and expectation into the sound.

"Do you want to be responsible for ruining everyone's holiday?"

"We're not talking about Christmas. It's Labor Day, for heaven's sake. I'm certain if I don't show up everyone will find the strength to carry on with the hot dogs and beer. I have a lot going on right now—"

The gentle chime of her doorbell cut her off midexcuse.

"Was that your doorbell?"

"Yes, hold on a sec while I get it."

"Don't you open that door for stra—"

Karyn dropped the phone to her side as she walked across her apartment toward the door. She didn't need to hear her mother's admonition about strangers. She'd already had that lesson pounded into her brain with enough force that she'd never forget.

Peeking through the spy hole, Karyn's eyes widened in shock, and a surge of adrenaline shot through her veins. She blinked just to make sure she'd seen correctly.

Okay, so he hadn't called. Should she take the fact that he'd shown up on her doorstep as a good sign?

Flipping her locks, she decided to open the door and find out.

"Hi."

"Hi." Chris pushed into her apartment. She turned, closed the door and leaned heavily against it. His grim expression did not bode well.

He stood, feet wide apart, planted heavily on her tiled floor, hands fisted to his sides. Every tendon in his body must have been tensed tight because even through his navy T-shirt she could see a muscle jerk in his chest.

Not good.

"All right, I'll sleep with you."

Karyn stared. His stern, serious acceptance wasn't exactly what she'd expected, but a spike of anticipation burst through her nonetheless. The only thing stopping her from throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him into her bed that instant was the expression on his face.

For a man who'd just agreed to sleep with her, he didn't look at all happy about the decision.

She raised her hand to invite him to sit and saw the phone still in her hand. Damn. She'd forgotten about her mother. And she could be certain her overprotective parent had heard every word, because that was the story of her life.

"Uh. Hmm. Make yourself at home." Pointing to the phone, she said, "Give me a minute."

She could hear her mother's voice long before she put the phone back to her ear.

"Who is that? Is that a man's voice? What's going on? Karyn, are you there? Are you okay?"

She supposed she should feel guilty for making her mother worry, because she could tell that she was truly concerned. But she didn't.

"It's just the pizza guy, Mama. I'll talk to you later. I need to pay him."

"Wait. Karyn Michelle Mitchell, did I hear that man say he'd sleep with you? What kind of pizza delivery men do you have over there?"

She laughed at the incredulity and horror in her mother's voice. "No, Mama, he did not offer to sleep with me."

"Well, pay him so he'll leave and we can talk about your trip home."

"There's nothing to talk about. I'll let you know if I'm coming. I've gotta go before my dinner gets cold. Love you."

Not waiting for the inevitable protest, Karyn clicked the off button. She deposited the phone back onto its base and switched off the ringer. The last thing she needed was to hear her mother call back every two minutes while she tried to figure out exactly why Chris was in her living room.

The grim set to his mouth, the tension tightening the already rock-hard muscles and the murky uncertainty in his eyes all told her this wasn't going to be as simple as her visions of them just ripping each other's clothes off, letting him drive her insane before experiencing the best orgasm of her life, and then kissing him goodbye, cured forever of her insecurities and sexual hang-ups.

From where she stood, he looked like the one with the issues, not the other way around.

## 7

KARYN STARED AT HIM across her modest living room. Chris couldn't read her expression. The urge to twitch seemed to be lodged in every muscle, but somehow he managed not to move while he waited for her reaction. Instead he stood stock-still in the center of her apartment and waited.

He had no idea what he was doing here. He'd gotten in his car, driven around the city and suddenly found he'd pulled into a parking space in front of her apartment.

Sitting there, he'd known he should pull back out again, go home, turn on the game. But something had stopped him. What could it hurt to talk to her? He'd wanted to talk to someone.

And then he'd seen her, framed in the doorway, smelling like peppers and onions, her hair falling from a messy ponytail. And he'd wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the night in bed making it messier. His big mouth had opened before his brain could stop it.

For the last few days he'd run a litany through his head, a list of reasons why he shouldn't have sex with Karyn. One look at those golden eyes and lush lower lip and he'd forgotten each and every one.

Even with tension filling the air, his blood still hummed with a sexual energy he'd never experienced before. She was halfway across the room, and he ached to close the gap between them and fill his hands with her body.

Yes, she had issues, but all she needed from him was sex. She'd said so herself. He could do this. Sleep with her. He'd done it his whole life, sex for purely physical pleasure. He could help her.

And since he could, wasn't he at least obligated to try? He'd spent the past twelve years of his life regretting the fact that he hadn't been able to do anything for his mother.

What this woman asked of him was simple and, as she'd pointed out, something he'd done a hundred times in his life without thinking. He wanted her almost more than his next breath and she seemed to feel the same. So why not?

"Did you hear me?"

He knew she had. Hell, her mother had.

Karyn shifted on her feet, a gentle rocking motion that drew his attention down to her bright red toenails. It was such a purely feminine touch that his stomach clenched and his balls tightened.

"Why?"

It was a simple question that should have had a simple answer. Instead he stood silent, a jumble of words and thoughts racing through his mind. The encounter with his father. A memory of his mother. His inability to help her when she'd needed him the most.

"Why? Why did you change your mind?"

She stopped, her body ramrod straight, with her back to the kitchen, and the sofa safely between them.

He wasn't the only one contributing to the tension in the room.

He stepped around, moving slowly toward her. Her eyes followed each controlled motion until he was face-to-face with her.

"Because you asked me to." He reached for her, expecting that she might flinch back. But she didn't. Instead she pulled in a deep, deliberate breath and met his gaze.

She didn't say a word—but she didn't have to. He knew her emotions because he felt a similar jumble inside his own chest. Fear, apprehension, longing. Desire.

His lips tingled with memory and want. Karyn closed her eyes, cutting off his window to her thoughts. But he didn't need them anymore. Taking a strand of her hair between his fingers, he slid the silk through his hand. "Because I can."

She let out a shaky breath and leaned closer. His fingers brushed against the curve of her cheek and she rolled her neck to get nearer.

He wanted to pull her against his body, to press her tight and feel every inch. But something stopped him.

Instead he placed a featherlight kiss on the exposed column of her throat. She tasted sweet and salty. Pulling back, he swiped his tongue across his own lips for another taste.

He wanted more. The tiny moan that whispered through her lips tightened his abdominal muscles. He could pull them both into a sensual haze, surrender to the force that had tugged at them outside her office building.

And yet he hesitated. If he was going to do this, he would do it right. And at this point he wasn't sure what "right" meant. Would it be better to go slow with her? Or to let the frenzy take over and deal with the potential emotional firestorm later?

His stomach clenched again, but this time the rolling waves had nothing to do with sexual desire.

She must have read his hesitancy because her eyes opened, swimming with uncertainty.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Changed your mind already?"

Had he? She was giving him the perfect opportunity to back out. He should. Dr. Desire probably would.

"No. But we need to take this slowly. Set some ground rules. Talk."

She laughed. Not precisely what he'd expected.

"What?"

"Talk?"

He saw her smirk, and the tight band constricting his chest eased. "Yes. Talk. You have listened to my show, right? The number-one problem with relationships is lack of communication."

"This isn't a relationship."

"Absolutely. But it isn't as simple as sex, either."

"Sure it is. According to Anne, you're a panty whisperer."

This time he laughed and nearly choked on it. "A what?"

"You know, the kind of guy who could sweet-talk the panties off any woman with a pulse."

"I'm not sure I like that." In fact, that analogy hit a little too close to home, reminding him strongly of his father.

Sure, he'd had his share of sexual partners. But he'd never been malicious about it or selfishly gratifying. Now, Darrell, that man used sex as a way to get whatever he wanted and didn't care who got hurt in the process.

His mother was the perfect example.

Karyn laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry I didn't—"

Damn. He really needed to get his father out of his mind. The man was seriously screwing with his head.

"It's nothing."

Taking her by the hand, he pulled them both around to the sofa and pushed her gently down into one corner.

"Ground rules. No one else knows. This is to protect you, as well as me."

She nodded. "Trust me. The last thing you need to worry about is me running to the local TV station for an interview."

Chris cocked his head at her sarcastic tone. There was something beneath those words, something he'd explore later. Maybe.

"I need you to promise you'll do exactly what I say. If you don't like something, say so, but other than that no questioning my methods." Not that he had any. Yet.

She swallowed, and he wondered if she was doubting herself. Or him.

"I need you to be absolutely sure this is what you want, Karyn. We both need to be able to trust each other. You're putting your body in my hands, and I'm putting my career in yours."

She studied him for several moments. His heart seemed to thump louder and louder as the seconds ticked by. Her tongue darted out across her lips before she sucked the bottom one into her mouth and worried it with her teeth.

He stared back and tried not to let any of his second—or third—thoughts show on his face. The last thing she needed was to realize he wasn't sure about this.

"I have a rule of my own."

"What is it?"

"No past. I don't want to talk or think about what happened. If you need to know anything, ask now, because after tonight those moments will be behind me forever."

He considered. Her request was completely understandable. He couldn't see any reason to have the details. To be honest, he really didn't want them.

"I don't think I need specifics, just if there's something I should avoid."

She blinked, and her entire expression changed. Hope flashed through her eyes, followed by a heat that singed him and kindled an answering fire deep in his gut.

She leaned toward him, grabbed his face and fused her mouth to his. It was nothing like that moment by his car. There was too much fear and desperation behind this kiss.

Even so, his body reacted.

She thought he meant now.

Framing her face, he changed the angle of the kiss and gentled it. He nudged her back slowly, then pulled away. Taking her hand, he urged her up from the sofa and headed toward the door, leading her behind him.

"Where are you going?" Her voice came out as a raspy whisper. His muscles tensed as her hand touched his back; an answering ripple pulled his spine tight. One touch, not even a sexual one and he was ready to implode.

"Home." He tried to keep the need for her from his voice.

"Home? We aren—"

Her mouth slammed shut so hard he heard her teeth grind together.

"Nope. Not tonight."

He had a phone call to make. Homework. He might not have spoken to his college roommate in years, but the man had been a psych major and had a thriving practice in Montgomery. Chris knew his way around a woman's body, but he'd be the first to admit he understood little about their minds. Oh, he put on a good show on the air, but in reality...

Something told him he'd need to know all aspects of a woman if he wanted to help her.

He was going to do this right.

Karyn deserved that.

KARYN SLUMPED into her big, stuffed chair and clutched the throw pillow to her stomach. Dr. Desire had just agreed to have sex with her.

She wasn't precisely sure what to feel. Excited. Terrified.

Aroused.

He'd agreed to sleep with her. And then walked out her door, leaving her alone with the hum of anticipation flowing through her blood.

But it was finally going to happen.

After years of fear, years of resigning herself to unsatisfying nights with a vibrator, she was going to experience sex again. Amazing sex. With the hottest man in Birmingham.

As long as the anxiety didn't resurface.

As long as he didn't change his mind.

HE WAS HAVING second thoughts. Twenty and thirty thoughts if the truth be told.

Chris eased back into the desk chair in his office and looked out the window into the busy hallway.

Normally he'd be at home, in bed, at this ungodly hour of the morning. Ten o'clock might not be early for most people, but it was for him.

Saturday night he hadn't been able to sleep. First thing Sunday morning, he'd called his college roommate. He hadn't spoken to Paul in years, but that hadn't seemed to bother his old friend. They'd talked for quite some time about Karyn and her situation. Paul had convinced him to trust that she knew what she needed and had recommended a book about recovering from sexual abuse. He'd bought it immediately and had been racing through it, trying to nail down a game plan before contacting Karyn. There was no doubt; he'd be consulting it frequently and he wasn't even halfway through.

He squinted down at the page with tired, gritty eyes. Dr. Walker's book was good and intimidating. Just reading the slow and steady steps the doctor suggested...Pressure had built behind his eyes and tightened every muscle in his body.

This wasn't going to be as simple as he'd first thought. Yes, he'd known they'd need to take special precautions to ensure Karyn's comfort. But nothing like the methodical steps suggested in the book. He'd never thought about sex in such a clinical fashion.

The first step the book recommended was nonsexual touches. Chris hoped their dinner at Masquerade counted because he didn't think he could touch her without any intent behind the caress. Besides, Karyn hadn't seemed to have a problem with the sensual touches they'd shared so far, so he figured maybe she'd already moved past that point.

The second step was personal sexual touches. He couldn't touch her and she couldn't touch him. Dr. Walker suggested both people unclothe for this step, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to do that. Karyn might trust him, but he didn't trust himself. He figured he'd ask her what she wanted. If she'd be more comfortable with him naked, then he'd do it. And tie his hands to a chair if he had to.

After that he had more torture to look forward to, in the form of actually touching her without intercourse. How was he supposed to manage that? Tying his hands wouldn't be an option.

Chris looked down at the pad of legal paper beside him. He had a page and a half of notes. Notes. On how to have sex. There was something supremely wrong with this picture.

But if he was going to do this, he was going to follow Dr. Walker's suggestions to the letter. Maybe once he felt confident that he knew what he needed to do for Karyn, he'd stop hearing the little voice inside his head that kept saying, You're going to screw this up.

The fact that the voice in his head sounded just like his father wasn't helping much, either.

Chris rubbed his hands over his face, the prickly stubble he hadn't bothered to shave scratching his skin. At least the man hadn't been loitering outside his house when he got home last night. He should be glad for small favors.

"What are you doing here?"

Chris jumped, the jolt of hearing Michael's voice enough to stop his heart cold for a second or two. His panicked gaze flew to the book open on his desk. If his producer could read the spine, it wouldn't take him long to figure out what was going on.

"Just catching up on some reading. Making some notes."

He nonchalantly closed the book, turning it facedown with the spine covered, careful to tuck his legal pad beneath.

Michael narrowed his eyes. Chris met his friend's skeptical gaze and tried not to blink.

"What's going on, Chris?" Shutting the door behind him, Michael slouched down into the office chair across from his desk. "I don't think I've ever seen you here this early on a Monday morning."

"I needed to get out of my place for a little while."

"Okay, now I know something's wrong. That house is your hidey-hole. You go there to get away, not to the station. How many times have you complained that you can't get anything done up here because of the interruptions?"

All the time. And normally it was the truth. The minute he stepped into the station someone wanted his attention. The marketing department wanted to set up another appearance or photo shoot or one of the sponsors needed him to record a new spot...

Today everyone had left him alone. Everyone but Michael.

"Nothing's wrong. I just needed a change of scenery this morning. And so far you're the only one who's bothered me."

Michael sighed, ignoring the hint. "You're not still tied up over Katy, are you? I know you weren't happy about that picture, but I thought you'd talked to her about it, that she was fine."

"She is. It is. I haven't thought about her in days." Chris held steady on Michael's eyes, knowing if he so much as breathed funny his producer would be on him like white on rice.

"Then what's wrong?"

"I'm just tired, a little stressed."

"It's no wonder. You've been doing quite a bit of publicity lately. And with this Katy stuff...When's the last time you took a vacation?"

"I don't need a vacation."

"Everyone needs a chance to blow off some steam now and again, Chris. There's nothing wrong with taking a break from your real life. Go somewhere no one knows you, have a fling. You'll come back feeling like a new man."

"Yeah, maybe."

Standing, Michael headed toward the door. "Trust me."

Chris crossed his arms over the notepad and book. Maybe.

Getting out of the city might be good for Karyn. It couldn't hurt him, either. It would certainly lessen his odds of being recognized, freeing them up to enjoy their time together with one less complication.

It might also have the added benefit of loosening her up.

The more he thought about Michael's idea the better he liked it. What would Dr. Walker say about leaving behind the real world in favor of a weekend getaway? What step would that be?

DARRELL WAITED in the dark parking lot outside Dr. Desire's flagship radio station. His head dropped back against the soft, buttery leather as blaring rock music filled the space. He hated this kind of music, it was more noise than talent if you asked him, but he needed to wait until Chris's show came on before he could make his move.

He had no idea what he expected to find in his son's office, but it had been a piece of cake to swipe the entrance card from the bubbly receptionist he'd spoken to this morning. He had access, so why not?

Besides, you just never knew what small piece of information would be the clue to unlocking someone's deepest desires or strongest fears. Once you knew either of those two things you had them by the short and curlies.

His mother's death was obviously a sore point with Chris, but he had yet to figure out how to use that to his advantage in this situation. If anything, it worked against Darrell.

How the boy could blame him for his mother's cancer was beyond him, but he obviously did. It wasn't like the bitch had told him the money was to pay hospital bills and rent so they could keep their house.

Not that it would have mattered. Joy had made her decision, just like he had, and she'd lived with the consequences. Of course, at the moment Darrell was grateful she hadn't aborted their son. If she had, who knew what would have happened to him now? Chris was his ticket back to comfort and the place in this world he was rightfully owed.

At nine o'clock on the dot, Chris's voice filled the cramped Jag. "We have a great show lined up for tonight. I hope everyone's ready for some tantalizing fun."

It was time.

Taking out the nondescript white card, Darrell walked into the building, went to the doorway at the far end of the reception area, the same one he'd watched countless people walk through this morning, and swiped it through the reader. With a quiet beep and a loud click, the lock let go and he opened the door.

Walking into the radio station beyond, it took him a while to navigate through several stories of offices, storage closets, computer and telephone rooms and broadcast booths before he found what he was looking for. While the spaces he passed weren't run-down, they weren't exactly the high-tech meccas he'd expected, either. Everything was neat and tidy, but somehow the plain beige walls and spotless glass just wasn't what he'd pictured.

Not that it mattered.

The place was nearly deserted. Every once in a while he heard the lone sound of a footstep here or there, a voice that seemed to be talking to no one in particular.

It didn't take him long to find Dr. Desire's office. Not the biggest, it had a decent view, was off a hallway by itself and seemed nice and remote. Which made his job easier.

He had no idea if Chris came to his office during breaks. He tended to think not, but you never knew. The faster he looked around the better.

Slipping inside, he took a quick, cursory glance. He perused the bookshelf that sat against a far wall, noting with some warped sense of fatherly pride the lines of awards and plaques.

Finding nothing important, he quickly turned to Chris's desk. Sitting down into his chair, Darrell enjoyed the gentle creak of well-worn leather and the expensive smell that enveloped him.

Flipping on the computer sitting on the desk, he groaned when after a few minutes it booted up, but blinked angrily at him, requesting a password. He could make a guess, several educated ones probably, but he didn't really have that kind of time right now.

Shutting the machine down, he opened drawers and started riffling through files and junk instead. Nothing major popped out at him.

Closing everything, he placed his hands on the desktop and took one long, hard stare around just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He'd hate for this exercise to be a complete bust—although it had been a long shot to begin with.

He was about to get up and leave when his gaze swung down to the slightly cushy surface beneath his hands. A desk blotter calendar.

Darrell looked over the big, mostly blank squares. Here and there a few things were written in scrawling letters that reminded him eerily of his own atrocious handwriting. Most people couldn't read anything he wrote, which could come in handy when he wanted it to.

But he could read Chris's notes with little effort. Most of them were appearances, appointments for the station. Here and there were ideas for show topics he wanted to cover. What caught Darrell's attention was the upcoming weekend. While nothing had been written on any other Saturday or Sunday, both of those days for this week had been marked off and Morganville scrawled in large letters between the two.

So his son was going out of town for the weekend.

He wondered if the little redhead would join him.

BUTTERFLIES FLUTTERED inside her stomach as Karyn slipped the last of her new lingerie into her suitcase and zipped it shut.

"Am I doing the right thing?"

Karyn sat on the bed next to her bag and looked at Anne. Her friend had come over to help her choose what to pack and for an abbreviated version of girls' night.

"Of course you are."

"Then why am I nervous?"

Anne came and sat on the bed beside her. "Because you're human. This is a big step for you, Karyn. Yes, I think you need this, but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy."

Flopping back on the bed, the suitcase rocked against her hip. "I just want this over." She rolled her head to look at Anne. "I'm so tired of dealing with the rape. I moved to Birmingham to put it all behind me, for a fresh start." She sighed and stared back at the ceiling. "But the problems I had at home just followed me."

"They usually do. But you're doing something about it." Anne jumped from the bed, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her up. "Now, stop second-guessing yourself. I'd kill for a free weekend getaway. Enjoy it, girl!"

Karyn smiled and shook her head.

"And if you get there and decide you've made a mistake, you can always dump him and hit the shops. I hear they're cute and quaint. Of course, it would be a shame to waste all that new silk and lace."

Her friend's eyes twinkled with mischief, and Karyn felt a twinge of envy. Why couldn't she be more like Anne? Throw caution to the wind and let the past be damned?

"Just do me one favor."

"I will not give you a blow-by-blow."

"No. Just don't fall in love."

"I have no intention—"

Anne stared at her, the sparkle gone. "You say that now, but you haven't had sex in a long, long time. Take if from someone who's broken her share of hearts—it's easy to confuse good sex with emotional attachment."

With a sigh, Karyn made a promise she heartily hoped she could keep. Developing feelings for Chris would be the worst thing that could happen, for so many reasons. Their agreement would only last for a few days and then it would be over and a new chapter in her life would begin.

Surely she'd be so caught up in taking this step there'd be no room for her heart to get involved.

She and Anne joked, shared their normal pizza, devoured the ice cream and listened to Chris's show for the next few hours. Anne left around eleven, leaving her alone in the dark with her butterflies.

A shiver snaked down her spine as Chris told his listeners good-night in that dark, raspy voice. She hoped her night would be much more than good. Her breasts tingled as her imagination kicked in.

That sensation alone reassured her. In the five years since her rape only Chris had sparked that immediate physical response in her body.

If things moved according to plan they'd be on the road by twelve-thirty, there around three and in bed together by 3:05.

Tonight it would be over. And the rest of the weekend she could enjoy having the sexiest man in Birmingham in her bed.

Her heart jerked at the soft knock on her front door a half hour later. She took a deep breath, grabbed the small case and headed to Chris.

She opened the door wide. He leaned down out of the shadows into the light and placed a warm kiss to her check. The spot burned, and her lips parted in an unconscious plea for more.

"Are you ready to go?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry we're leaving at such a weird hour, but I thought it might be better to go ahead and get there so we'd have the full two days to enjoy Morganville."

The only thing she planned to enjoy for the next two days was him. But she thought better of stating that.

He slung her bag over his shoulder, and they headed for a dark gray SUV that was more functional than the red speed demon.

"It usually takes me a few hours to wind down after a show, anyway, so I don't mind the drive. You should sleep, though."

Her whole body flushed at the implication as he smiled across the SUV's dark interior. Was that intent in his eyes? She couldn't tell but her body sure thought so.

They were miles down the road before she finally relaxed into the soft leather seats and her eyelids began to droop. Out on the highway it wasn't long before the dark night and hypnotic motion lulled her to sleep. It felt as if they'd just left when his soft voice woke her. "Karyn. We're here."

She fought off the groggy feel of interrupted sleep and rolled her neck to fight a cramp. Chris stood beside her open door, the light from a streetlamp at his back gilding his rich, dark hair and hiding his face in shadow.

But she felt his eyes, could see the glitter of them even in the darkness.

Her breath caught and heat rushed in. The only thought in her brain: finally.

As if sensing her reaction, he took a giant step away, leaving a gaping space between them.

"I've already checked us in."

Turning on his heel, he picked up the bags she hadn't noticed at his feet and walked to the front door of a charming little cabin.

She stood outside for a moment, allowing the predawn air to cool her skin and blow away the cobwebs still in her head.

It was adorable, perfectly Southern. A tiny log cabin with worn wooden rockers, hand-hooked rugs and an old-fashioned porch swing crowded onto the wraparound deck.

Following him to the front door he held open, she walked inside. She looked up into his face as she passed by and the butterflies returned full force. But overriding them was a fizzing in her veins like the exploding bubbles in a freshly opened can of cola.

The place was small and quiet, made up of two rooms—a combined living room/kitchen and a bedroom. It carried the smell of an old, loved house—a mixture of beeswax, disinfectant and slightly musty wood.

The small touches—a patchwork quilt, a vase of blooming red roses, a china cabinet full of a blue willow pattern—left the impression that she'd stepped into someone's treasured home.

"It's perfect." Not an impersonal hotel room or a bed-and-breakfast with paper-thin walls. It was homey and safe. Just what she'd needed. She had no idea how he'd known. She hadn't.

Turning, she meant to hug Chris, to thank him for finding this place, but instead of standing behind her like she'd expected, he was still in the doorway staring in.

"I hope you like it. I'll put your things on the couch. Breakfast is in the main cabin up the hill at eight, but I know it's pretty late. So sleep as long as you want, we'll grab something when you wake up."

He deposited her bags and then moved back out onto the porch. "Pleasant dreams."

He was down the steps before her tongue would work. "Wait. You're not staying here with me?"

He turned, but didn't come back. "I didn't think that would be a good idea."

"But—"

"I want you to be comfortable, Karyn. I'm in the cabin next door. It's late."

She could feel the anger and disappointment rising.

He must have seen them both because with an animal gracefulness that sent her pulse fluttering, he bounded back up the porch steps to her side.

"You agreed to follow my rules, Karyn. And right now this one's hard and fast."

With an intensity that made her knees buckle, Chris scooped her into his arms, kissed her hard enough to make the stars spin and then set her gently back on the ground with a whispered "Good night."

Her tongue felt heavy and useless as she watched him disappear through the darkness into the cabin next door. A light flickered on inside, illuminating the blue gingham curtains pulled tight against the night.

Comfortable? Not likely. Not when her blood hummed with expectation.

Good night? Not anymore.

## 8

CHRIS HUGGED his cup of coffee and stared out over the porch railing at the early-morning haze. He hadn't slept, not much anyway. It had been difficult knowing Karyn was only a few yards away, in that cabin all by herself.

He shifted, trying to relieve the pressure behind his jeans. He was actually getting pretty used to walking around with a perpetual hard-on. Not that he particularly enjoyed the sensation. Unfortunately, he'd have to live with it for a little while longer.

Today the agenda included watching Karyn masturbate—no touching allowed. The thought of watching her touch herself was erotic as hell. The realization that he couldn't do anything about it, not so much.

"Good morning."

Karyn's voice jolted through his system, much stronger than the caffeine he'd been using to jumpstart his brain. He needed every last ounce of intelligence and willpower so he wouldn't do something stupid—like bypass straight to the sex and screw this up for them both.

He turned at the rail, leaning back against it as she slid beside him. "You're up early. I expected you to sleep the morning away."

Leaning out over the weather-smoothed wood, she turned and gave him a perfect morning smile. "Nope. I'm pretty much a morning person. Besides, I found it difficult to sleep."

"Why?"

She shot him a pointed look through lowered lashes.

"Knowing you were next door was a bit distracting. Besides, I'd worked up this whole fantasy in my head about how last night would end."

Reaching over, she snagged his cup and sipped. "Hmmm, that's good. But it needs more sugar."

She returned the cup, taking his hand and sandwiching it between the warm, heavy china and the heat of her palm.

Shifting her body next to his, she looked up, a gold glint in her eyes. "So, are you coming back to bed with me?"

Chris studied her. Karyn was a walking, talking contradiction, strong on one hand, vulnerable on the other. Undeniably sexy, part of her magnetism stemmed from the fact that she seemed mostly oblivious to it. And while he enjoyed a sexually forward woman as much as the next guy, the woman who'd just walked up beside him and bluntly asked him to bed did not fit the Karyn he'd gotten to know over the last few days.

The way she was looking up at him, her body touching his from shoulder to thigh, reminded him of every other woman who'd come on to him just to sleep with Dr. Desire. She'd never seemed to fit that mold before.

Yet there was a slight tremor in the hand still cupping his.

"No." The word was painful to say. At the moment there wasn't much he could think of wanting more.

"What do you mean?" She straightened suddenly, spilling drops of coffee across their still-joined hands. She let go of the cup, and him, to suck away the brown liquid.

He watched her plush lips open, close, and felt their pull on the spot between her thumb and forefinger deep inside. His fist tightened around the warmed ceramic. It wasn't what he wanted to hold.

She stood before him, a deflated angel with red wisps and dark golden eyes. Her face was fresh, her skin pink and glowing in the early-morning sun. His chest tightened. He wanted to touch her. But he couldn't. Not and keep his promise to them both.

"We only have two days." She stepped closer, the curve of her breast deliberately brushing his arm. "I don't want to waste any of it."

Her blatant come-on was sexy; he couldn't remember a time he'd been more aroused. But it wasn't real. He knew that. Karyn might think she was ready to jump straight into bed with him, but she wasn't. What she needed was some time to adjust to the idea. To get used to him.

Hell, they'd barely spent five hours together. She couldn't trust him, not yet, and Dr. Walker said trust was important.

According to the good doctor, lack of trust between the rape victim and her partner could lead to any number of disasters, all of which he really wanted to avoid. For her sake and his.

"We have two days to enjoy ourselves, Karyn." Chris cupped her chin and ran the pad of his thumb against the swell of her lower lip. "We need to take our time. Build trust. There's no rush."

"Yes, there is. I can taste freedom. I want it, Chris." She looked up into his eyes. "I've never wanted anything more."

He wanted her. This second. But he wouldn't, couldn't take her. Not yet. Maybe not even this weekend, if he couldn't trust himself to stay in control.

Pushing away from her with more force than he'd intended, Chris stepped backward, the railing catching him hard across the back.

"Rules, remember. You agreed to do exactly what I say. Ever been horseback riding?"

"Horseback rid—What does that have to do with anything?"

"I picked up a brochure in the lobby this morning. I thought you might like to go. If you're not afraid of horses."

"Mississippi girl, remember? Riding is not a problem. I just didn't plan on doing it on a horse this weekend."

Chris gulped down the swallow of coffee he'd taken. He looked hard at her over the cup. Her face was perfectly bland.

"Great." He'd been busy this morning making plans for the weekend—a trip to the lake, a hot-air balloon ride, a romantic dinner in her cabin. If things went well, step two would be marked off the list tonight.

Maybe between staying busy and following the steps, he could keep his hands off her.

He'd never been in this situation before, facing a willing woman he also wanted and denying himself—them both. Yes, in the past he'd chosen his women carefully—they'd had to understand the ground rules—but then if they'd been interested, he'd been willing.

Karyn might understand the ground rules, but there was more at stake this time than just making sure she had multiple orgasms.

At the moment he sincerely hoped a few hours in a saddle would cool his jets. Because his self-control was about to snap.

DARRELL CRUNCHED farther down into the passenger seat of his Jag. Why couldn't the bitch hurry up? He'd been waiting here for almost an hour. His back was killing him.

Finally his pain and patience were rewarded. A woman with stooped shoulders and short silver curls emerged from Chris's front door, crossed the perfect green lawn separating the yards and walked up to her own place.

She didn't even glance around as she shut her door behind her.

He'd spoken to the woman earlier, tried to convince her that he needed access to his son's home. She hadn't believed him. She was the one Chris asked to watch his house and water the plants.

Standing in her flower-filled, ruffle-covered parlor—her word not his—he'd briefly entertained a vision of wrapping his hands around her paper-thin throat and squeezing. She was so frail. He could have easily taken the key.

But he had already prepared a backup plan. Much better to wait until she'd come and gone and then simply let himself inside. It wouldn't take much to break through the lock on the back door. He just hoped he could figure out the code to the alarm system his son surely owned.

Grabbing a shiny silver tube of lipstick and a pair of rubber gloves from the glove compartment, he sat in impatient silence. He had a plan to throw everyone off track, something even his son would believe. A light finally snapped on in a second-story room next door, telling him it was time to go.

Darrell slipped from his car, ignoring the creaking in his knees and ankles, and casually walked up the drive, across the yard and around to the back gate. No one tried to stop him. Hell, no one even cared.

Within thirty seconds he was at Chris's back door. Pulling on the gloves, he grabbed a stick from the yard and jammed it hard into the tiny rectangular window midway up the door. It shattered with a sound far louder than he'd expected. But he didn't have time for the surprise to slow him.

Almost immediately, the alarm began beeping a warning. Reaching inside, he twisted the lock and dead bolt, flung the door open and ran to the control panel mounted at the far end of the narrow hallway.

He'd expected this and he'd come up with a list of numbers he thought Chris might use. Most people didn't like numbers, and they really didn't like to memorize a slew of different ones. Passwords, pins, codes. Human nature was to choose several you could remember—birthdays, anniversaries—and rotate them around.

While he'd waited, Darrell had racked his brain and come up with a few he knew. Punching in Chris's birthday, he held his breath and waited. Nothing. His mother's birthday didn't disarm it, either. Darrell's heart pounded in his ears. Hot adrenaline swamped his system.

Then he tried one more. He didn't really think his son would choose this date but...

No one had told him the day Chris's mother had died. No one had thought he would care. But Chris had been three weeks from his eighteenth birthday so child services had contacted him as the father to let him know that his son was now alone. They'd advised him that Chris had petitioned against foster care. Since he would have been free to leave weeks later, anyway, and he'd shown the capability to support himself, they'd allowed him to live on his own. But they'd thought Darrell might want to know.

He hadn't. At the time, there wasn't anything he could have done for the boy. And besides, he'd turned out fine. He was living in this fancy house. Had thousands of fans who adored him and a radio station that thought he walked on water.

Darrell punched seven, two, four, nine, four and felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. His heart squeezed tight as the last number registered. And the panel beeped acceptance and shut itself off.

Sagging against the opposite wall, Darrell let his head fall backward and his eyes close. Why would his son choose that date?

Yes, he'd felt bad. For Joy. No, their relationship hadn't ended the way either of them had wanted...Joy had been different from every other woman in his life. Young, just out of high school, she hadn't had a penny to her name. Normally that would have been a deal breaker for him, but he'd been young, too. And mesmerized—for a while. She'd been beautiful and sweet...innocent. Naive, as well, it turned out.

Shaking away the unpleasant memories and the tight ache in his chest, Darrell pushed away from the wall to close the door.

He looked around his son's dark, cool space, from the huge television to the entire wall of electronics, the leather sofas and reclining chairs, the modern artwork that almost covered a wall, and felt his temper rise. The boy had everything he could possibly want. And he wouldn't spare a little for the man who'd given him life.

Well, he would just see about that. He walked to the stocked liquor cabinet, pulled out an expensive bottle of Scotch and poured himself several fingers. Glass in hand, he moved slowly through the house, looking for anything he could use. Account numbers, credit cards, documents, anything he could turn into cash.

The place was full of electronics...he could probably fence them for money to get through the next few days. But it wouldn't be nearly enough for what he needed to set up the appearance of an affluent lifestyle. That required a rather large chunk of disposable funds.

He'd been at it for an hour, working methodically through room after room with nothing to show for it when he walked into a spare bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. His son had turned it into an office—huge desk, wall of awards, two computers.

He sat in Chris's chair, the dark brown leather protesting his intrusion. Pulling drawer after drawer, he hunted for account records, bank statements, anything, but found nothing.

He came up empty at the book shelves, as well. In a last-ditch effort, he upturned the wire mesh trash can sitting between a shelf and the credenza. Several white pages floated out onto the ground followed by an empty paper coffee cup and a bag from a local doughnut place.

The rubbish he ignored. The papers he picked up, scanning them quickly. The first two appeared to be printouts from a Web site and held nothing important. The last one, though, caught his attention.

It was a reservation for this weekend at a place called Hidden Mountain Cabins in Morganville. He was missing the first page—it wasn't in the trash can—but he did have an address.

A giddy sense of excitement washed over him. He wasn't sure what he could do with the information, but he was certain a few more hits from Chris's liquor cabinet would help him figure it out.

But before he did that, he had one more thing to do.

Walking through his son's bedroom, Darrell headed for the attached bathroom. The space was larger than the car he was currently living in. His eyes lingered on the huge walk-in shower, big enough for five people to fit comfortably. It had been so long since he'd had a decent shower...the temptation was almost too much.

The dirty towels would be pretty hard to hide, though.

Tearing his gaze away, he went over to the sink and picked up the navy blue toothbrush sitting in a stand and put it into one pocket. Next, he pulled out the lipstick he'd stashed in the other, uncapped the tube and wrote a nice message for his son.

Just a few memories,

Your #1 fan

Stepping back, he admired the effect of the bright red against the slick silver surface.

Walking back through the bedroom he stopped at the closet, opened the door and searched for something else, something small. Spying the laundry hamper, he smiled. Digging inside, he pulled out every pair of underwear.

KARYN SPENT the day alternating between aroused and relaxed. They'd had a fantastic day filled with two glorious hours walking and trotting through pastures and a small forest, browsing little shops, enjoying a museum of natural oddities and more laughter than she could remember.

He'd bought her a stupid little glass penguin. She'd admired it in a shop, the light catching its cute little wings and drawing her over to touch. Two minutes later they'd been walking out with the thing wrapped in layers of tissue. It wasn't important or expensive, but it had made her heart constrict when he'd handed her the bag.

It would be a memory of their weekend together.

While he wasn't looking, she'd slipped back into a store and purchased a ridiculously expensive pair of cuff links he'd looked at. All things considered, they were hardly enough, but she wanted to have something to give him when this was all over, something to let him know how important this was for her, how much she appreciated his help.

Last night had not been fun. Dreaming about him, wanting his touch, his hands on her body. She had absolutely no intention of letting this evening end with him disappearing down that gravel walk. This would be the night if she had to tie him to the bed and seduce the pants off of him—literally. She might not know what she was doing but she was a quick study. She'd figure it out.

Karyn looked at her face in the mirror one last time, tweaked a strand of hair till it fell obediently into place and tried to banish the twitchy flutters inside. She wanted this. There was no need for nerves.

Tonight it would be all over—the pressure, the waiting, the loneliness.

A knock sounded on the door. She jumped up, tugged at the hem of her summer sweater and wondered if the hot-pink thong she'd put on was a little too much. Anne had sworn any man would swallow his tongue over it. Now that she had it on under her skin-tight jeans, she wasn't so sure.

She definitely wasn't used to the sensation, especially the cool feel of the rhinestone-studded string against her skin.

But Karyn was ready to dive headfirst into this experience. She'd been looking forward to it for days, weeks, years. The twisting sensation was not nerves. There was nothing to be nervous about. They'd have sex and she'd be fine.

With a steadying breath, she opened the door, expecting to find Chris. Instead a knot of people stood on her front porch. She counted three, all carrying bags and boxes. An enticing aroma filled the air: spices, peppers, ripe tomatoes.

"Good evening. We're here to set up dinner." The man in front spoke with a slight accent she couldn't place, and waited for her to move.

It took her a few moments to realize what he needed. "Oh. Sure, come in." She backed away from the door, watching as the group filed into the tiny kitchen and set to work.

In no time flat they had a tablecloth, lit candles, two place settings and several covered platters filling the small table in a nook. Dusk was falling outside the surrounding windows. Fireflies winked against the backdrop of rolling foothills.

"Good evening."

The efficient army filed past her once again and out the door. She stared after them, the wafting aroma the only irrefutable evidence that they'd really been there. Her stomach growled. And then he was there. Standing, framed in the doorway of her little cabin.

He'd taken a shower. His hair gleamed damp in the porch light that had winked on as the sun fell. He wore a faded pair of jeans. They looked soft and comfortable, her favorite kind. A navy blue polo, opened at the neck, revealed a few swirls of dark hair.

She couldn't help but contrast him to the man who'd met her for dinner less than two weeks ago. That man had been slick, packaged, sexy. This one...he was relaxed, comfortable, perfect—and sexy.

She couldn't fight the feeling that today Chris had shown her a side of himself he let very few people see. The world knew him as Dr. Desire, the man who knew everything, could charm anyone, was cool, calm and confident.

How many people saw the real Chris? The man behind the public persona? She wasn't sure she had, but thought she was getting close.

"Good. Dinner's here. I thought I saw the delivery van outside."

He walked in, stopped at her side to press a kiss to her lips, then let her go before it really started. Her tongue darted out, the taste of him mixing with the aromas in the air.

Her blood rushed hot before slowing to a molten pace in her veins. Dinner. She had to get through dinner first.

"What is all this?"

She walked up to the table behind Chris as he began uncovering dish after dish. Refried beans. Guacamole. Chips, salsa, chicken fajitas.

"Mexican. You said it was your favorite."

When he'd asked her this afternoon, she'd thought he'd just been playing the getting-to-know-you game. She hadn't realized he'd actually been paying attention. She fought down a grin as it teased at the edges of her lips and tried not to be charmed.

Then Karyn looked over at Chris and couldn't help it. He had a mischievous grin of his own. Okay, so she was charmed. What was the harm in that?

"Good boy." She patted him on the head and tried to dislodge the feeling of utter happiness that had spiked into her heart.

Chris hadn't done this because he cared...okay, well, maybe he did, but not in the way that mattered. He hadn't ordered her favorite foods because he'd wanted to make her feel special and cherished. He'd wanted her to feel comfortable, to be at ease so this experience would go smoothly for them both.

As romantic dinners went it shouldn't have ranked. Rolled tortillas dripping sour cream and cheese everywhere shouldn't have been sexy. But they were, with Chris. She'd bet the man had the ability to turn scrubbing soap scum sexy.

With a laugh, he swiped a disastrous drip from the bottom of her fajita and offered it to her. Without thinking, she opened her mouth and took it in, enjoying the cool taste of sour cream and the salty tang of his skin against her tongue. And then a jolt of electricity hit. She swallowed, sucking harder on his finger and brought her gaze to meet his.

The laughter between them froze, suspended, the physical contact bringing them back to reality. They were enjoying themselves. But the joking and camaraderie was a flimsy veneer over the anticipation and nerves underneath.

Chris pulled his finger gently from her mouth. Part of her wanted to hold tight and part of her wanted to let him go.

"Would you do something for me if I asked?"

Would she? "Probably. What do you want?"

"Will you touch yourself for me?"

A hot blush surfed up her cheeks. "Why?"

He sat back in his chair, widening the space between them. His intent gaze kept the thread of awareness from snapping. "It's a sexual connection between us that doesn't involve actual sexual contact."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"I do."

She tried not to be embarrassed—the emotion seemed a bit misplaced considering what she'd asked of him—but she couldn't help it. He deserved her honesty, no matter how uncomfortable it made her. "I've spent five years touching myself, Chris. I don't want to do it anymore. That's why I asked you for help."

"And I'm trying to give it to you. We need to build trust, Karyn. You're placing your body in my hands. You need to know it's a good decision."

"It is."

He shifted in his chair. "You agreed to do what I asked. This is important, Karyn, and we're not going any further until we accomplish it."

Her mind raced and she turned away. It would be embarrassing. But if that was her only objection...a little discomfort would be worth it in the end, if this worked and she was cured.

"Look at me." Chris reached for her, scooting his chair closer so they were inches apart. His blue-gray eyes were deep and serious. He wasn't trying to embarrass her. He honestly thought this was important. "Show me what you enjoy, what makes you feel good."

His palm cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking rhythmically over the pulse at her throat. The path he traced tingled and the beat beneath his touch thumped steadily faster.

"It will help if I know what excites you most, how to distract your mind if memories surface." His breath caressed her skin, his voice coaxing. "Show me." He reached for her hand and placed it palm up over her own breast.

The nipple hardened instantly, pebbling through the layers of bright pink silk and dark green cotton. Her body went liquid. As she watched, his eyes darkened to the color of smoke-hazed sky. Her lips parted.

And he let go. Standing, he took three steps away from the table and waited.

"What do you want me to do?" The words came out dry and painful. She wasn't sure about this but...

"Get comfortable. Why don't you get undressed and lie on the bed. I'll be there in a few minutes."

DARRELL STOOD in the shadows. The slam of the door of the neighboring cabin had startled him back into the night.

He'd walked around the cabin the friendly old biddy at the front desk had told him was his son's. No lights on inside meant either he was out or he was asleep. Ten o'clock wasn't Chris's usual bedtime so he'd guessed out.

He'd been about to try the front door when someone had stepped onto the front porch of the cabin thirty feet away. He really hoped whoever it was didn't plan to camp out because the mosquitoes were eating him alive.

He settled against the trunk of a tree to wait and nearly swore when Chris moved into the circle of the porch light.

That idiotic grandma couldn't tell her ass from an orangutan. She must have given him the wrong number. Fantastic.

His son walked to the railing, leaned over and appeared ready to stay there all night. Shit. Darrell fought the urge to slap the little monster sucking blood from the back of his calf. The last thing he needed was for Chris to discover he'd followed him up here.

Apparently, luck was on his side though, because just a few minutes after Chris came out, to gaze broodingly down into the grass in front of the porch, he checked his watch and went back inside.

With a loud crack, Darrell murdered the mosquito at his neck and headed back to the car he'd parked several cabins down. Now that he knew which cabin was Chris's, he'd wait. And watch.

On the drive up here, fueled with the boy's food and Scotch, he'd come to a decision. This was no longer just about getting money. This was about teaching his disrespectful son a lesson he should have learned a long time ago.

He was the boy's father. And he'd given his son an order. After looking at the casual opulence that filled Chris's home, it was obvious the boy had more than enough to give him the money he'd asked for.

Grown or not, his son needed to learn the meaning of respect. And he was man enough to teach that lesson.

## 9

KARYN WALKED into the bedroom, stood just inside the doorway and stared down at the huge bed.

An unexpected buzz of excitement raced down her spine. Was she going to do this or not? If she was, it was time to commit. No more looking back. No more second-guessing.

Part of her wished she could talk to Anne. Her friend would remind her of all the reasons this was good—and probably come up with a brilliant way to get over the embarrassment and kill the butterflies. She didn't have time to make a phone call, though. Chris would be in here in a minute; she'd heard the screen door bang shut behind him. Besides, this was something she needed to decide on her own. It was put up or shut up.

Grasping the hem of her sweater, she ran the edge through her fingers, took a deep breath and jerked it off over her head. Her jeans followed as she pushed them over her hips. She'd made the motions millions of times before; they were a habit she never thought of. But as her eyes caught her half-naked body in the mirror, she paused.

She liked the hot-pink color against her pale skin. It was bright and shocking. And gave her a blast of courage. Any woman wearing these panties should be bold, fearless, adventurous. A tingle shot through her body to settle between her thighs. She let her hand rest against her stomach, at first to quell the flutter there, but then because the sensation felt so good.

She watched her reflection as her hands traveled up to touch her silk-covered breasts. She could see him there, in her mind, standing behind her, watching the same image with those smoke-and-sky eyes. Suddenly the thought of pleasuring herself while Chris watched tantalized instead of troubled.

And then he was there. She hadn't heard the door or his footsteps on the worn wooden floor. It didn't matter. What did was the way he stared, his face, his hands, his body drawn tight.

She licked her lips. "What should I do?"

Without taking his eyes from her reflection, he crossed to the bed, pulled back the covers and piled the pillows before holding out a hand to her across the stark white sheet.

"Whatever feels good."

He helped her climb onto the bed but instead of joining her like she'd hoped, he disappeared back into the other room, quickly returning with a kitchen chair. He placed it in the corner, as far away from the lonely bed as he could get and sat down.

Night had fully fallen and the stars hadn't quite come out. The corner he'd picked was almost completely shrouded in darkness, only a few strips of weak moonlight fighting through. She could see his eyes and the sharp planes of his face, half his arms and torso, but nothing below the waist. Nowhere near as clearly as he could see her.

"Why don't you lie down? Take your bra and panties off?" His voice melted down her spine. It was the same one she'd been listening to for months, Dr. Desire, deep, dark, decadent.

She did what he asked. Sitting up, she opened the clasp of her bra, held the cups to her body and let the straps fall from her arms. Her breasts felt heavy, swollen, the nipples thrusting tight and aching against her crossed arms.

She let them drop free, the release liberating in a way she hadn't expected.

His eyes traveled her body, making her stomach roll with anticipation and fear. Oh God. What if she couldn't do this?

"You're fine, Karyn. Now your panties." He must have read her mind. Or her eyes. She was certain the fear that had jolted through her had been plain to see. But he was right. She was fine.

With a deep, calming breath, she lay back against the pillows and pushed her panties over her hips. She was alone, the only person driving this show. She could stop at any time.

In that moment she understood why this had been so important to him. She was in control and would be every single moment of their first sexual connection.

Chris folded his arms across his chest, the muscles bulging against the short sleeves of his shirt. He looked so far away over there in the corner. She was naked. He was fully clothed. Something about this whole thing seemed voyeuristic and naughty.

She fought the urge to cover herself. "I feel silly."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one naked. You can see every part of me but I can barely make you out against the shadows."

He sighed. She heard the gentle sound more than saw the movement. He stood, grabbed his chair and moved it forward into a patch of light from the other room.

"Better?"

Yes and no. She could see him all right. Including the hard gleam in his eyes. Her pulse quickened at the intensity of his stare.

"I'd offer to undress, and I will if you really want me to, but I don't think that would be a good idea."

She gripped the sheet beneath her and shifted higher against the pillows.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm close enough to the edge already."

The spot between her thighs clenched and warmed. She knew he wanted her sexually, had seen the evidence for herself several times in the past few weeks, but somehow hearing him say the words was exactly what she needed.

She'd agreed to this. It seemed important to him. "Will you help me?"

"Yes. Anything."

"Tell me what to do. I need you to start me off."

"Push the covers to the floor so I can see you better."

She hesitated for just a moment before kicking out with her legs and shoving the heavy quilt away. It slithered off the bed, landing in a pile to the side, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable.

Heat flared in his dark blue eyes. An answering flame flickered deep inside her belly.

She'd done the right thing asking him to do this. The fact that he sat just feet away from her, denying himself when she was naked in front of him, told her everything she needed to know about the man.

"Cup your breasts in your hands." She did, following his direction, doing exactly what they both wanted. "Now roll your nipples between your fingers." Her back arched in response to the touch.

Her mind played tricks. She knew her own hands caressed her body. But so did his. It was his thumbs brushing roughly across her distended nipples, his palms stroking the heavy weight of her breasts.

She pinched, torturing herself and if his tightened jaw was any indication, torturing him. A zing of electricity shot to her sex. The feeling was familiar and yet different. She'd experienced the shocks and swirls of arousal, had pulled them from her own body many times. This time there was a sharper edge, a keener pleasure in the experience.

Her muscles tightened and her hips moved restlessly against the bed.

Shifting her hands down across her stomach, she let her fingers brush the seam of her tightly closed thighs before moving back up again. She did it repeatedly, enjoying the feel and the way Chris's eyes darkened to match the night outside. His eyelids lowered and his arms rippled with tension.

She was teasing them both, tantalizing herself and him with the touch she wanted most.

"Spread your legs. Let me see." His words were low and husky and made her sex even wetter. She writhed against the sheet that had twisted beneath her, trying to relieve some of the building pressure.

Shifting her legs apart, she let her hands fall between her barely opened thighs.

"Wider. Let me see what I can't touch. Please."

She licked her lips. His mouth parted, his own tongue unconsciously mimicking her trail of moisture. She wanted to feel the heat of his mouth against her skin, pressing kisses to her stomach, tickling the inside of her thighs. Her eyes were weighted with the need to close, to surrender herself to that fantasy. She fought against it. Nothing in her mind could compare to the sight of Chris watching her, wanting her.

Her body throbbed to the rhythm of his speeding breath. She wanted his caress. Knew he wanted it, too. But he wouldn't give it. He'd decided, for some insane reason, that she needed this experience to ease her into sex. What he didn't understand, and apparently she couldn't explain, was that right now, all she wanted was him.

His gaze traveled up and down her body. She let her hands travel the same path his eyes did, touching every place he lingered. Until everything settled at the apex of her thighs where a sharp pleasure that bordered on pain pulsed.

"Show me." He leaned forward in the chair, his body straining closer to hers.

She slipped her fingers into the folds, her lungs caving with the pleasure as she rubbed across the nub of nerves hidden inside.

"Are you wet?"

Her own arousal surged across her fingers. She spread herself open to show him. "Yes."

Chris shifted on the chair, drawing her attention to the unmistakable ridge of his erection. He was there, right at the end of her bed. So close and yet not nearly close enough.

"Please come over here." She heard the begging edge to her words and tried to hate herself for the weakness, but couldn't, not while she was burning hot with the need for him.

"I can't. I want to, but I can't. Show me, Karyn. I want to watch while you let go."

A breeze shifted across her body, touching her exposed core and making the muscles contract. She wanted his touch, but if he wouldn't give it to her...

She slipped a single finger inside. Her moisture coated her hand and her eyes slid shut as she sank into the dampness. She could feel every flutter of her inner muscles. Her breath caught in her throat as she moved, pulling in and out with deliberate strokes. It felt so good, but even as her mind fogged with the visceral response of her body she knew there was more, knew that if Chris had been with her the experience would have been so much better.

Her thumb rolled back and forth against her clit. Her fingers pumped faster and faster against her sex. Her muscles pulled tight and her hips strained for a deeper touch.

Her breath panted out between parted lips. Her teeth sank into the swollen flesh of her bottom lip, but she barely registered the twinge of pain.

"Look at me."

Chris's words somehow slipped through. And she obeyed. Her eyes opened, moving unerringly to his. She saw him, the sharp stamp of arousal on his face registering somewhere in the back of her mind.

She wanted to speak, to ask him to finish this for her, but she couldn't. Not around the keening groan that erupted from her lungs as she exploded in a climax that was much more powerful than any she'd experienced before.

Her eyelids flickered as wave after wave shook through her body. When it finally stopped, she sank into the mattress in a pile of spent muscle and bone. She couldn't form a coherent thought. She simply concentrated on breathing, not entirely sure her brain could have kept the necessary function going without conscious effort.

Chris was there; she had heard the creak of the chair, but couldn't open her eyes to look. A few minutes. That was all she needed.

He didn't give them to her. Leaning over the bed, he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. His breath washed across her skin, labored, almost painful sounding in its intensity. The sheet beneath her bunched with the pull of his fists at her side. Even through her sex-clouded brain she could feel the coiled tension whipping through his body. Her own humming nerve endings responded to the electrical charge of his desire.

She wanted to reach for him, but none of her muscles responded. Before she could muster the strength to make them, he said, "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow," in a hoarse whisper and disappeared.

Reality slowly returned. Sanity, clarity, a bit of embarrassment at what she'd done. And so did the ache, the incessant ache that had been her constant companion since the night they'd first met.

Karyn rolled from the bed, standing naked in the middle of the room, alone. She stared out the window into the clear night sky. This was Saturday night. They'd leave sometime tomorrow.

She'd started this weekend knowing that by the end of it she would be whole again. That she'd come home with that last step taken, ready to move on with the life she'd always wanted.

While the last hour had been the most erotic of her life, Chris seriously needed to pick up the pace or that wouldn't happen.

Moving over, she placed her palm against the cool, air-conditioned glass. There would be no shopping tomorrow. No fun, no games, no more steps.

At least not his. She had a few of her own. Starting nice and early. There was no more time to waste.

DARRELL FOUND a bar in town, enjoyed a couple of drinks, a game of pool and the chance to use a bathroom that didn't smell like pine trees and decaying leaves.

Killing time was something he'd gotten very good at over the years. He could relax with the best of them, though his tastes usually were a little finer than what roadside bars offered. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Last call. You want another?"

Darrell swallowed the last dregs of his beer, glanced at his watch and declined. It was almost two o'clock, surely even his son would be asleep by now.

Parking at the other end of the row of cabins this time, Darrell once more crept through the shadows to Chris's. He watched for several minutes, trying to spot even the faintest flicker of light or motion. Nothing.

With careful steps, he inched up the porch, cringing each time one of the ancient boards let out a screech. He turned the front knob, expecting the door to be locked—but it didn't hurt to try. When it was, he moved to the flanking windows.

The problem with staying in a quaint little Southern town was that people tended to forget the world wasn't quaint or safe.

The third one he tried opened about half an inch. With a little elbow grease and some curse words at a squeak, the thing gave way enough to let him through.

Sneaking quietly into what appeared to be a sitting area, he glanced around the small, combined space, noting the immaculate kitchen and a table with half-melted candles. On the floor sat a woman's handbag.

So his son had been romancing someone. A spurt of fatherly pride rushed in. Moving carefully, Darrell dug through the bag and removed a wallet. Flipping it open, he strained to see the driver's license. Karyn Mitchell. And a Birmingham address. But in the moonlight, her photo was just a dark silhouette. Darrell debated taking the credit cards and small amount of money before dropping the wallet back in the bag. Best to play it safe until his greedy brat coughed up his cash.

A sigh echoed from an open door. He crept closer to see inside. A high, four-poster bed dominated the space. But where he'd expected to find two bodies, he only found one. And there was no mistaking for his son the woman curled beneath the covers.

Where was Chris?

Darrell took a quick, calculating look around. The cabin was small. From his vantage point in the bedroom doorway he could see into both the bathroom and the living space. No one was there.

Chris was not in the cabin. Of that he was certain.

Walking with quiet steps, Darrell peered at the woman and nearly jerked back. It was the same one from the picture, the same one he'd seen Chris devouring in the parking lot days ago.

So his son had brought this woman on his weekend getaway. And he obviously wasn't sleeping in her bed.

What an idiot.

She shifted in her sleep with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimpering groan before rolling to her other side. The covers slipped down, leaving her back completely bare to the crease of her ass.

She was naked. And her skin glowed in the moonlight. Her long hair, dark red in this light, spread out against her back and the stark white sheet beneath her.

His erection was instant. He reached for her, moving his hand down the curve of her inviting spine without actually touching.

His knuckles brushed at the edge of sheet, hoping the small touch might dislodge it and give him a hint of her breasts. He could see their outline, full and firm, but he wanted more. It had been so long since he'd felt a woman.

He wasn't sure what woke her, but one moment he was staring at the soft play of light across her skin, the next she was screaming down the place.

He bolted, certain he'd left his heart seizing in fright somewhere on her floor.

## 10

KARYN'S SCREAMS jarred Chris wide awake. He was out of his cabin and halfway to hers before the echo had even died.

Barefoot and naked except for the pajama bottoms he'd thrown on, he wasted precious seconds fumbling with the extra key to her door. He was in and at her side within minutes.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

Karyn stood in the center of the living room, the sheet clutched tightly to her body with hands that were far from steady. At least she wasn't screaming, not anymore.

"I'm fine."

Her voice was strong, but the smile she tried to give him trembled before she gave up on the effort.

"No, you're not. What happened?"

"I was having a dream." Her skin flushed hot as she tucked the sheet tighter beneath her arms. He wasn't sure if the stain of color was from embarrassment or adrenaline. "I woke up and thought someone was in the room, touching me."

She glanced around at the empty place. "But no one was here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. The place is small. There's no one here." He watched her pull that plump lower lip into her mouth and gently bite down on the abundant flesh.

She didn't hold it long.

"I was dreaming of you."

He liked the sound of that, especially since he'd been pulled from a dream of his own where he'd had his hands all over her. But her white-knuckled grip on the sheet and the fear in her eyes quickly banished his satisfaction. Her dream may have started with a fantasy, but it had apparently turned to a nightmare.

Chris wanted to kick himself. Why had he left her alone tonight? Why hadn't he considered that while she might not show any outward effects from her first sexual encounter in years, in sleep she could be vulnerable to subconscious fears?

Reaching for her, he wrapped her in his arms and rubbed his palms up and down her back. When her body stopped its tiny tremors, he led her over to the couch and urged her down with him, pulling her into his lap.

Burying himself in a corner, he cradled her body with his own, her sheet-covered back to his naked chest. They sat in silence for a while, the normal night sounds wrapping around them. He enjoyed the feel of her. The simplicity of having his arms around her, her body relaxed trustingly against his own. It was...nice.

And even though the primal urge to take her throbbed quietly beneath his skin, for now he could ignore it.

"Was it him, the man who raped you, in your dream?"

Her body stiffened against his, but she didn't move away and after a few moments she relaxed once more, one muscle at a time.

"No. It wasn't him. Although, I have to admit, once I was out of bed and my head cleared a bit, it did cross my mind. The rape."

He let the words hang, unwilling to ask more questions. If she wanted to tell him, fine. If not, well that was the rule he'd agreed to.

With a sigh, she snuggled deeper against him. "You know, I honestly don't think about it very often. I'm not saying the memories don't surface because they do, every once in a while. Not nearly as much as they used to, though.

"I think maybe it's kinda like death, just the death of your trust in people, in yourself. Time passes and you realize that eventually life goes on even without that part of yourself."

He knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I felt that way when my mother died, like nothing else in the world would ever matter again. But it did. I was too busy trying to survive, to deal with supporting myself and saving money for college to wallow. Years later I looked up and realized it didn't hurt as much anymore."

"Exactly. The trial was like limbo, years of my life where things would be fine for months and suddenly some lawyer would need me for deposition or trial practice or the judge would rule on some motion and half the papers in the state would run a story about me and my life."

"Why?"

Karyn leaned her head back and looked up into his face. "He was a starter for the MSU football team, a junior with one more year of eligibility that the school and fans didn't want to lose. I, on the other hand, thought he should rot in jail for a while."

She shrugged and shifted back around. "He won. On both accounts. One of the alums posted his bail, and the trial conveniently didn't interfere with his season. And then, of course, the jury found him not guilty after the defense pulled the teenage years of my life through the mud.

"You know, I think that was the worst part of it. The emotional scars from the rape started to heal long before the ones from the way they ripped apart my life. All those salacious stories about when I lost my virginity with my boyfriend at sixteen, the frat boy I'd met on a trip to visit Blake my senior year. They made it sound like I was the Mississippi State slut. There must have been five or six men step forward and swear I'd had sex with them. The truth was two."

She twisted against him and he could feel her anger in her body.

"That was hard, knowing people read those stories. And believed them. My friends. Neighbors. Parents. At one point my mother told me to drop the charges. She begged me not to put the family through any more. As if their embarrassment meant more than what I'd gone through. Meant more than making sure this man could never hurt anyone again.

"Nothing in my life was private or safe. Nothing. Not after that night."

The words stopped. She closed her mouth and rolled her head to stare at the ceiling.

With his arms wrapped tightly around her, Chris fought hard to keep his muscles from tensing with the unadulterated desire to beat the living shit out of someone—preferably the coward who'd raped her.

He'd been angry when he'd heard her story that night. Hell, half the city had been. But now it was personal. He wanted the retribution she'd been denied.

But he obviously wouldn't get it. And right now Karyn needed him, so he simply held her and waited.

It took several minutes, but slowly the rigidity eased from her muscles again. Her legs stirred beneath the swaddled sheet pooled around her body.

Her heat burned through the cotton sheet to his naked skin. He'd thought the barrier enough, along with her story and the nightmare, to keep his desire contained. It wasn't. In fact, the thin sheet made it worse.

He'd seen the body beneath, knew the curve of her breasts and the soft pink color of her sex, how it darkened the more she became aroused.

She shifted back in his lap, grinding the cleft of her buttocks into his erection. He knew she recognized his response from the way she melted against him and pressed harder.

He needed to get up. Get out of there. Before he did something wrong. There was no way they could have sex right now. She'd just spilled her guts to him after a nightmare had reminded her of her rape. Because of a sexual encounter that he'd talked her into.

She wasn't ready.

This wasn't the right time.

"I need you, Chris. Please. Help me take this last step. Help me forget."

KARYN'S HEART POUNDED in her ears. She thought for sure Chris could hear it. But that didn't matter. Nothing did except for getting him naked and inside her.

Yes, she was scared. But with Chris, need far outweighed the fear. Earlier she'd needed him to comfort and listen. And he had. Now she needed him to take her. And he would...

If she had anything to say about it.

Turning to face him, she pushed up from the couch, trailing her hands down his body as she wriggled herself out of the warm cocoon he had provided. The sheet slid down her skin and into a heap on the floor. She was naked; the only thing touching her was air and a single ray of moonlight.

Chris swallowed. She watched the strong column of his throat work and enjoyed the surge of feminine power that washed through her. "I don't think this is a good idea, Karyn. There are a few more things we should do first, like—"

"Nothing else, Chris. Nothing but your hands on my body, your mouth on my skin, you deep inside me, will do right now."

She reached for him, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. She couldn't pull him off the couch, not if he didn't want to come with her. The hard, thick ridge in his lap gave her the courage to be bold.

"How many times have you admonished callers for not listening to their partners?"

He eyed her warily, but answered anyway. "Frequently."

"Then perhaps you should take your own advice, Dr. Desire, and listen to me. I'm ready. I trust you. I want this. I want you. Preferably right now."

"You just had a nightmare about the rape. Now is not—"

"Now is the perfect time because of the nightmare. I'm tired of letting the fear control me, my life, my choices. Help me break free."

Chris looked at her. Not just at her body, her breasts, her sex, but the woman she was beneath. She could tell the difference.

In his eyes she saw emotions gathering, like a summer storm. She couldn't read him, though, had no idea what he would do. Until he stood, bringing their joined hands to rest at the curve of her nape.

"If you're sure."

"Absolutely." Those butterflies lifted off as soon as she said the word. She knew she would be fine.

He touched his lips to hers in a kiss that held absolutely no demand. Her own hand fell limp to her side as he let go and began massaging the back of her neck. It was delicious, the taste of his mouth and the magic of his hand against her tensed muscles.

Yes. Now. It would be fine, now.

Karyn opened to him and took what she wanted, tugging the kiss deeper, nipping at his lip and curling her fingers into his hair-roughened chest.

She took the kiss from slow and smoldering to frenzied in about three seconds.

And he stopped it. Pulling back, he breathed, "Slow down," against her lips. "We have hours to do this right."

He worked her hands from his chest and held them with his own. His fingers rubbed the insides of her wrists, sending sparks through her arms. She recognized the motion as something meant to soothe and reassure her. Like the gentle rubbing of a dog's fur to distract him from the shot of medication he was about to get.

This experience might be medicinal, but she wanted no anesthetic. She wanted to experience every moment. She just wanted them over quickly, like pulling off a Band-Aid with one jerk.

"You might have hours, but I've waited years for this. We can do slow later."

"Years, huh? I distinctly remember you writhing under the power of an orgasm not four hours ago."

"And I distinctly remember you walking out the door while I was still catatonic, with no more than a kiss on my forehead."

"You weren't complaining then."

"I'm complaining now. Touch me."

She looked up into his face, passive, relaxed, controlled. But something dark and primitive filled his blue-gray eyes. A ribbon of white-hot need melted through her body.

He shifted, the slightest bunching of muscles, and suddenly the flimsy layer of confidence she'd hidden behind disappeared and the edge of anxiety sharpened. She pushed it away. She wanted this. More than she'd wanted anything else for the past several years. More even than she'd wanted justice.

"Are you scared, Karyn?"

"Not anymore."

"Good. But I need you to be honest with me. Promise me. I'll stop anytime, just ask."

She nodded, licking her lips and testing the hold he had on her hands. She wanted to touch him, like in the parking lot of her office building. Only, this time she wouldn't just feel the cotton covering his skin, she'd feel his flesh and bone, hair and heat. Her stomach tightened and her thighs clenched.

"There's only what works for you and me." He moved closer, snugging his mouth up to the sensitive spot just behind her ear and taking a testing nip. "You're not the only one strung tight, Karyn. I've been fantasizing about finding those secret spots that make your breath catch for days. You had an orgasm earlier tonight. I could only watch. And want."

"Mmm," was about all she could manage with his tongue licking a moist trail across her neck. "I like that. Do it again."

"I can't."

She jerked back, staring up at him in surprise. "Why not?"

He didn't answer, simply took her hand and led her back to the couch. She sat gingerly when he urged her down, but curled her hands into the sofa cushions and gathered her legs beneath her, ready to spring. "Wait. I want—"

His hands wrapped around her shoulders, their weight holding her still when all she wanted was to get up, to walk to the bedroom, to experience sex for the first time in years.

"I know what you want. What excites you. Trust me."

His hands slipped from her shoulders, tickling down the sides of her neck. He picked the sheet up off the floor and draped it across her body before disappearing from view.

If he'd been any other man she would have moved her head, would have followed where he went, what he was doing. But she didn't. Instead, she concentrated on each breath flowing through her body.

She didn't need to see him to know where he was. She could hear him, smell him, sense his presence behind her.

His hands settled on her shoulders again. His thumbs dug into the knot at the base of her neck, his fingers massaged the curved muscles, rolling her head and loosening the tension there.

Her eyes closed as a wave of contented bliss washed through her. Relaxation. She let her head fall back against the sofa as his talented hands moved down over her arms. That's something she hadn't expected to feel. Something she hadn't known she needed.

If he made her feel this way just by touching her shoulders and neck, she couldn't imagine what he would do to the places that mattered most.

He towered over her, so tall and male. She had a brief flashback to their first dinner together. That night she'd thought the same thing. So much had changed in such a short space of time. Not to the world outside, but in her. And him.

The tension came back with a bang. Stop. Don't you do it. Don't you dare fall for him. Her mind buzzed a warning his hands convinced her to ignore.

Her heart was in no danger. She'd only known him a couple of weeks, not nearly long enough to fall in love. This was a fling. And after it ended—and it would, because Dr. Desire didn't do permanent—her life would start brand-new.

They'd share chemistry and hopefully good sex. Nothing more.

His fingers flexed against her skin. She leaned her head back, opened her heavy-lidded eyes and stared up into his face. Shadows played as he moved back and forth with each massaging motion, highlighting the arch of his brow bone, the sharp line of his nose and his lips, pulled straight into an expression of sensual concentration.

He looked like a man trying to find the solution to world peace, not someone looking forward to hours of pleasure. Until his eyes met hers. There. Everything she'd wanted to see and more. Heat. Promise. Desire.

She wanted him to enjoy this experience as much as she did. She didn't need controlled determination from him. She might not have as much practice as he did when it came to sex, but even she knew that loosening up would lead to a much more fulfilling experience for them both.

She took a breath, her back arching up off the sofa, and let the sheet slip from her breasts. It was a silent invitation for more, one she hoped he couldn't ignore. She reached for him, speared her hands into his hair, tugging until he curled toward her.

His lips parted and his mouth touched hers. She opened for him. The angle of his body changed the experience of the kiss, sparking something deep inside.

His hand nudged the underside of her jaw, guiding her up off the sofa and even closer to him. His fingers left an imprint in her skin. She could feel the distinct length of each one, not from the force of his hold, but from the burn of his touch.

His teeth latched on to her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. He bit down, a prick of momentary pain before his tongue smoothed over her smarting flesh. Moisture gathered between her legs. She shifted, trying to relieve the ache.

Nothing helped.

She tore her mouth away. "As much as I'm enjoying this, you don't have to do it."

"Do what?"

"This whole seduction scene. I'm a sure thing."

His hand brushed her forehead, sweeping a strand of hair away. "Who said this was for you?"

With a single finger, he skimmed the curve of her neck, the arc of her shoulder, the hollow of her collarbone. Her nipples tightened with a stinging ache as that lonely caress drew closer. He skirted the swell at the side of her breast, making her breath catch, down the crease of arm and rib to push the sheet farther from her body.

The air-conditioning kicked on. A puff of air swept across her exposed skin making her abdomen dance. Chris picked up her hand with his and placed it right where the muscles had clenched.

Tugging her hand against his hold, she tried to break away, to feel the whole of his palm on her skin without the buffer of her own. But he wouldn't budge, would not let her free.

Instead he pulled both their hands up her body. It was the path she'd traveled just hours before while he watched. This time she wanted something different, something more.

"Chris, I..."

Her voice trailed off as their joined hands settled over one breast, and the breath left her body. For the first time she experienced the full force of his touch against her skin as his fingers flowed over one nipple and then to the other. With a fingernail, he stopped to flick them and she jerked forward for more.

Instead he moved away and she whimpered.

She was like a piece of the melted candle across the room, liquid and warm, certain that without the containment of her skin she'd spill everywhere and puddle at his feet.

She watched the wheels spin in his uneasy blue eyes. Protests formed, reasoned, fought against need. He was going to try to stall, because he thought it was the right thing to do for her.

If she'd ever had a twinge of doubt that Chris was the right man for this, it would have evaporated in that one moment.

She could smell his arousal, the heady scent mixing with her own. If she turned her head, she would see the unmistakable ridge of his penis, long, hard, thick. This man wanted her. And yet he would deny them both because he thought it was the right thing to do.

Staring up into his face, she dropped every ounce of self-preservation and pretense. All that was left was an intense hunger. If she was being honest, that was what she feared most, that after tonight she'd never experience that burning pleasure again. But...having it once was better than never experiencing the joy at all.

"I need you. Take me to bed."

## 11

CHRIS COULDN'T FIGHT her anymore. Couldn't ignore the desire flooding every square inch of his being. At this precise moment, he couldn't even remember why it had been so all-fired important to wait to touch her pale, smooth skin.

Unable to stop himself, he reached for her, trailing a single finger down the curve of her neck to the slope of her shoulder. She shuddered.

The sensation exhilarated and pushed him even closer to the edge. He'd been denying them both for far too long.

He gave in to the yearning to taste her, burying his hands in her hair and pulling her close. Their mouths touched and he knew it was over. He'd never get enough of the sensation, not just of her touch, taste and scent, but of the way being next to her made him feel. Alive. Strong. Male.

The first contact of her body against his blew the breath right from his lungs. His hands stroked up and down the curve of her back, enjoying the way she shivered. Filling his palms with the sweet curve of her ass, he pulled her tighter to his body.

His fingers slipped into the crevice there, finding her wet and hot. God, he wanted so much more. But not yet.

She moaned when he pulled away, ground her hips against him, looking for relief. Plunging her own hands past the waistband of his pajama pants, she reached for him. His erection jerked toward the touch he wanted so desperately, but he caught her hands and pulled them away before they found their mark.

"This first time we're concentrating on you."

He reached for her, intent on sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed for better access to everything she offered.

Taking a step back she said, "No."

"What?"

"No. This first time is not going to be about me. It's not going to be special. It's going to be unbridled, down-and-dirty sex, right here on the floor."

There was no doubt he looked dumbfounded. He certainly felt like he'd fallen through a rabbit hole somewhere.

"You're crazy. There's a perfectly good bed five steps away."

"And I don't want anything to do with it. I don't want you concentrating on what should come next or whether I'm fighting back memories."

She laid a hand at the center of his chest. Her fingertips brushed so close to his heart he was sure she could feel every frenetic beat. "The only thing I want either of us to think about is pleasure and how we can get more."

Dark-red hair clouded around her face. All he could see were her eyes, full of heat—and hope.

He'd seen hope before. It had once filled his mother's eyes. The worst moment of his life had been watching it fade to despair, then desolation, then to nothing.

The thought of watching it disappear from Karyn froze the blood in his veins and constricted his chest.

He'd never met another person who had experienced so much pain and still managed to embrace life. He certainly didn't—not as much as he should. What she viewed as a personal defect in herself, he saw as intelligent self-protection.

"Trust me, Chris. I'm fine. And I want this more than you'll ever know. Make love to me. Fully. Completely. With everything you have inside."

She let her hand trail down his body, dipping and swirling, touching and teasing with every word. When it finally slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, his body turned to stone beneath her touch. Living, breathing, begging rock.

"I'm just trying—"

"I know. And I appreciate the sentiment, but that's not what I need."

Staring down into her, he saw the truth looking back at him. He grabbed her, pulling her up off her feet, and crushed her to him, unable to fight anymore.

KARYN'S HEAD WENT LIGHT. Not from the surprising loss of floor, but from the giddy realization of what she'd done. She hadn't thought it possible to become more aroused than she already was. She'd been wrong.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she clung to him. His sex throbbed; she could feel every pulse jammed tight against her own. The fabric between them was already wet, whether from him or her it didn't matter.

Chris grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch, flung it onto the floor beneath them and stretched them both out on top. It wasn't much padding for the hard wood beneath. Karyn didn't care.

His mouth latched tight over one of her nipples, sucking hard before laving the tightened nub with his tongue. A string seemed to snap between his mouth and her sex, pulling her hips up off the floor in a search for more.

He didn't disappoint. His hand was there, slipping through the folds, rubbing her clit and sliding home. While everywhere else his mouth and hands were so fierce they bordered on bruising, here he was gentle, deliberate, soft.

But she wanted fierce. She wanted abandon. She wanted passion to blind them both.

Rearing up, she tore at his pants, pulling them ruthlessly down as far as she could push them.

"Take them off." Her voice was deep and breathless, almost unrecognizable to her own ears.

But he did as she asked, leaving her momentarily bereft. She looked up at him from the floor, her chest heaving as if she'd run a marathon.

She enjoyed the view as a single strip of silver shining through the window cut from his shoulder to the tip of his hip bone jutting out over the gray cotton. She should have felt open, exposed, sitting there on the ground, naked, at his feet. But she didn't. She couldn't. Not when he was staring at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with sexual promise.

Then the pants disappeared and only one thing held her attention—his erection.

It sprang free, long, hard and inviting. She wanted to touch, couldn't stop herself from licking her lips at the thought of feeling that hot flesh against her own tongue.

But he wouldn't let her. Before she could scoot forward an inch he was beside her again. His arms wrapped tightly around her, gently lowering her back down to the floor.

Before she could do anything about it, he shifted, covering her sex with his palm and dipping his fingers slowly back inside.

She squirmed at the touch, wanting more.

He obliged. Stroking harder, longer, faster. Her hips pumped, finding a maddening rhythm that drove her higher and higher.

Her body tightened, gathered strength. His mouth touched down squarely on hers, his tongue requesting entrance. One single stroke inside, mirrored by the tantalizing touch of his fingers deep at her core and she exploded.

The sensation was like nothing and everything she'd ever experienced. The same and yet absolutely different.

It took her several minutes for reality to set back in, for the world around her to right itself and register. Chris lay beside her, propped on an elbow staring down at her with eyes sharp and focused. A flutter started again deep in her belly.

"How are you?" His voice was sandpaper gruff.

She licked her lips, needing the moisture. "Hmm...I could be better."

He didn't protest as she pushed against his shoulder, tipping him onto his back at the border of the blanket.

The worst of her desire had been sated, the sharp edge now gone. But she knew it would build quickly again, stoked higher by the realization that what she'd experienced had only been a taste.

She felt free. With him. Free to explore and embrace a side of herself she'd denied for far too long.

Giddy with the excitement and power, she leaned down into his body, trailing kisses down his chest and ribs. She enjoyed the stuttered stop of his breath whenever she touched a sensitive spot. The way his stomach muscles strained tight as her fingers tickled across the skin there.

A tiny pearl of moisture leaked from the tip of his penis, shining brightly in the darkness. She wanted to lick it, to taste him, to discover whether he was sweet or salty, smooth and powerful.

His hand clamped around her shoulder, trying to reverse their positions.

She looked up into his smoldering eyes and felt an answering fire burn brighter inside. "Let me."

"No. Let me." With a suddenness that knocked speech from her brain, he flipped their positions so that she lay once again on her back and he knelt at her side.

Openmouthed kisses traced down her inner thighs, tickling and teasing a path of destruction. He bent her knees up and pulled her wide open, exposing her to anything he wished to do. His breath kissed her skin just before his tongue laved her clit.

She bucked at the sensation, wanting more. He tortured her senseless, driving every thought but the need he created from her mind.

One thought struggled through, as she moved closer and closer to another orgasm, another one alone. This was not what she wanted.

Grabbing his head, she jerked hard, knowing if she didn't get his attention now in another minute it would be too late. "Stop," panted out between broken breaths.

He immediately backed away—which was both good and bad.

"No, Chris. I want you inside me. Please."

He stared down at her, and for a brief moment she was afraid he might refuse.

"Condom?" The single word burst from his lips.

"Top drawer by the bed."

With a haste she applauded, he disappeared for a few moments before quickly returning with several pale-blue packets he dropped to the floor.

"You are so beautiful. I can't deny you anything."

His eyes staring deep into her own, he slipped inside, filling her more than she'd ever thought possible. Something had been taken from her that night so long ago—not a piece of her soul, but a piece of her femininity, her sensuality. Her trust in the sexual side of her being. She'd suppressed it, denied it. Tonight Chris was giving it back.

He waited for several moments, for protest, panic, fear, she wasn't sure. It didn't matter. She allowed him that peace of mind.

They were centimeters apart, his blue eyes full of swirling gray and green, with an edge of anxiety she should have been the one to feel. But she didn't. Not now.

Her chest ached, right at the center of her heart. Chris had stepped out of his element, out of himself, to do this for her.

She owed him so much.

He began to move, slowly at first, deliberate strokes that touched a sweet spot deep inside. She was so close, driven by him and the flood of desire she'd held back for so long.

Her body pulled tight as ripples started deep inside, small at first, but quickly growing larger and larger. They consumed her, taking over, body, mind and soul. A keening cry exploded from her lips—joined almost immediately by a growl of pleasure from Chris.

A single tear rolled down her cheek and into her hair. Not a tear of sadness, but of joy.

Through the pulsing convulsions and the contracting muscles, Karyn registered one thing that amazed her: Chris murmuring words in her ear. Not words of love, but of safety and comfort. "No one will ever hurt you again. I swear. No one..."

She hadn't needed them, but he'd offered them in case she had.

"SONOFABITCH."

What had he done?

Precisely what he'd feared he would do—let his dick take over instead of listening to his head. And Karyn had been the one to pay the price for his lapse in control.

His body flushed hot then cold at the memory of that single tear rolling from the corner of her eye. He wanted to hurt someone, but he feared the asshole who deserved a beating was himself.

Chris breathed out and stared into the bedroom he'd just carried Karyn into. She'd murmured and smiled before rolling onto her side and drifting back to sleep. She looked so peaceful.

So why did he feel like hell?

Chris made a circuit of the cabin, rubbing at a tight spot in the center of his chest. Prowling through the living area, he checked the front windows, the door, the breakfast nook, more for something to do than anything else.

But surprise filled him when he reached the far wall. The last window sat half an inch open.

It hadn't been, earlier tonight. He knew because before he'd left her alone, he'd checked them all. He'd felt it his responsibility.

He stared at the open space, his mind moving a mile a minute. It hadn't been her imagination.

Several hours had passed since Karyn had screamed. Plenty of time for whoever had broken in to disappear. Chris jerked up the window, stuck his head out and looked around anyway.

No one.

Damn it! He slammed the window back down with a resounding bang. While he'd been losing his head, skipping several important steps and making love to Karyn, the man who'd scared the hell out of her had been getting away. He'd honestly thought it had been her imagination. But he should have checked just in case.

Now the man, whoever he was, was long gone.

Chris furiously flipped the lock on the window shut. A hollow feeling echoed through his stomach when he didn't hear a telltale click like the other windows had made.

He hadn't noticed it last night, but then he'd been a little preoccupied. He'd turned the lock and assumed it had caught like all the others.

A man had been inside Karyn's bedroom staring at her while she slept, reaching for her in the dark. Chris's mind flashed to the memory of her standing before him, the white sheet puddling at her feet.

And wanted to double over with the guilt. He'd hadn't protected her.

She'd been alone and vulnerable and he'd let a madman inside. And she had come to him for help and instead he'd left her crying.

He turned his back to the window and looked through the open doorway into Karyn's bedroom. Moonlight, so pure it was white-blue, fell across the foot of the bed. He could see her, standing there, one hand wrapped tightly around a post, staring back at him.

Her face, peaceful in the glowing darkness, held none of the fear he knew it would in a few moments.

She was breathtaking. And he was about to shatter that tranquility. But he had to tell her. She needed to know.

He crossed to her. The urge to reach for her was there, in fact, he couldn't remember wanting anything more. But he didn't. He had no idea what her reaction would be.

"Karyn—"

"I thought you had gone." The words were not an accusation, but rather a simple statement that heaped one more log of guilt to the already flaming fire.

"No." But she might wish he had. "It wasn't a nightmare."

"What wasn't?" She licked her lips, her gaze roaming from his face, across his chest and down.

"A side window was open. The man was real. He was inside."

Her eyes jerked up. A host of emotions flew across her face before settling on anger.

"I'm so sorry, Karyn—"

"Damn it. I attract them like flies."

He didn't expect that it would help but..."I don't think he was after you." If he'd had rape in mind, the intruder would have still been here when he'd run inside. "But we do need to call the police."

"What for? Is something missing?"

"No, but..."

"Look, I really don't want to deal with that tonight. They can't do anything. He didn't steal anything or hurt me."

"He broke into a rental cabin. What if this isn't the first time? We should report it."

"Tomorrow. Right now I want to go back to bed." She looped her arms around his neck and leaned into him. The cold shock of her skin had him sucking in a breath. Her nipples tightened and scraped through the hair on his chest to the skin beneath.

He should have pulled back, put space between them. But he didn't.

"We'll go to my cabin. I'll sleep on the couch."

"No. You won't."

His blood churned, thick and molten. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't stop himself from reaching for her, from wrapping a hand beneath the long length of her hair and holding on so she wouldn't disappear.

"I saw the tear, Karyn. We moved too fast. You aren't ready for this."

"That had nothing to do with the past and everything to do with you." Moving closer, she brought their mouths together, infusing the connection with longing and joy. "I was happy, Chris, not sad or scared."

He stared down at her, the knot in his chest turning and writhing into a raw ache that scared him spitless. He cared. He cared too much.

"I told you everything tonight." Her hand covered the ache, easing what she didn't even know was there. "More than I've shared with anyone. And in return you set me free. I don't regret a moment. Thank you."

He didn't know what to say.

## 12

HE SCOOPED HER into his arms and she squealed. Whatever she'd expected it hadn't been that. Her protests grew louder as he headed for the door of the cabin instead of the bed.

"Where are you going? Put me down!"

"To my cabin. We're not staying here."

"I'm naked."

"And it's two in the morning. No one's outsi—"

His voice trailed off and his brows slammed together in a frown. Spinning on his heel, he headed back in the direction they'd just come, deposited her gently to the floor and said, "Grab what you need. We'll get the rest in the morning."

She quickly pulled on a turquoise negligee, simply because it was on top. He wouldn't even let her grab some shoes, again insisting on carrying her the few yards to his place.

At his cabin, she had a quick look around. The knickknacks and personal touches were different, but the general layout was the same. One big, open room and a bedroom toward the back.

Her focus zeroed in on the large four-poster bed.

Chris didn't disappoint her because that's exactly where he headed, laying her down on the fluffy surface and then joining her there.

But instead of reaching for her, he pulled the covers over them both, turned onto his side and wrapped his arm possessively around her waist.

Not what she wanted.

She wiggled out of his hold, turning to face him. "What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep."

"Um, no you're not."

A teasing smile played at the corners of his lips before he squashed it.

"Maybe you should take your own advice, Dr. Desire."

"What advice would that be?"

"Listening to your partner."

"Hmm...I don't hear you saying much."

Their first time together had been heavy with purpose. This time there was a lightness that also helped to heal her soul. This was for them both.

"Then you're not listening closely enough."

She threw a leg over his hips, straddling him. The slippery silk of her nightgown bunched around her thighs, but left the core of her body deliciously open. She settled her sex against his burgeoning erection, enjoying the feel of him close to her. He'd pulled his sleep pants back on earlier, and once again they were the only thing standing between her and unbelievable pleasure.

But she wasn't in a hurry, not this time. Now was for savoring.

One hand slid along his chest while the other reached between their bodies. She slipped her hand inside, filling her fist with as much of him as she could hold. Every smooth inch registered in her brain. She couldn't see what she held, but could close her eyes and remember.

Her fingers flexed slowly up his shaft, one heartbreaking squeeze at a time. She enjoyed the sensation, the exploration. The way his breath caught and held. She rocked against him, caressing a groan from his throat.

Her body moved in time to the caresses. She counted the seconds with each throbbing pulse at the base of his neck. His hands wrapped around her hips, digging hard and pulling tight. The slippery fabric slid beneath his hold.

Bunching it in his hands, Chris skimmed it up her body. The chilled fabric and his hot grasp combined to send goose bumps raging across her skin.

His knuckles brushed the curve of her breasts, tantalizingly close to the pouting centers. He nudged the underside of her arms, asking her silently to let go. She did, but only for the second it took to pull the turquoise material over her head and throw it away.

Cool air touched her naked skin. The soft cotton between her legs abraded her thighs as she shifted against him. His muscles bunched; she enjoyed their coiled power. Right up until he surged forward, knocking her backward onto the bed. Air whooshed out of her lungs at the impact of his hard body settling over hers. The sensation startled her and alarmed her a little. But then her body went soft beneath his, sinking into the mattress with a melting sigh of pleasure.

His mouth traveled her body, leaving a moist trail of fire wherever he touched. They lay diagonally across the foot of the bed. Her feet hung off. It didn't matter. What did was the mind-numbing assault he waged against her lips. His hands massaged her breasts, stroked her stomach, dipped down into the slippery cleft of her sex, arousing her with hard and fast strokes.

She reached into the loose waistband of his pants, slipping them over his hips, filling her hands with the tensed curves of his ass. Her fingers played in the dimples at the sides there, loving the contrast between his lean perfection and her slightly fleshy backside.

He stood to remove this one last barrier, giving her another look at his distinctly male perfection.

"Okay?" He stared down at her. She couldn't believe he was still unconvinced after their bout of sex on the floor. But he wasn't. And she almost resented him bringing the moments she was trying to forget back into theirs.

She tried to understand his need for reassurance. He simply wanted to make sure she was fine. Why should that upset her?

"No."

His eyes widened and his abs rippled. His hands curled into fists and he started to move away.

"I need you closer."

With a sighing groan he stepped back to her, but before he could kneel at her side, she reached a hand out and stopped him. She was at the perfect height, the perfect angle, to really study him.

She leaned toward him, running a single finger down his length from tip to base. She'd read books, watched movies, had sex as a teenager. She wasn't completely unfamiliar with the sexually aroused male. However, she was new to Chris. To the way he reacted to her touch, the way he jerked against her hand.

Her mouth watered, her lips plump and swollen. Everywhere he'd felt hard, rough...male. But here—she darted her tongue out, touching it to the tip of him and licking away the bead of moisture there—he was smooth, hot and strangely sweet.

She opened her mouth to take him inside, the desire to experience that part of him with her tongue and teeth difficult to ignore. Why should she?

The groan that echoed through his chest reverberated deep inside her own body. She enjoyed the way he filled her mouth and throat, felt her own sex weep at being left bereft of that same sensation.

He let her play for several minutes before pulling back on a ragged breath. "You need to stop."

Scooting back on the bed, she opened her arms and said, "Then come here."

He reached for her, drawing her up off the bed and plundering her mouth in a kiss that left her mind totally blank. He buried his hands deep in her hair, pulling her to him, pulling her tight. She relished the warmth that surged up at his touch; there was something entirely intimate and familiar about it.

His fingers slid inside her, testing. Once, just one experience with him, and the sensation was as familiar to her as her home. Her body pulsed, throbbed and tightened around him, searching for more.

She urged him toward the ache deep inside, spreading her legs wide. And as he slipped into her the barest inch, Karyn thought no matter what else happened, this moment was worth any price she'd pay, now or later.

Heat, throbbing pleasure and a blinding ache centered at her sex, shattering her entire focus. The sensation of him, hot and hard, filled everything.

She wrapped her legs around his waist. "More."

For once he listened, sliding completely inside with one long, controlled thrust that locked their hips tight. Her body stretched around him.

Reaching for him, she savaged his mouth with her own, putting every ounce of her liberation into the experience.

He moved inside her, slowly at first, but quicker, faster, harder as dug her heels into the backs of his thighs and urged him on. Everything vanished but the pleasure and friction of him deep inside her, making her shudder. A burning ache consumed her. The drive for fulfillment thrust her hips higher and higher.

"You're incredible, do you know that?"

Her muscles clamped around him. The spiraling edge of release grayed the boundaries of her sanity, sucking her into an alternate universe where only she and Chris existed. "I don't need words, Chris. I need you."

His pace quickened into a frenzy of passion. A ball of tension pulled at the small of her back, arching it farther than she'd ever thought it could go. Pleasure infused her senses.

His teeth scraped her nipple, and that simple action vaulted her into oblivion. But even as her own release burst through her, somewhere in the back of her mind she waited.

Her body clamped around him, the feel of him deep inside already reassuring and familiar. His guttural groan sounded in her ear. He thrust into her once, twice, three times before rearing back. Through half-closed lids she watched the power of his release, and knew she'd never experience a more perfect moment.

"HOW WAS THAT?"

Chris wasn't normally the type to need affirmation over his sexual performance. He'd done it enough times to recognize when a woman had been satisfied.

Karyn had found satisfaction, no doubt.

But there was more at stake for her than simple sexual gratification. Which was why he found himself asking the inane question.

"Amazing."

He couldn't help the burst of relief. "You're okay. No...worries?"

He walked a fine edge between assuring himself she was okay and bringing up memories neither of them wanted sharing their bed.

"I'm fine, Chris. Really. The only thing wrong right now is that you're interrupting my afterglow."

She said it with such a straight face he couldn't help but laugh.

"All right. I get it."

He pulled her into his arms, covered their naked bodies with the sheet and enjoyed the feel of her head against his shoulder. Predawn light teased at the window, but he didn't want to let it in. They had a few hours to enjoy the warmth of a shared bed before their day would begin.

His hands played with the ends of her hair. She sighed, the tiny tickle of her breath stirring across his chest. Her eyes drifted shut.

And his mind replayed every moment.

He hadn't meant to take things this far tonight. But she seemed fine.

He had a moment's guilt before he let her even breaths wash it away. Everything had worked out. Karyn had gotten what she'd wanted. He'd enjoyed amazing sex for the first time in months, longer if he admitted the women he'd slept with lately hadn't truly held his interest.

Unfortunately, Karyn held more than his interest. Because even as she dropped into a deep sleep beside him, Chris came to a startling realization. While his mind was still trying to figure things out, his body had taken over, dropped his defenses and left him open and vulnerable.

Karyn was like no other woman he'd ever met—brave, confident, beautiful and stronger than she realized. In fact, her quiet strength reminded him more and more of the mother he'd watched waste away and die with nothing but a smile to combat the fear.

Karyn was everything that had been missing from his life, everything his mother would have wanted for him. And he had no idea how to deal with her, or the unfamiliar emotions she stirred inside.

"WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD."

Karyn groaned, pulling the covers over her head against the too-cheerful sound.

The litany of incoherent mutters that grumbled through her buried lips became a shriek as the covers flew away and cold air doused her naked skin. Before the comforter and blanket could hit the floor, she was bounding out of the bed.

"What the he—"

Chris stopped the words in her throat with a breath-stealing kiss. By the time he let her up for air she was nowhere close to cold.

"That was mean." Karyn buried her face in the center of his chest and took a deep breath. Dirty tricks aside, there was something entirely pleasant about waking up with this man to warm her.

"I thought you were a morning person."

Glancing over his shoulder, she took in the nice, big numbers on the bedside clock. "That requires more than three hours of sleep, Dr. Desire."

"Sorry. Couldn't let you sleep the day away."

"I can think of a couple of nicer—" her lips curved into a mischievous smile against his skin "—ways you could have woken me up."

"Yes, but if I'd done that, we'd never have made it out of that bed."

Karyn rolled her head up, peeking at him through her half-shielded eyes. "What's wrong with that?"

Standing there, with her arms tucked between their bodies, his wrapped around her waist...it was amazing how quickly things could change. A month ago she'd never thought to experience this moment, the morning after, with anyone. And now it felt so right.

"Nothing. But it's our last day here and I didn't want you to miss all the fun."

Karyn's body tightened beneath his hold. It was Sunday. This afternoon they would head home. She had work. He had a show. She tried not to let the disappointment spoil the happy moment.

"All the more reason to stay in bed."

With a wicked grin, she reached for him, realizing that once again he was fully clothed while she had not a stitch on.

Ever evasive, he moved out of her grasp. "I have a surprise." Clasping her wrists and holding them uselessly over her head, he pulled her back against him. "I planned this before we came and I'd really hate for you to miss it."

"A surprise?" Her eyes widened in little-girl delight. She always had loved surprises. She just hadn't experienced any good ones in the past several years.

His smile said everything she needed to know. Her happiness pleased him—and that touched her.

"Wear jeans and sturdy shoes."

"Mmm, sounds romantic."

Chris nibbled at her lips. "It will be." He wanted to take the kiss further; she could feel his muscles tensing with arousal and recognized the sensation stirring in her own body, as well. It would be easy to do it—to open her mouth, her body, her soul to him.

But she couldn't do that. Not if she wanted to survive the moment they said goodbye.

Besides, she'd miss the surprise.

"Are you going to let me go so I can get dressed or are you gonna keep me wrist-shackled to you for the rest of the day?"

Chris's eyes turned hot as he took a measured step backward. His gaze raked across her body, every naked inch. She tingled, a slow, rolling burn that started in the pit of her stomach and fanned out.

"While the idea is appealing, and the view spectacular, I think it might be difficult to ride that way."

"Ride? Didn't we do that yesterday? I'd much rather stay in bed and ride you."

His eyes darkened and smoldered at her words. She loved the way they turned the colors of a roiling, smoke-filled sky when he was aroused. And she loved the knowledge that she could cause that change.

"Hot-air balloon. We're going to have a picnic."

## 13

KARYN'S BREATH CAUGHT at the sight below them. The world looked small and insignificant, so different from way up here. She could see for forever. It was everything she'd imagined, beautiful, calm and exhilarating.

But sharing those moments with Chris made them so much more.

He wrapped his arms around her as they looked at the slow-moving scenery beneath them. Her heart would jump at the startling sound of the burner or the terrifying height as he urged her to lean over the edge of the basket and look down. Each time, almost as if he could feel the reaction inside her, Chris had done something to distract her—brushed a hand against her breast, kissed the nape of her neck, whispered wicked innuendos in her ear.

It hadn't taken her long to realize part of the reason he held her so tight was to hide his gigantic hard-on from the pilot—a man who probably already thought they were lecherous newlyweds after all the groping and kissing.

By the time they landed, she was on the verge of exploding. The chase crew had driven Chris's SUV along with their truck. After helping them deflate and load the balloon, they experienced a ballooning tradition—having champagne dumped over their heads. Still laughing, they waved the pilot and crew away.

"I'm sticky." Karyn turned to Chris, accusation in her voice. "Did you know about that?"

"Maybe." Going to the back of the truck, he pulled out two towels, a blanket and a humongous picnic basket.

When he held out one towel, she snatched it from his hand and frowned, although she couldn't hold the expression for long. The day was simply too perfect. This morning she'd had sex, and now she'd lived out a childhood dream.

Couldn't get much better than this.

Karyn rubbed futilely at her arms, then her head to try to blot the dripping champagne from the ends of her hair. "This isn't going to help much. I might be dry, but I'm still sticky."

A startled sigh escaped out as Chris's tongue snaked a line across her exposed neck. "I can help with that."

He grabbed her around the waist, backing her tight against his erection.

"We're out in the open here, Chris. Anyone can see us." For heaven's sake, the ballooning people had just left. What if they'd forgotten something? They could come back at any minute.

Chuckling, he picked her up, rolling her around like a rag doll until he held her against his front, one arm at her back, one beneath her knees.

"There's no one here but us. Trust me—I grew up about thirty minutes away. I used to spend my summers up here, running wild through the fields, fishing in the creeks, building forts in the trees."

"Sounds like a great childhood."

"There were moments."

His voice held no conviction. In fact, she recognized the underlying tinges of anger and pain. She'd heard them in her own voice just last night when she'd talked about her rape. It had never occurred to her that perhaps Chris hadn't had the ideal life, either.

He had everything, money, fame, fans; he seemed to be comfortable and happy...

She opened her mouth to ask, wanting to know what had caused him pain, but before she could, he silenced her with his lips.

It didn't take long for his mouth to take her under, for his kiss to block out the world, for the ever-present heat to explode into a fire that took her breath away with its intensity.

Minutes later a loud rumble erupted between their bodies, pulling them out of that all-consuming daze. With a sheepish look down, she glared at her tattletale stomach.

"Food first." Chris nipped at her neck. "Then sex."

They ate quickly. She barely tasted the food he'd brought, only interested in sating one hunger in order to fulfill another.

Shoving leftovers out of the way, she crawled across the blanket straight for Chris.

Her body hummed, a pleasant sensation that had been her constant companion all morning. Reaching for her, Chris tucked her against his side and rolled them both to the ground.

The grass had started to brown and fade, losing its summer lushness to the unrelenting heat. They'd spread out beneath the shade of a large oak tree, hoping the branches would give them a little relief.

At the moment, the heat she felt had nothing to do with the August sun. And the relief she wanted had little to do with shade. What she did need was to be rid of the hot, clinging denim.

As if reading her mind, Chris unsnapped her jeans and pulled them from her body. The stiff material and silk panties beneath peeled off in a single sticky mess, leaving her with nothing to do but sigh at the liberation.

Her shirt and bra came next, followed quickly by his clothes. An unusual breeze kicked up, taking some of the oppressive heat with it.

Not that Karyn had felt it, anyway. The only thing she was aware of was the comfortable, heavy weight of Chris above her body. The long length of his erection nudging gently at the opening of her sex. The perfect way he filled her.

A storm kicked up, inside and out. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but she ignored it. They'd be leaving soon. This might be their last time together, nothing would take it away.

What if Chris was the only man who could make her feel this way? It was only an afternoon shower, and a little rain never hurt anyone.

He pushed them both to the edge, holding back to prolong the erotic pleasure. Karyn's muscles bunched, she could feel them tighten in anticipation of letting go. She held on, willing back the explosion, wanting every last second of bliss.

A single drop of water plopped onto her leg. Her eyes popped open at the surprising sensation. She looked up into a swirling sky, bright blue warring with dark gray, and couldn't hold back anymore. It reminded her so much of Chris's eyes right as orgasm took over.

She stared up into him as pleasure, pain, fear and love rolled around inside her. Her body convulsed with the power of her release even as Chris bucked above her in his.

Her heart pounded hard and fast, the booming thunder nothing compared to the sound in her ears. This time there was no sensation of peace, no feeling of finally breaking through that barrier. This time there really was fear...just not from the past.

She didn't want to let him go. No matter what she'd promised him, a few more hours, days, even weeks, weren't nearly enough. Would never be enough.

In that one moment of weakness, words slipped out that she hadn't meant to say. "I don't want to go home."

A BOLT OF LIGHTNING ripped open the sky, and the rain poured. They were soaked in minutes, puddles of water collecting in the seats and floorboards of his SUV when they finally made it there.

Even as the day darkened and the rain came down, the air around them thickened with humidity—and tension. Karyn's words hung between them.

It was difficult to breathe against the band tightening his chest. He was so far out on a limb here it wasn't even funny.

He didn't want to return to reality, either.

He'd done what she asked, cured her sexual inhibitions, shown her there was absolutely nothing wrong with her sex drive. And now the thought of her sharing those moments with another man, of him touching her skin, kissing her mouth, sliding home deep inside her body, made him want to snarl.

He'd never cared in the past, had never been possessive of any woman who'd shared his bed. They were free to do as they pleased, and so was he.

Karyn was different. She was his, damn it. And that scared him to death.

The urge to brand her, to mark her, surged up with a primitive force he couldn't ignore.

Turning, his sopping jeans squeaking a protest against wet leather, he grasped her by the waist, lifted her bodily from the seat and pulled her tight into his lap. Despite having just made love, his need for her hadn't slackened. In fact, it raged higher and hotter than he'd ever thought possible.

His fingers bit into her arms. Her eyes went round with shock before melting into deep, dark pools of chocolate lust. His cock jerked as her body melted, too, flowing against him in wet, warm surrender. Her immediate response drew a growl from deep inside.

"Then stay. I want you to stay."

Grasping the back of her neck through wet, heavy hair, he pulled her head back, exposing her, making her vulnerable. His teeth grazed sharply down her throat. She sighed and closed her eyes in abandon.

"Okay."

It was possibly the single most erotic thing he'd ever seen, complete and total surrender, red curls rioting down her back, T-shirt soaked through with rain, dark pink nipples drawn tight and hard with chill and desire.

She smelled of wet grass and tasted of heaven, a sweet, fresh sip of renewing growth.

And he wanted more.

"Damn these car makers. Who needs ten cup holders?" She shifted her body, drawing her knees up tight against his, bringing her denim-covered sex in full contact with his straining erection. "That's better."

No. It wasn't. It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

Ripping the soggy shirt from her body, he threw it into the floorboard beside them.

Wrapping his arms around her, he brought them flush together once again and pulled in a deep breath for the sheer joy of the sensation. The feel of his chest rising and falling against hers sent a thrill of sensation rushing down.

Her skin was rain cooled and soft. The tiny, tight points of her nipples thrust against his chest, making it ache, making him ache. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.

"At least the rain washed off the champagne. That stuff was sticky."

"Maybe, but I hadn't finished licking it off. I got distracted."

She laughed, the sound twanging his chest before reverberating lower.

"Then lick the rain."

And he did, inch by excruciating inch. By the time he finally reached her nipples the water on her body had evaporated into steam. With a flick of his tongue, he took several lapping licks before pulling one tight peak into his mouth.

She gasped at the tug of his teeth.

She writhed against him, riding the ridge of his erection and driving them both insane.

The jeans, they had to go. Pushing her up on her knees, Chris fought the wet denim until they finally bunched down her thighs. It probably would have made things easier if he'd taken the time to pull them off completely, but the throbbing at the apex of his thighs wouldn't wait.

She didn't seem to mind. In fact, she was busy herself, tearing at his own zipper. She had him freed in seconds flat, and before he could utter a word, dropped back down, taking him fully inside.

The jolt of her seared through him. He was buried straight up to her womb.

With a drowning groan, Chris wrapped his arms beneath her rear, changing her angle, holding her tighter.

So close. He was so close. But he didn't think he could hold back much longer, not when she felt so perfect.

He rained kisses over her chest, the sides of each breast, the valley between. Licking, biting, urging them both on.

He couldn't move, stuck between her and the unforgiving seat at his back. He wanted to, wanted to drive hard and high against her, to lose himself inside her and simply let it all go.

Grabbing the damp leather behind his head, Karyn levered herself up and off. His muscles convulsed at the agonizing loss of her wet heat.

He knew what she was doing, prolonging the pleasure, but at the moment he didn't care. What he wanted was to feel every squeeze of her muscles milking him dry as she flew apart around him.

Grasping her hips, he leaned her into the steering wheel and slid back home.

Her body immediately bunched around him, a prelude to the explosion to come. And even as the smallest ripples broke through her body, a sound, the complaining, intrusive sound of the car horn, echoed through his brain.

He ignored it as his own body jolted with release. He thrust inside her one last time, sliding from the crest of the wave, enjoying her tiny sigh of satisfaction as she fell limply back into his lap.

He gathered her close, tucking her head beneath his chin.

She was his.

KARYN WOKE SLOWLY, the realization that she wasn't alone seeping in with the early-morning light. She stretched, her arms brushing against warm male flesh as she went.

A bubble of contentment settled somewhere in the center of her chest and a half-formed smile tugged at her lips. Warm and cozy, she rolled against Chris, wanting nothing more than to stay right where she was all day.

"Good morning."

"Hmm." Too comfortable even to make the effort for one word, the sound died in the back of her throat.

He shifted beside her, his arm snaking around her waist, pulling her in tighter against his body.

They took their time drifting awake and when Karyn opened her eyes she found herself gazing directly into his.

There was a light, an intensity there that she hadn't seen before. And wouldn't see again. Today was it. In a few hours they'd drive home, he'd drop her at her apartment and she'd never see him again.

He'd fulfilled his promise. She was sexually whole. It wasn't his fault that when he left there would now be a new hole in her heart.

She swallowed hard and tried on a bright smile. It felt fake. She was afraid he'd seen through her attempt when he clamped his arms around her tight, and tucked them both back beneath the covers.

But he didn't say anything. Instead, they lay together, wrapped in silence and each other. Pleasure blended with misery as the feel of his hand stroking easily up and down her back made her heart ache and her body hum.

"Stay with me tonight."

His words surprised her, and sent a thrill of hope down her spine before she crushed it. Chris seemed almost as surprised by the words as she was.

"Why?"

"We can spend the day in town, head back to my place. I have a show tonight, but...you'll be there when I get back. We can pick up your car or I can take you to work in the morning. One more night to make sure my job is complete."

His blue eyes smiled down at hers, the gray and green flecks shimmering in the morning light.

She'd been right. He hadn't meant the offer the way she'd hoped. But she couldn't seem to stop herself from asking, "Just tonight?" And despised herself for the edge of need she heard in those two words.

"I've really enjoyed our weekend. I'm not ready for it to end."

Neither was she, but wouldn't spending the night with him just put off the moment when she'd watch him walk away? Was she being greedy? Asking for trouble? Tempting fate?

As if sensing her internal debate, Chris leaned across the space between them and pushed her with a deep kiss. It was an invasion of her mind and will because as he let her go she heard herself say, "Okay."

He rewarded her with another kiss. As his tongue plundered her mouth, her mind spewed rationalizations.

It would be fine. What was the worst that could happen?

## 14

THEY DROVE BACK late that afternoon, stopping for a quick bite at a roadside place along the way. Karyn knew their weekend was coming to an end, but she didn't expect the veneer of peacefulness she had wrapped around herself—thin though it might have been—to break almost the minute they walked through Chris's front door.

The abbreviated tour of his place, punctuated by stolen kisses and a brief bout of groping in the kitchen, came to an abrupt end in the back hallway when Karyn's heel crunched on shards of broken glass.

"Call 911 then get next door." Chris shoved his cell into her hand as he thrust her unceremoniously out the door. She couldn't decide whether to be pissed or scared because he hadn't joined her.

She'd just finished giving the operator what little information she knew when he came through his doorway. The tightness at the back of her throat that she'd been fighting to talk through eased.

"Damn it!"

Without even thinking about the gesture, she closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

"I'm so sorry, Chris. Was anything taken?"

Every muscle in his body was tense.

"Nothing of value. Just my toothbrush and some dirty clothes."

"Toothbrush? Clothes?" Karyn didn't understand.

"It was a fan. My number-one fan according to the lipstick message on my bathroom mirror." Raking a hand through his hair, he growled deep in the back of his throat.

"They're sending the police. They should be here shortly."

"No hurry. Whoever it was is long gone."

In a twisted version of déjà vu, Karyn sat next to Chris as two policemen questioned him. When she'd reported the rape, she hadn't liked being interviewed, being repeatedly asked to recall the details they'd needed. Watching Chris wasn't any picnic, either.

She read frustration in his eyes, on his face and in the way he clenched and unclenched his hands into fists.

Finally they left, leaving little comfort or hope behind. No prints. No evidence. Nothing much to go on. The cops did say they'd check with the neighbors, but Karyn didn't get the impression they expected to find anything.

It made her blood run cold. She'd never realized how exposed Chris was, how being Dr. Desire could touch every aspect of his life. He couldn't escape even here at home.

"You ready to go?"

She looked up into his eyes, a cloudy, unhappy blue. "Go?"

"I'll drop you home on my way to the station."

She'd heard him arguing with Michael earlier about whether the show should continue tonight as planned. Chris had obviously won.

"Why?"

"Because it's not safe."

"Chris, I'm fine. It's fine. Go do the show. I'll wait for you here."

"No. You—"

"You heard the police, whoever it was isn't violent. They just wanted a souvenir. I'll be okay. Besides, they'll be in the neighborhood if I really need them."

For the last two hours she'd watched Chris deal with the mess this person had left him. He spent his life working so hard to help others, to provide a place where they could ask questions and get answers in a safe environment. No, he wasn't bringing about world peace or putting an end to war. But he did try to improve people's lives. And in return his home had been vandalized.

In her heart Karyn knew it wasn't nearly the same, but part of her identified with the sense of violation he must be experiencing. She would not let this person, this inconsiderate and selfish idiot, take one more thing from him. Especially not their last night together.

He must have seen the determination in her eyes because after a few more attempted arguments, all of which she immediately shot down, he gave in, very reluctantly.

Checking—and rechecking—every lock on every door and window, Chris finally left. She stared down at the list of neighbor's phone numbers and felt a smile playing at her lips. If he was this concerned about her...what would he be like with a woman he truly loved?

Cutting the thought out because it hurt too much, she walked around the place, really seeing it for the first time since they'd come through the door. She recognized the unmistakable touches of a man's hand in the pool table located in the dining room, the deer head over the living room fireplace, the dark colors and the abundance of leather and electronics. But underneath that there was a sense of home.

And her heart ached because she knew some of that feeling of security would now be gone.

Unable not to look, she headed for the bathroom off the master suite. Smears of red with flecks of white dotted the silvery surface of the mirror, as if someone had scraped off the message with toilet paper, managing to spread the mess around more rather than wipe it away. But the words were gone, which was probably all Chris had cared about at that moment. She'd find some window cleaner and remove the remaining traces before he got home.

Looking around at the rest of the space, Karyn couldn't suppress a feeling of surprise. She'd expected something austere, almost cold, maybe chrome and glass, angles and sharp edges. Instead, a large, hand-tiled bathtub was centered on one wall beneath a large picture window. The dark colors had bled into here, as well, but beautiful marbled tiles of beige, burgundy and sandy-brown muted their effect. The space was pretty, relaxing.

God, that bathtub looked like heaven—that she could see herself sitting in it, waiting for Chris to return home from a show was not a good thing.

Stepping from the room, she picked up her purse, fished out her cell phone, turned it on and dialed Anne. She needed something else to think about.

"Where the hell are you?"

Her friend's greeting startled her. "I'm at Chris's place, why?"

"Because everyone and their brother seemed to be looking for you today and they all decided I was your keeper."

Karyn groaned. "I hope you didn't tell anyone where I was."

"You think I'm an idiot? One of the people asking for you was your boss."

"But I called him, told him I was taking a vacation day."

"Yeah, but he needed to ask you a question and thought I might know where you were."

"Oh, well, he'll get over it."

"Yeah, he will, but your mother might not."

"My mother? What does she have to do with this?" Even as she asked the question she knew she really didn't want to know the answer.

"Apparently she was looking for you, too. I had to do some pretty fancy footwork in order to convince her you weren't tied to the bed by some pervert."

Karyn closed her eyes and sagged against the wall. That's just what she needed, her mother in protective overdrive. "What did you tell her? Every single word."

Her friend's exasperated tone registered, but Karyn had more important things to worry about—like whether her mother was going to show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night.

"I told her that you'd gone out of town to relax and unwind."

On the surface that sounded pretty inconsequential—if she hadn't told her mother she was so busy at work she probably couldn't even get time off for Labor Day weekend. Oh, well, there wasn't much she could do about it now.

"Thanks for covering for me, Anne." Karyn tried to keep the slight edge out of her voice. It really wasn't her friend's fault that she'd unwittingly placed a land mine at her feet.

She supposed a trip home over Labor Day wouldn't be so bad.

"Will you be in tomorrow?"

She probably should go to work, but something told her she was going to need a day to rest and recuperate from the weekend. She hadn't gotten much sleep and she seriously doubted she'd be catching up tonight.

"Probably not."

"You want to tell me how things went?"

"Maybe, but not tonight." She wanted to keep the details to herself right now. She wasn't ready to share.

"Well, do me a favor and leave your cell on. I'm tired of being your secretary."

Karyn laughed, promised she would and hung up. Heading back downstairs, she went to find a radio so she could listen to Chris's show. If he couldn't be there with her in person, at least she could hear his voice.

A large, built-in bookcase occupied the entire length of the den. Stacks of books, racks of movies and CDs, several gleaming statues and knickknacks all shared the space along with the most high-tech audio system she'd ever seen. She was surprised, although why she wasn't sure. He did make his living on the radio.

She was almost afraid to touch it, but she played with switches, dials and buttons until his station's call numbers popped onto the digital display and rock music entered the room. Listening for a moment, letting the throbbing sounds soak into her skin, she began trailing her hands across the other things on the shelf.

She was about to turn away and explore more of his home when something stopped her. A book out of line with the others. Her eyes scanned down the spine, reading the words twice before she processed them: Sexual Abuse, Understanding and Recovery.

She stared at the dark blue letters on the silver spine. Pulling it gently from the shelf, she dropped onto the large leather sectional with a plop that echoed through the room. Opening the book, her fingers ran down the index page, registering chapter headings without really reading them.

She flipped through page after page, her fingers shaking, until she reached the end and several pieces of folded paper fell into her lap.

Karyn stared at them for several minutes before picking them up. Did she really want to know what they said?

Black letters, messy, scrunched, covered the page. She couldn't read some of the notes, the handwriting was that bad, but there was no mistaking the list toward the bottom of the page.

Step 1—Non sexual touches

Step 2—Personal sexual touches

Step 3—Mutual sexual touches with no intercourse

Step 4—Intercourse

Her heart squeezed. Steps. He'd devised steps for her. Drawn up a plan. Like a pet project. A flush of heat, a very unpleasant one, flew up her skin.

She flipped to the next page, skimming down, picking out a word here and there: "masturbate," "naked," "away."

Familiar theme music filled the room, snapping her attention from the paper and over to the stereo. Chris's voice followed swiftly behind. "I hope everyone had a wonderful weekend, I certainly did."

She'd been his weekend project. Most guys built bookshelves or changed the oil in their car. Apparently Dr. Desire had decided sex with the rape victim would offer a new, exciting challenge.

"We're in for an interesting night. We have several callers on the line with questions and stories to share. Stick around—it's going to be a wild ride."

Wild ride. She turned her focus back to the paper in her hand and continued reading—or trying to.

"Sharon from Georgia is on the line. Let's find that spark in your love life."

"Dr. Desire, how can I make a man commit? I've been dating the same guy for three years now, the sex is fantastic, we practically live together, but he will not propose."

"Sharon, I can honestly say this is the question women stop me on the street to ask most. There's a simple answer, but unfortunately no one likes to hear it. Men who want to commit do, the ones who don't won't. There isn't anything you can do or say. What you need out of the relationship is something he can't or won't give you. Get out."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then stop complaining, stop hoping and enjoy what you have. The question is are you happy with what's in front of you? If the answer's no, then leave."

Karyn's eyes zeroed in on that list.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, tears prickled the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away, tipped back her head and tried to hold them inside. The last time she'd cried, standing in a deserted courtroom, feeling foolish and betrayed, she'd promised herself she wouldn't ever cry again. Crying accomplished nothing.

And here she was, about to cry over her own stupidity. She'd known what would happen. She'd known her time with him would only last a few days. But she'd been brainless and, somewhere along the way, had left her heart open and vulnerable.

But she couldn't be mad at Chris. She was the one who'd broken the rules. Not to mention her promise. It wasn't his fault; he'd done precisely what she'd asked of him.

She'd been the one to fall in love.

While he was following some sexual instruction manual she'd let herself become emotionally invested. She'd lied, not only to him, but herself. And she'd bought her own story—hook, line and sinker.

She did want a normal life, husband, family, kids. But not with anyone. With him.

Karyn looked around his den, complete with brown leather, silver electronics, dead deer and navy blue walls. The place was a bachelor pad and always would be.

She couldn't stay. Her heart crumpled inside her chest. She saw the space around her, Chris stamped on every square inch. She could have fit in here, could see herself cooking him dinner in the kitchen, sleeping in his bed, listening to his voice through the speakers of that radio.

But that would never happen. Because he would never see her that way, as anything more than a weekend challenge. And the longer she stayed, the more leaving would hurt.

Karyn had always thought the night she'd been raped would be the worst of her life.

The tearing pain in her chest as she gathered her bags, wrote a note and locked the door behind her before calling Anne, couldn't compare to the humiliation, guilt and self-recrimination she'd felt five years ago.

This pain was so much worse.

DARRELL SAT IN A DARK CORNER of the station parking lot. He tried to ignore the edge of desperation that seemed to swim up every time he sat too long. He'd just spent his last dollar buying a cup of coffee at the place down the street. Bad coffee—and now he didn't have a single penny to his name.

Popping open his glove compartment, he stared at the dull black finish on the pistol he'd stashed there. It was a possession, one of many he'd thrown into a suitcase when he'd finally gotten access to his stuff. At the time he hadn't thought much about it.

But over the past few days a realization had niggled at the back of his brain.

He was Chris's sole living relative. If, and it was a big if, the boy didn't have a will—if some unfortunate accident happened—he'd inherit everything from Dr. Desire. He'd never have to fear being in this situation again.

Was he ready to take the risk—that he'd get caught, or that Chris would leave every possession to some bleeding heart cause like the local orphanage?

Slamming the glove compartment door home, he decided no. Not when he had a hunch he could play instead.

Hours of sitting in this damn car, waiting for any sign of his son and that woman, had left him plenty of time to think. He'd lost their trail the night he jumped from the window, his heart sounding a sickening thud in his ears.

Somewhere in the dark of night he'd realized something: his son had been hiding the girl in that secluded resort town. Why else would they have separate cabins? Dr. Desire wouldn't let a woman sleep yards away without an ulterior motive.

If she was that rape victim...it was the only thing that made sense to him. But he had no proof.

However, Chris didn't need to know that.

CHRIS WALKED OUT of the station into a dark midnight. There were few stars and only a sliver of moon to cut through the night. The parking lot was practically deserted, occupied mostly by the cars of the skeleton crew for the station. Michael had stayed behind, saying he needed to finish up a couple things before he headed home for the night.

Walking alone out here didn't bother him though. In fact, it offered him a moment to stretch his back, clear his head and anticipate what waited for him at home.

Karyn.

Several times tonight he'd thought about her. He'd had the urge to discuss a particular caller with her or get her opinion on his advice. The vision of her naked in his bed waiting for him, ready to help him unwind, had popped into his brain at the most inopportune moments.

His mind was halfway home before he even reached his car. Which was why when his father stepped out of the shadows he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Good show tonight, Dr. Desire."

Darrell smiled, but the expression reminded Chris more of a hungry shark than a proud father. He was really sick of the man popping in and out of his life. It might actually be worth a few thousand dollars to get him to crawl back under whatever rock he'd come from.

And then the memory of his mother, thin and pale against white hospital sheets resurfaced and killed that thought stone dead.

"You're really enjoying your success, aren't you?" Darrell stepped around the nose of Chris's Porsche to plant his butt on the hood and cross his arms over his chest. If anyone else had done that, Chris probably would have laid them out flat. But somehow he thought that was what his father wanted. Which was why he stood there with a raised eyebrow and a bored look on his face.

"It'd be a shame to lose all this, wouldn't it? The fancy car, nice house, fans, friends, fame. What about that little redhead? Would she be so interested in you without your money? That quick getaway? Fancy cabin?"

His father's eyes gleamed and Chris's stomach rolled. But he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of knowing he'd hit his mark. How did he know about the cabin?

He must have followed them. That was the only explanation. But if he knew about their trip to Morganville, what else did he know?

"I'm really not sure what you're talking about."

Darrell stood up. "Oh, I think you do. That pretty little redhead...Was her name Katy or Karyn? I can't remember which."

Chris felt a spurt of panic before he locked it back down.

"What do you want?" His hands shook with rage and fear as he slipped them into his back pockets.

Not fear of the man before him, but of what he could strip away. With one flippant move his father could take everything that mattered.

Karyn had been through so much already in her life. She'd endured the humiliation of having her worst nightmare relived and dissected on a regular basis by people who didn't care. He'd do anything in his power to prevent that from happening to her again.

After all those lonely years, he'd finally found what he'd lost when his mother died. He'd be damned if he'd let the bastard take Karyn away, too. And that's precisely what could happen if the media got hold of her story, of her link to him. She'd be embarrassed and angry and might think he'd sold her out for publicity and his show.

"What I wanted before—money. Only, now the price has gone up."

Chris seethed. His jaw clamped down so tight, the back of his head ached with the pressure. "How much?"

"Fifty thousand."

Chris couldn't believe he was even considering this. But in his heart he knew there wasn't a choice. Whatever his father wanted he'd give him.

It would kill Karyn to see herself, naked and vulnerable, splashed all over the newspapers and televisions. She'd run from one life, embarrassed and fed up with the intrusion. He'd promised her safety and protection. Fifty thousand dollars was a small price to pay in order to keep that promise.

"After tonight, I never want to see you again." Chris reached for the other man, hauling him physically up off the car. Their faces were centimeters apart. Chris dragged air into his lungs and fought back the desire to bury a fist into his father's face.

"Whatever you say."

"I'll write you a check."

"I want cash."

"I don't keep that kind of cash lying around."

"What assurance do I have that it's good?"

Chris gave a bitter laugh. "That I'm a better man than you."

Darrell shook his head.

"Take it or leave it."

The man stared at him, hard. The muscles in his arms bunched as if he were about to jerk away and leave. A bowling ball dropped into Chris's stomach as he feared he was about to be called on his bluff.

Instead, his father said, "Fine. Start writing."

He worked hard at not letting out a sigh of relief. Reaching for his wallet, he flipped open his checkbook and began to write. The rip of the check leaving the book echoed loudly through the deserted lot. He held the flimsy paper out, but instead of letting it go when Darrell grabbed the other end, his hand flashed out and squeezed the man around the throat.

"If you so much as think about breathing a word of what you know after you have my money, I'll kill you with my bare hands and drop your sorry ass off a cliff. No one cares about you. No one would ever miss you. Do you understand me?"

His father simply nodded, staring at him with the cold gray eyes so similar to his own.

Chris watched the man walk away, slip into his own red car and leave.

He stood still in the surrounding darkness. A moment ago his life had been great. Now his heart raced inside his chest and bile rose at the back of his throat. Had he done the right thing?

Yes. Yes, he had. He'd promised Karyn safety; he'd whispered those words to her during the most intimate, open moment of his life. He would keep that promise.

No matter what it cost him.

## 15

CHRIS WALKED into his house, his stomach still rocking and rolling from the encounter with his father. But it was over.

He'd taken his father's word. He hated to do it but didn't have much choice. Aside from killing the man where he stood—something Chris wasn't willing to do, much as he was tempted—he could never be certain.

"Karyn?" He called gently through the house. It was late, almost two in the morning, and if she had fallen asleep he didn't want to wake her. At least not yet.

He moved through his home, enjoying the golden glow of the lamp she'd left burning in the den. It was nice to walk inside and know someone—Karyn—was there waiting. It was a sensation he'd never realized he had been missing.

Walking down the long hall, he headed to his own bedroom. There were no lights burning here, but moonlight filtered into the hallway. He could imagine it falling across Karyn's sleep-warmed cheeks, the curve of her shoulder and the swell of her hip beneath his sheets.

Only she wasn't there. Not in his bed asleep, not in his bathroom soaking in a bubble bath, not in his kitchen, the den, even the laundry room.

She wasn't there.

He stared through the lamplight. The same light that just moments ago had been warm and inviting now seemed lonely and weak. She wasn't there. But she'd left a note, lying in the center of his coffee table, atop the book he'd turned to so many times over the past week.

He picked it up and stared at the curling letters of his name pressed into the pristine white envelope. They were neat, perfect and held a sense of strength behind the feminine hand. Damn it, they were exactly what he'd expected from Karyn.

His heart wanted to believe that she'd just decided to go home for tonight, had been too tired after their weekend to stay awake. But he knew.

That book told it all.

Pulling the single sheet of paper, he read the brief lines.

Thank you. You'll never know how much I appreciate all that you've done for me. I need to move on with my life. I can't do that with you.

Karyn

Chris stared at the last line and felt the bottom drop out of his world for the second time in his life.

"Can't do that with you." No, she couldn't. Not when he had to turn to a book for advice on helping her. Not when he couldn't even contain himself long enough to follow the steps that book had outlined.

He'd failed in everything she'd asked him to do.

And he'd failed in something even worse—keeping his heart protected. Keeping himself detached and uncaring. Karyn had wormed her way through his defenses. She'd made him care, about her, about what she'd gone through, about the woman she wanted to be, the woman he could already see.

Damn it! She couldn't be gone. He'd spent his entire life making sure no one mattered, that he didn't need anyone and that they didn't need him. He'd been so afraid of being disappointed...or of disappointing someone important. But Karyn had slipped through, with those damn golden-brown eyes and that serene smile.

And now that she'd gotten what she needed from him that was it? So long, farewell, don't let the door hit you in the ass?

The hell she would! She might think she didn't need him anymore, but she did.

He sure as hell needed her.

THE PHONE RANG, pulling Chris from a groggy sleep.

He'd spent half the night trying to find Karyn; she hadn't been at her apartment. She'd either refused to answer his calls or had turned off her cell. The only person in her life he knew was Anne, but he had no idea what her last name was or where she lived. He'd spent a couple hours driving around the area of her apartment, hoping to find something...her car, her friend, anything.

At about 5:00 a.m. he'd given up and come home. She'd eventually showed up—at home or at work. It really didn't matter to him as long as he could convince her she was wrong. She could forget the past. He was the only one who could help her do that.

"Hello." His heart raced with the hope that Karyn had changed her mind.

But that hope died away as Michael's voice drifted down the line.

"I'm sorry to wake you, buddy, but I think you need to know about this. I just got a tip that the news is running a story on you and Katy—er, Karyn—this morning."

"What?" That had the fog clearing from his brain in two seconds flat. "What are you talking about?"

"They have the whole story. Much more than I was even aware existed."

Chris heard the simmering anger in his producer's voice.

"I think you'd better get in here fast. Legal's in an uproar. Not to mention Heath."

Twenty billion things skated through Chris's mind. He was going to kill his father—because there was no doubt in his mind where the information had come from.

Karyn was going to have a conniption fit. He had to find her, explain to her, before this one story blew whatever chance remained with her. She'd think it had been him.

"I'm sure you guys can handle this. I have to talk to Karyn."

"She's a big girl. Right now you need to get in here and do damage control if you want to keep your job."

"At the moment, I don't give a shit, Michael. You save my job. I have more important things to worry about." Like how he was going to find her this morning when he couldn't find her last night.

"What time is it?" He blurted the question out as he ran his eyes over the room trying to find a clock. Didn't he own a damn clock?

"Eight forty-five. Why?"

She'd be at work. He'd start there.

And while he was at it, he'd stop payment on that check he'd written his lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch father.

DARRELL PULLED UP outside the bank branch. Whistling, he stepped out of his car, gave the middle-aged woman walking his way a million dollar smile and headed inside. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the check in his pocket was going to turn his fortunes right around.

He really hadn't wanted a check from Chris. But he'd taken it. Not only did he believe the boy didn't keep that kind of cash lying around, he seriously doubted his son had the balls to screw him over. Not and save the sensibilities of that pretty little redhead.

The story he'd sold to the newspaper wouldn't come out until tomorrow, the brunette barracuda of a reporter had promised him. He'd be long gone with the money by then.

The clerk's eyes registered surprise for the briefest moment as she looked down at the check he was trying to cash.

"Sir, do you have an account with our bank?"

"No. But the check's written on an account here." He knew they would be able to cash it. He'd actually tried a bank down the street, but they wouldn't handle it for him unless he opened an account.

"I'll need you to fill out some forms, sir, while we verify the account balance and I check with my branch manager on how we can pay this."

"Fine, fine."

Darrell filled in the blank spaces, using the old information still listed on his driver's license. The IRS could go after Virginia when he didn't report the funds.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we won't be able to cash the check for you." He looked up from the black-specked countertop to the dark-skinned woman behind.

"Why not?"

"A stop payment has been placed on this check."

Stop payment? What the hell had happened?

His no-good son had double-crossed him, that was what.

"That can't be right. There must be some mix-up."

"I'm sorry, sir, there isn't. According to our records, Mr. Faulkner called early this morning to place a hold on this check."

He didn't remember what he said or how he got out of the bank. His empty hands curled into fists as he sat in his Jag, the suffocating summer heat already seeping inside. They wouldn't even give him back the check so he could try and open an account down the street.

Darrell's gaze darted around aimlessly before settling on the week-old newspaper thrown haphazardly into the passenger seat beside him. He picked it up, staring at the image of his son and that little redhead. Karyn Mitchell. He remembered the address on the driver's license at the cabin. She'd be easy enough to find.

And Chris needed to pay.

"JUST A MINUTE."

Karyn pulled the warm, fuzzy bathrobe tighter around her body and jerked the knot to be sure. The pounding on her front door had been so loud she'd heard it all the way inside her bathroom, despite the closed door.

Something about the noise set her spine on edge. She looked through the peephole, but didn't recognize the older man with jet-black hair standing on her porch.

"Who is it?"

"Karyn? I'm Darrell, Chris's dad. I need to talk to you."

Chris's dad? She didn't even know he had one. He'd mentioned his mother, but never his father. She'd just assumed the man was either dead or not a part of his life. Just more proof that he had never seen her as someone important. She'd shared the intimate details of her worst experience; he hadn't even mentioned a father living here in the city.

She looked back through the peephole again. She did recognize a certain resemblance between the two men. The eyes were the same blue-gray mix, and the tilt of his head, the way he held himself with controlled confidence, that was so like Chris.

Shrugging her shoulders, she opened the door but didn't invite him inside.

"What's wrong?"

"Chris has been in an accident. The hospital called me, but they said he was asking for you. Get dressed. I'll take you."

The man moved so smoothly past her, she wasn't even sure how it happened. One minute her arm had been across the open doorway, the next it was at her side and he was standing in the middle of her entranceway.

Chris had been in an accident and was asking for her? Why? She knew he'd called her cell phone last night. She'd turned it on briefly this morning and seen his missed call.

At the time she'd wondered what he could possibly want. Not that it mattered at the moment, not if he was hurt.

"Give me a minute." She ran into the bedroom and began throwing on the first things she found in the closet.

"What happened? Why was he out? He usually sleeps later than this after a show."

"I'm not real sure. The hospital didn't give me many details."

That was bad, right? If he was seriously injured they wouldn't tell his father that over the phone.

She raced out of the bedroom, hopping on one foot as she tried to tie her shoe. "I'm ready. Let's go."

Looking up, midhop, she froze. Darrell, pointing the black barrel of a handgun at her, leaned against her front door. The gun looked humongous, although it probably wasn't any bigger than normal. She had just never seen one...pointed at her chest.

"What are you doing? We need to get to the hospital."

"Chris is fine. For now. In fact, I'd really appreciate it if you called him. Get his sorry ass over here."

"Wait. What? I don't understand."

"What's there to understand? That sorry sack of shit you're screwing cheated me out of some money he owes me. I'd like to get it back. So pick up that phone—" he motioned with his empty hand toward the kitchen counter "—and call him before something irrevocable happens."

Karyn slowly put her foot down onto the floor, careful not to step on the still-dangling laces she hadn't finished tying. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Everything. Are you going to call him over here or are you going to spend months in the hospital recovering from reconstructive knee surgery?"

Part of her brain wanted to believe this man, Chris's father, wasn't capable of something like that. But she'd been through enough in her life to know that people were often capable of more sinister things than she'd expect.

"Okay." She held up her hands to signal she was cooperating and walked across to her phone. "What am I supposed to say to him?"

"I don't care, sweetheart. Why don't you tell him to come fuck your brains out? I'm sure he'll be over here in a flash."

Karyn winced. "We're not sleeping together."

"Bullshit. Tell that lie to someone who believes it."

"We're not sleeping together anymore."

"Then I guess you better come up with some other reason to get him over here. Fast."

Her fingers shook as she dialed Chris's home number. She hated the sign of weakness, but knew her body was only reacting to the adrenaline spilling into her blood. When his answering machine picked up, she dialed his cell.

He answered on the first ring.

"Karyn? Where are you? We need to talk."

A tight band squeezed her chest, constricting her heart, and made her lungs difficult to inflate. She wanted so much to tell a lie, to send him somewhere his father couldn't touch him. But that cold black hole stared at her from across the room.

She looked up into the other man's eyes, so like his son's, but saw something there she'd never seen in Chris. Hate and a crystal-clear frenzy of panic.

If she didn't do what he wanted, she had no doubt he'd pull the trigger and she'd end up injured...or dead.

"I'm at home, Chris." Karyn's throat tightened as she tried to keep the tremor in her hands and legs from transferring to her voice. "Your father's here. He wants to talk to you."

"My father? Karyn, are you okay?"

She stared across at the other man, licked her suddenly dry lips and said, "No. He wants to talk in person."

"Karyn, I'm calling the police. Sit tight. I'll be there in a few minutes. Everything will be fine."

THE FIFTEEN MINUTES it took him to get from Karyn's office to her apartment felt like an eternity. He'd gone there looking for her, but had just found Anne when she'd called.

Cop cars bracketed the ends of her street and lined the spaces in front of her apartment. He'd expected chaos, noise, lights, sirens. Instead silence enveloped the entire street. There was a flurry of activity at one of the barricades. With a screeching halt that drew several stares, he pulled up next to it and jumped out.

He was halfway around a patrol car before someone reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"I'm sorry, sir. You can't go in there. We have a hostage situation."

"Hostage?" Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd hoped it hadn't been true, for both Karyn's and his father's sakes. "That's my girlfriend's house. What happened?"

"Someone fired a gun through the front window as an officer approached."

Chris's heart collided with the bottom of his feet. "No." He tried to push past the man who stopped him with a single hand.

He looked up into the burly cop's face and registered the other man's regret as he said, "I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you do that. We have a team circling the perimeter to assess the situation."

"Assess? I'll tell you the situation. My father is holding my girlfriend in there. Now let me go so I can get inside."

Instead of doing as he'd asked, the officer caught the attention of a couple of colleagues and nodded them over. "He's the boyfriend and son. Take him over there and keep him company."

Despite being pissed and scared shitless, even Chris recognized the order beneath his words, and don't let him out of your sight.

Time seemed to come to a blaring halt. Every minute passed like an hour and every hour felt like a day off his life. The sun came up, crested and started down. The officers brought him a sandwich and sodas. He didn't taste any of it.

Farther down the street, he watched as a congregation of news trucks, with large antennae and raised satellites, set up camp nearby. He listened with half an ear to one noon news update. Apparently, the entire state was glued to the hostage situation involving Dr. Desire's latest fling—who just happened to be the rape victim who'd called into the show several weeks ago—and his estranged father.

The story his father had leaked, probably before he'd written the son of a bitch that check, was now being reported by each and every station. Some of them got the details wrong, having gleaned their information from nothing more than the early-morning paper.

Some of them got it right. There was speculation about love triangles, jealousy, implied misconduct. He listened as his life and childhood, what details they knew, were dissected, Karyn's experience scrutinized.

At about two o'clock in the afternoon, Chris looked up from the cup of soda he'd been staring into for what felt like hours and realized the scene around him was an honest to God circus.

He could see the edge of Karyn's porch down the street and remembered their first date together, how she'd reached for him through the darkness and fear that night.

He'd promised to protect her. From the publicity that had ruined her life, from the memories that threatened to take the new one she'd built. He'd even tried to protect her from herself, slowing down her headlong rush to experience sex and life full force.

He hadn't protected her from a damn thing. Instead he'd led a small army of television crews right to her front door. Not to mention the fact that his obviously deranged father now held a gun to her head and threatened her life.

His stomach revolted at the image in his mind.

He'd promised to help her forget the single most devastating experience of her life. Instead, he'd brought her another one, one that might end the life she'd fought so hard to recover.

He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

"She'll be fine. She's strong."

He looked up to find Anne standing above him, blocking out the drooping August sun. He hadn't realized just how hot he'd been until the cool patch of shade slid over him.

"And he's mental. I should be in there, it should be me. I've tried several times, but they're watching. I don't get more than five steps before some well-meaning police officer has my arm in one hand and a soda in the other. If she lives through this, I'll never drink another one again."

"You love her, don't you?"

He took a large sip from the watered-down cup in his hand, the swallow catching on the large lump permanently lodged in his throat.

"More than I ever thought possible. Not that it matters anymore."

He was going to lose her, too. He felt the sinking sensation straight through to the center of his bones. He'd watched as his mother wasted away, cancer eating her from the inside out.

Only, this time, instead of living with the thought that he hadn't been able to do anything to help his mother, he'd be living with the knowledge that he was directly responsible for Karyn's death.

## 16

KARYN STARED AT DARRELL as he paced through her living room. Her butt was numb from sitting on the wooden floor for the last several hours, her back pressed tightly to the wall. It didn't matter. She'd sit here forever if it meant he wouldn't point that gun at her again.

She'd honestly thought her life would end the moment he'd realized Chris had called the police. Darrell had stalked across the room, grabbed a handful of her hair and pressed the hard barrel of the gun to her head. He'd ground it against her skin—the spot still throbbed. But he hadn't pulled the trigger. Not at her. Instead, he'd shot several times through the front window. She didn't think he'd been aiming at the cops, but...

The more she watched him, the less certain she was that he could do it. Kill her.

Yes, the man had issues, but was he a murderer? She didn't think so. But she also wasn't ready to test the theory with her life.

Her stomach growled loudly. She ignored it.

"Damn it! I'm going to kill that bastard son of mine. All I wanted was what he owed me."

Karyn had listened to the same refrain most of the day. She still wasn't exactly sure what he thought was owed him, and she didn't want to find out. If she just sat quietly in the corner, he tended to ignore her.

He'd spoken several times on the phone. She supposed with the police, maybe a negotiator. She didn't know for sure. At one time she'd heard him ask to speak to Chris, but she didn't think he had. She was beginning to hope he might have a stroke on her floor. He wasn't a young man, after all, and the vein in his neck bulged out farther than she thought humanly possible.

He mumbled to himself as he crossed back and forth in front of her. She watched his progress, never taking her eyes from the gun held firmly in his hand. If the opportunity presented itself...

The breath caught in her lungs as he swung suddenly to face her. He dropped onto his haunches in front of her, that menacing piece of black metal dangling between his open knees.

"What do you think?"

She swallowed through a dry throat. "About what?"

"I figure a few years in jail. Probably not worth killing myself over. Not like I actually hurt you or anything."

He stared at her with Chris's eyes and as she watched they took on a tight gleam. She recognized it as something akin to the desire Chris saw her with, only this had a sinister, manic tinge that set her skin crawling.

"What do you say?" He reached for her, running a finger over her cheek into the open vee of her T-shirt, caressing the top swell of her breast. She shivered in disgust, recognizing the cold edge of debilitating fear.

"I'll probably be going away for a while, why don't you give me something to remember?"

Her stomach clenched and she ground her teeth together, answering through them, "I don't think so." She would not show him the weakness of her underlying emotions.

His eyes narrowed and his lip curled up in a sneer. She couldn't believe that when he'd first walked into her apartment she'd thought him close to Chris in looks and mannerisms. This man was nothing like the one who'd done his best to help her.

Reaching beneath his shirt, Darrell pulled out something. From the back it looked to her like a torn piece of newsprint.

"Like son, like father, right? You've had the boy, now why not try a man?"

He flipped the photo into her lap. Her eyes left his long enough to watch it settle there. That was a mistake. She could have countered his assault—if she'd seen it coming.

Instead she was focused on a huge headline: Dr. Desire Accused of Misconduct in Relationship with Rape Victim Caller. Her stomach contracted then dropped about ten stories.

Before she could process the information, Darrell attacked her. His strong hands settled around her arms. Her heart thumped erratically, a band of fear constricting her chest. He jerked her sideways, trying to pull her flat to the floor. Her muscles tensed in automatic protest as she watched the paper fall through her legs to the floor.

And something snapped inside.

With every ounce of her strength, she kicked out as hard as she could.

The shock and the force sent him back a foot. His fingernails raked long trenches into her skin as he fell, trying hard to keep his grip.

She gathered her strength to kick again, but before she could connect with his chest, all hell broke loose.

People descended from everywhere, talking, yelling, falling on the man she'd just shoved away. She heard the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh. A yelp of pain and a metallic clink she assumed was handcuffs. It was a blur of motion she couldn't pull apart and all over in minutes, with not a single shot fired.

Someone—she had no idea who—bundled her into a blanket and whisked her away into the back of a waiting ambulance. She was minutes down the street when the shaking began, and she was thankful for the warm wool despite the August heat.

"THEY HAVE HER. She's fine." An officer rushed up beside them, spat out the words and then disappeared again.

Chris jumped from his perch on the curb and stared down the street. He barely had time to think before a flurry of activity caught his attention at the front door.

Karyn, whole, with no obvious signs of blood or trauma, was being rushed down her sidewalk to the ambulance that had been waiting off to the side the entire day. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and an officer on either side, but she appeared to be moving under her own steam.

A pit opened up in the bottom of his stomach, and he fought back the sudden urge to vomit. She was alive. Right now that was enough.

He was across the barrier—this time no one tried to stop him—and reached the ambulance just as they closed the doors on her and roared away.

"Where are they taking her? Where is she going?" Chris looked around expectantly at the knot of people. They all ignored him, seeming to have more important things to occupy their attention.

There was nothing more important than her.

"Where are they taking her?" He roared at the top of his voice. A sudden silence fell over the people around him.

"Brookwood."

"Thank you." He spun on his heel, intending to jump in his car and head straight there as fast as the damn thing would go. But something stopped him. Another commotion at the front door.

His father was the first one through this time, his arms pulled tight behind his back, several officers flanking the one who held the handcuffed hands.

Darrell seemed to zero in on him despite the people milling about. He sneered and made a move against the binding cuffs that prompted a quick jerk from the man holding him captive.

Chris saw red. He wanted to kill him.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

Anne's throaty voice stopped him.

"He isn't worth it."

She was right. But it still didn't help.

Karyn. She was what was important. He needed to get to her, make sure she was okay.

Somehow he made it to the hospital without being pulled over for a ticket. Any other time, he'd have been exhilarated to let the Porsche open up and fly. But that wasn't why his blood pumped ninety to nothing through his veins today.

He careened into the hospital, not caring that he'd taken a handicap spot. It was closest to the door and he'd damn well pay the fine.

With a sliding stop, he reached the nurses station. "Karyn Mitchell. Where is she?"

The nurse behind the opened glass looked him up and down, taking in the rumpled shirt and slacks he'd sweated through hours ago in the hot summer sun.

"Ms. Mitchell has asked for no visitors."

"But—"

"Unless your name is Anne, you're not wanted."

KARYN PUSHED HERSELF higher up on the sofa at Anne's duplex to get more comfortable. The tape over the gauze square on her arm pulled against her skin and the tiny hairs. With an exasperated sigh, she jerked the thing off. That hurt worse than the scratches did.

She supposed the emergency room staff had felt obligated to do something after keeping her there for several hours. They'd finally let her leave at around six o'clock after wrapping her arm. Her mom would have just used a couple of Band-Aids.

"Need anything?"

"Nope. Thanks for letting me stay tonight. I just wasn't ready to go home."

The thought of sleeping alone in her dark apartment had not been appealing. Neither had the constantly ringing phone or the swarm of people waiting outside for her when she'd stopped by to pick up some clothes.

"No problem. You know you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like."

She smiled up at her friend. It was a little shakier than she'd like, but it would get better.

"I'm fine. Honestly. I'm not hurt or even scarred for life. I'll get over it." Just not tonight.

Anne walked across her living room. Karyn had always thought the dark, dusky-rose carpet and the warm beige walls suited her friend to perfection. Only Anne could pull off this color scheme without it being too froufrou.

Her friend hit the switch on her stereo system just in time for Chris's voice to fill the room.

"I'd really rather not listen to his show tonight."

"You know he was there right? That he spent agonizing hours outside in the heat thinking he'd be responsible for your death."

"But he wasn't. So could you turn it off? Just for tonight?"

Yes, she'd known he was there, sitting vigil outside her house all day. She hadn't needed Anne to tell her that. She knew Chris, knew he would feel responsible for his father's actions. For bringing the man into her life.

Which was why she'd pushed him away. The nurses had thought she was stupid, not allowing Dr. Desire in to see her. But he'd only come to assuage his guilt, to apologize once again for intruding on her life.

The only problem was she wanted him to intrude. Not because he fought guilt and a sense of responsibility, but because he loved her.

But he didn't. And she couldn't trust herself to see him and be strong enough to push him away again. It had nearly killed her to do it the first time. An ironic smile touched the corners of her mouth. In more ways than one.

She looked up at her friend, pleading. Anne's eyes narrowed into bright green slits. "No. No, I won't turn it off." She took the harshness of her words away with a gentle smile.

Dropping back onto the pillow stuffed behind her, Karyn rolled her head against the arm of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

"You do realize it's over, right? I mean, it was only supposed to last for a few days, anyway. I was nothing more than a pet project to him. And I don't want another few days with him just because he feels guilty his father tried to kill me."

A launched throw pillow landed squarely on her chest. "You're so full of shit. I think you're just scared to open yourself up and let him in, only to get hurt."

Karyn tipped her head up and glared. "Hello, pot, I'm kettle."

Anne waved her hand and Karyn's words away. "We're not talking about me. We're talking about you. Do you love him?"

She dropped back down and closed her eyes. "Yes."

"Then you're an idiot. You've spent the past few years of your life afraid to take a chance, Karyn, afraid to make another mistake, to let yourself be vulnerable and get hurt."

So her friend was right. What did that change? Chris would break her heart. She was just limiting the pain.

"How's that working for you?"

"Up until Chris it was working just fine."

"Bullshit. Being sexually frustrated was so not working for you. He might hurt you—I don't think he will, but I can't promise you he won't. And neither can he for that matter. He might die in a car crash tomorrow. But wouldn't you hate yourself for missing today?"

Karyn glared over at her friend. "No, actually, I'd have been happy to miss today."

Anne walked to her, smoothed a cool hand over her forehead and brushed wisps of hair from her face.

"The pain's there, anyway, isn't it?"

She looked up into her friend's face and fought back tears. They'd both experienced their share of disappointment.

Before she could say anything, Anne walked away, leaving her alone with nothing but Chris's voice and the dark.

"Tonight we're starting the show a bit differently. I want to address what happened today. I will talk about this once, and only once, and never again. We will not be accepting any phone calls on the subject of Karyn, her past or what happened today."

The familiar shiver snaked down her spine as his voice filled the night around her. A part of her, a huge part, yearned to have him here, holding her tight.

"The powers that be want me to admit that I made a mistake to smooth everything over, as if saying I'm sorry will fix it all. It won't, partly because nothing will fix what happened to Karyn, but mostly because despite everything I can't regret what happened."

And neither could she. Yes, she'd been hurt, hearing his voice made the pain in her chest throb even harder. But Anne was right; spending the last few days with Chris had been amazing. She wouldn't trade them for anything, not even for the chance to erase today.

"I've spent the past five years talking about relationships, giving advice about sex, providing the male perspective on life and love. And I've been wrong. If I'm sorry about anything, it's that.

"I shouldn't have been giving anyone advice, because I had no idea what I was talking about—until I met Karyn."

Chris's words filtered through her pain. Her chest constricted with a band of hope that she tried desperately to cut herself free from. Hope only made it worse.

"She changed everything. She changed me. And I'm sorry for hurting her, for breaking a promise to her, for not protecting her when she'd entrusted me with more than her life, with her past, her soul and her secrets."

The band pulled tighter at her chest. Had she been wrong? Chris's words swirled in her brain. He certainly didn't sound like a man racked with guilt. Yes, it was there, but she also recognized the twin of her own pain in his words, in his voice.

"She asked me for one small thing, something that should have been easily given. And yet, I couldn't do it. For that I'm sorry.

"But I'm not sorry that we met. That she trusted me with a sexual experience that goes far beyond anything I've encountered before. I've never given everything of myself to anyone, I've never opened myself wholly. But she didn't hesitate—she trusted me enough to bare her soul and show me all she held inside.

"For that I am not sorry. I'm blessed."

Karyn's throat tingled and her eyes pricked with tears. Her lungs felt tight before that band finally burst and her heart swelled up to squeeze away space.

"I don't regret a single moment I spent with Karyn. I do regret that those moments were taken from her, tainted with something dark. And I regret that what happened was a direct result of my actions."

Karyn fumbled in the dark for her purse. Grabbing it from the end table behind her head, she hit the door at a run, rummaging for her keys and cell.

"Dr. Desire show."

"Michael? It's Karyn. I want to talk to him. But not until I get to the station."

"TAKE LINE-THREE first."

Michael popped his head through the connecting door at the tail end of the second break. Chris dropped bonelessly into his chair and let his pounding head fall back. It would be a miracle if he got through this night.

The intro music played. He took a deep breath and prepared to fake his way through the show. Tomorrow he'd be sitting down with the station to discuss the future. It was a meeting he'd called. If they couldn't find a way for him to live comfortably with both Dr. Desire and his conscience then he'd simply leave and figure out something else to do with his life. Life was too short to be miserable. And suddenly the security this job offered wasn't as important as it used to be.

Maybe he'd go back to school.

"Welcome to the show. How can I help find that spark?"

"I have a question, Dr. Desire."

A jolt of electricity shot down his spine. Karyn.

His eyes flew to Michael's in the window. His producer had the biggest, smuggest smile he'd ever seen.

It was contagious.

"What's your question?"

"I was listening to your show last night, to the caller who asked about getting her boyfriend to commit."

Chris wanted to groan. He remembered that call.

"So, you don't think there's a way to reform men afraid to commit?"

He had no idea where Karyn was going with this...His heart raced as he flipped the question over and over in his mind trying to figure it out. A sinking realization settled over him.

"Just last night, I said no, that women looking for commitment should steer clear of those men who are afraid of the word. But today something changed."

"Oh, yeah? What was that?"

"I realized I don't know what the hell I'm talking about." Her soft laugh echoed down the line and he wanted to yell his own joy.

"No, women shouldn't be unrealistic about their relationships, but they also shouldn't let a slick facade blind them against possibilities. Things can change. People can change."

"I'm really happy to hear that because I'm desperately in love with a man who is notorious for his reluctance to commit."

Chris swallowed past the lump in his throat at hearing her say the word. "Love?"

"Love."

"It changes everything. He has to fall in love."

"And did you?" she asked.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder.

One minute he'd been staring at the board in front of him, wishing he could wrap her in his arms. The next, she was there. So he did.

He shot up from his chair so fast the cord connecting his headphones practically jerked him back onto his ass. Throwing them to the floor, he crushed her to him before holding her away. His eyes raked every single inch, making sure she really was okay.

Once he was certain, he crushed his mouth to hers again with enough force to bruise. It didn't matter. She was here. Alive. With him.

With a shaky laugh she pulled back and asked, "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Fall in love."

"Absolutely."

Her eyes danced with happiness and mischief. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life making sure they always would.

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"You'll burn that book the minute we get home."

"Book?"

"Yeah." A single eyebrow arched high, she stared at him with a knowing gleam. "Sexual Abuse, Understanding and Recovery."

He cringed.

"If you want...but why?"

"Because we don't need it. We never did." With a soft kiss to his lips, she whispered, "You're the only thing I ever needed, the only thing I ever will."

## Epilogue

CHRIS PULLED HER beneath the surface of the lake. His hands trailed up her body from ankle to calf to thigh. One played rogue beneath her bathing suit as he pulled her face to his for an underwater kiss.

Surfacing minutes later, Karyn was light-headed from lack of oxygen and pleasantly giddy with desire.

Her gaze raked the shore, where her family had gathered to enjoy the long holiday weekend.

She was glad Chris had talked her into coming, into getting away. While the media frenzy had quickly died down, things were still a little crazy back in Birmingham.

At least they no longer had to worry about Darrell. At the moment he was rotting in some tiny little prison she hoped to God was very unpleasant. Even with everything that had happened, the man had still had the gall to ask Chris to post bail.

He'd delighted in declining.

She, on the other hand, had taken advantage of this trip to mend fences with her mother. Things were by no means perfect, but they were improving and that was all she could hope for. It would take time, but eventually they'd be fine. The fact that her mother approved of Karyn's choice in fiancés hadn't hurt, either.

Chris wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest and kicking them away to float together. She enjoyed the feel of him against her body—and the thick ridge nestled snugly at her back.

She angled her head and placed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Chris tipped them both back into the water, letting his hands graze over her breasts before settling at the juncture of her thighs. A gasp stuck in her throat as a single finger slipped deep inside.

"Chris."

Karyn jerked her head toward her family, all lined up on the beach, drinking, laughing, splashing in the shallows.

"They can't see. Trust me."

She did, with every last shred of herself. She knew with Chris she'd always be safe. But for both of them, safety was no longer what was most important. They had learned love would always be stronger than the fear.

## Flashback

## By Jill Shalvis

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON  
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG  
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID  
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

## 1

THE FIRE BELL RANG for the fourth time since midnight, interrupting Aidan Donnelly in the middle of a great dream in which he was having some fairly creative, acrobatic sex with a gorgeous blonde. The last thing he wanted was to be shaken awake, but apparently sex, imaginary or otherwise, wasn't on his card for the evening.

He was on the last few hours of a double shift from hell. The loudspeaker mounted in one corner of the bunk room was going off, telling him and his crew that they would not be going home in one short hour after all, but back into the field on yet another emergency call.

Putting the blonde back where she belonged, in the file in his brain labeled Hot Erotic Fantasy, Aidan got up to the tune of a bunch of moans and groans from his crew.

So close. He'd been so close to three desperately needed days off....

Across the room Eddie kicked aside the latest issue of Time, which had an entire company of firefighters on the cover. "A lot of good being the sexiest occupation does us," the firefighter grumbled, "when we're too exhausted to take advantage of it."

"Some of us don't need beauty sleep." This from Sam, Eddie's partner. "Like, say, Mr. 2008 here." He slid a look Aidan's way, but Aidan found himself too tired to rise to the bait.

Through no fault of his own, he'd been named Santa Rey's hottest firefighter for 2008. This dubious honor came along with another—being put on the cover of Santa Rey's annual firefighter's calendar. "I told you, I didn't submit my name."

Eddie grinned in the middle of dressing. "No, we did, Mr. 2008."

Aidan gave him a shove, and Eddie fell back to the mattress, snorting out a laugh as he staggered upright again and grabbed his boots. "Yeah, like being that pretty is a hindrance."

"I am not pretty."

No one answered him in words as they pulled on their gear, but several made kissy noises as they headed toward their rigs. Still groggy, and definitely out of sorts, Aidan took the shotgun position next to Ty, his temporary partner, on loan from a neighboring firehouse, since his usual partner Zach was still off on medical leave.

Eddie and Sam grabbed their seats, as well as Cristina and Aaron, another on-loan firefighter, and they were all off into the dark night—or more accurately, the dark predawn morning—following the ambulance, which had pulled out first. The air was thick with dew, and salty from the ocean only one block over. For now the temperature was cool enough, but by midday the California August heat would be in full bloom, and they'd all be dying. Aidan got on the radio to talk to dispatch. "It's an explosion," he told the others grimly.

"Where?" Ty asked.

"The docks." Which could be anywhere from the shipping area, to the houseboats filled with year-round residents. "Only one boat's on fire, but several others are threatened by the flames, with no word on what caused the explosion."

Behind him, Eddie swore softly, and Aidan's thoughts echoed the sentiment. Explosions were trickier than a regular fire, and far more unpredictable.

"Are they calling for backup?" Sam asked.

They needed it. Firehouse Thirty-Four was sorely overworked and dangerously exhausted going into the high fire season. They'd had a rough month. Aidan's partner and best friend Zach had been injured after digging into the mysterious arsons that had plagued Santa Rey. Mysterious arsons that were now linked to one of their own.

Blake Stafford.

Just the thought brought a stab of fresh pain to Aidan's chest. Now Zach was off duty and Blake was dead, leaving them all devastated.

Cristina was especially devastated, and with good reason. She'd been Blake's partner, and the closest to him. She'd suffered like hell over his loss, and also over the arsons he'd been accused of committing.

She blamed herself, Aidan knew, which was ridiculous. She couldn't have stopped Blake.

As it turned out, none of them could have stopped him.

Aidan considered himself pretty damn tough and just about one-hundred-percent impenetrable, but losing Blake had been heart-wrenching. He missed him, and hated what he'd been accused of. He didn't want to believe Blake was dead, and he sure as hell didn't want to believe Blake guilty of arson, and the resulting death of a small boy—none of them did, but the evidence was there. He could hardly even stand thinking about it—classic denial, Aidan knew, but it was working for him. "Dispatch's sending rigs from Stations Thirty-Three and Thirty-Five."

No one said anything to this, but they were all thinking the same thing—it'd take those stations at least ten extra minutes to get on scene from their locations—and the sense of dread only increased as they pulled up to the docks.

Turned out that the fire wasn't at the shipping docks, but where the smaller, privately owned boats were moored at four long docks, each with ten bays. Possibly forty boats in total, many of them occupied.

Chaos reined in the predawn. Their senior officer was usually first on scene, setting up a command center, but he was coming from another fire and was five minutes behind them. The sky was still dark, with no moon, and the visibility wasn't helped by the thick plumes of black smoke choking the air out of their lungs. Flames leaped fifty feet into the air, coming from a boat halfway down the second of the four docks. Aidan took a quick count, and his stomach tightened with fear. There were boats on either side of the flaming vessel, and more on the opposite side of the dock.

Not good.

As they accessed their equipment and laid out lines, three police squad cars tore into the lot, followed by the command squad, all of whom leaped to work evacuating the surrounding docks. Aidan and company needed to contain the flames, but the explosion burned outrageously hot. He could feel that mind-numbing heat from a hundred feet back. With the chief now on scene, barking orders through their radios, Aidan and the others moved with their hoses, their objective to keep the flames from spreading to any of the other boats. They were halfway there when it came.

A sharp, terrified scream.

The sound raised the hair on the back of Aidan's neck, and he dropped everything to run toward the burning boat, Ty right behind him.

The scream came again, clearly female, and Aidan sped up. No one knew better than a firefighter what it was like to be surrounded by flames, to have them lick at you, toy with you. It was sheer, horrifying terror.

They had to get to her first.

Behind them came Sam, Eddie, Cristina and Aaron, directing water on the flames to clear Aidan and Ty's path down the dock toward the boat. Twenty feet, then ten, and that's when he saw her. A woman standing on the deck of the burning boat, wobbling, the flames at her back.

"Jump!" he yelled, wondering why she didn't just make the short leap to the dock—she could have made a run for safety. "Jump—"

Another explosion rocked them all. Aidan skidded to a halt, spinning away and crouching down as debris flew up into the air to match the intensifying flames. The chief was shouting into the radio, demanding a head count. Aidan lifted his head and checked in as he took in the sights. The boat was still there. With his heart in his throat, he searched for a visual on the woman—

There. In the same spot she'd been before, still on the deck but on the floor now, holding her head. Goddammit. He got to his feet, took a few running steps, and dove onto the boat.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he landed next to her. "It's okay." He dropped to his knees at her side to try to get a good look and see how badly she was injured, but the smoke had choked out any light from the docks and she was nothing but a slight shadow. A slight shadow who was hunched over and coughing uncontrollably.

"The boat," she managed. "It k-keeps b-blowing up—"

"Can you stand?"

"Yes. I—" She let out a sound that tugged at his memory, but he pushed that aside when she nodded. She got up with his help, twisting away from him to stare up at the flames shooting up the mast and sails. "Ohmigod..."

He pulled her closer to his side, intending to jump with her to the dock and the hell off this inferno, but several things hit him at once.

The name of the boat painted across the outside of the cabin, flickering in and out of view between the flames.

Blake's Girl.

No. It couldn't be. Then came something of far more immediate concern—the rumbling and shuddering of the deck beneath their feet. "We have to move."

"No. No, please," she gasped. "You have to save the boat."

"Us first." He couldn't have put together a more coherent sentence because of all that was going through his head. Blake's Girl...

Blake's boat. God, he'd all but forgotten that Blake had owned a boat.

Then there was the woman in his arms, facing away from him, but invoking that niggling sense of familiarity. There was something about her wild blond curls, about the sound of her voice—

The warning signals in his brain peaked at once. In just the past thirty seconds, the flames had doubled in strength and heat. The deck beneath their feet trembled and quivered with latent simmering violence.

They were going to blow sky high. Whipping toward the dock he got another nasty surprise—the flames had covered their safe exit.

On the other side of those monstrous flames stood Ty, Eddie and Sam, hoses in hand, battling the fire from their angle, which wasn't going to help Aidan and his victim in time. Cristina was there, too, with Aaron, and even in the dark he sensed their urgency, their utter determination to keep him safe.

They'd so recently lost one of their own; there was no way they were going to let it happen again.

"Ohmigod," the woman at his side gasped, staring, as if mesmerized, at the sight of the flames closing in on them.

She wasn't the only one suddenly mesmerized, and for one startling heartbeat, Aidan went utterly still, as for the first time he caught a full glimpse of her.

He knew that profile.

He knew her. "Kenzie?"

At the sound of her name on his lips, uttered in a low, hoarse, surprised voice, her head whipped toward his, eyes wide. Her wavy blond hair framed a pale face streaked with dirt and some blood, but was still beautiful, hauntingly so.

She was Mackenzie Stafford, Blake's sister. Kenzie to those who knew and loved her, Sissy Hope to the millions of viewers who watched her on the soap opera Hope's Passion.

She was not a stranger to Aidan, but not because of her television stardom. He knew her personally.

Very personally. "Kenzie."

"I can't—I can't hear you."

People never expected fire to be noisy, but it was. The flames crackled and roared at near ear-splitting decibels as they devoured everything in their path.

Including them if they didn't move, a knowledge that was enough to pull his head out of his ass and get with the program. Old lover or not, he still had to get her out of there alive. But she was looking at him through Blake's eyes, and his heart and gut wrenched hard. There was maybe twenty feet of water between Blake's Girl and the next boat, which was starting to smoke as well, and would undoubtedly catch on fire any second. It didn't matter. They had no choice. "Kenzie, when I say so, I want you to hold your breath."

"D—do I know you?"

He wore a helmet and all his equipment, and in the dark, not to mention the complete and utter chaos around them, there was no way she could see him clearly. Still, he had to admit it stung. "It's me, Aidan. Hold your breath now, on my count."

"Aidan, my God."

"Ready?"

"The boat's going to go, every inch of it, isn't it?"

Yep, including the few square inches they were standing on. In fact, it was going to go much more quickly than he'd have liked. Since they couldn't get to the dock, it was into the ocean for them, where they'd wait for rescue.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "There's got to be another way."

Unfortunately there wasn't, and he quickly stripped out of his jacket and gear because the protection they offered wouldn't be worth the seventy-five pounds of extra weight while treading water and holding up Kenzie to boot. At least she was conscious. She didn't appear to have on any shoes, or anything particularly heavy on her person, all of which were points in her favor. "On three, okay? Remember to hold your breath."

"I don't think—"

"Perfect. Go with that. One—" He nudged her in front of him, pushing her to the railing.

"Aidan—"

"Two—"

"Are you crazy?"

"Three."

"Hell, no. I'm not going into the—"

He dropped her into the water, and she screamed all the way down.

## 2

KENZIE HIT THE ICY OCEAN, and as she took in a huge mouthful of water, she realized she'd forgotten to hold her breath, a thought that was completely eradicated when Blake's Girl exploded into the early dawn.

In the brilliant kaleidoscope, she barely registered the splash next to her, or the two strong arms that came around her, supporting her as flying pieces of burning debris hit the water all around them.

Aidan. My God, Aidan...That it was him boggled her mind. She tried to remind him that she could swim on her own, but the shock of the cold water sapped both her voice and the air in her lungs, and also hampered the working of her brain.

She'd never experienced anything like it. Never in her life had she been so hot and so frozen at the same time. The heat came from the flames, so high above them now that she was in the water, but no less terrifying. And yet, an icy cold had taken over her limbs, making movement all but impossible, weighing her down, sitting on her chest, sucking the last of the precious air from her overtaxed lungs.

Someone was screaming, and Kenzie envied their ability to draw air into their lungs because her own felt as constricted as if she had a boa slowly squeezing the life out of her.

The scream came again.

Huh?

It sounded sort of like her.

And then she realized, as if from a great distance, that it was her screaming, which meant that somehow she was breathing. Okay, that was good. So was the man holding her in the water, tucking her head against him, shielding her from the pieces falling out of the sky at his own risk. Without him, she'd have gone down like a heavy stone and she knew it.

"Shh," he was murmuring. "I've got you. It's okay, Kenzie, it's going to be okay...."

She was hurt, but not so hurt as to stop the memories bombarding her at the sound of his voice. How could she not have instantly recognized him?

He was the first man who'd ever broken her heart.

He'd ditched his helmet and she could see his face now. He didn't look happy to see her, and honestly, on that point, if he hadn't been saving her sorry ass, they'd have been perfectly in sync. "Aidan." She could see the fire reflected in his eyes. Blake's Girl was really blazing now. "My God, we almost—"

"I know." His short, dark hair was plastered to his head. Water ran in rivulets down his face, which was starkly pale. His long, inky-black eyelashes were spiky, and he had a cut above one eyebrow that was oozing blood. In spite of all of that, she had the most ridiculous thought: wow, he looked good all fierce and intense and wet.

Aidan Donnelly, first real boyfriend. First...everything.... She could hardly believe it, certainly couldn't process it, so she craned her neck, staring at the boat that looked like one big firecracker. "It just blew, and I—"

"Kenzie—"

"—I mean one minute I'm sitting there missing my brother, and the next..."

He looked into her eyes, his cool and composed. "It's going to be okay, but I need you to—"

"And it blew. I was just sitting there, surrounded by his things, missing him, and then boom. My Choos are probably halfway to China by now. I really liked those Choos."

"Kenzie," he said in a tone of authoritative calm. "I need you to listen to me now. Can you do that?"

She could take a gulp of air. But listening? The jury was still out on that one. Her ears were ringing. And the water was so damn cold. In fact, she was shaking and hadn't even realized it, shudders that wracked her entire body and rattled her teeth.

"Hold onto me, Kenzie. That's all you have to do, okay? Just hold onto me."

Right. Hold onto him. She'd grown up here in Santa Rey, and once upon a time she'd held onto him plenty. She'd held onto him, laughed with him, slept with him...

Actually, there'd never been much sleeping involved between them, a thought which brought an avalanche of others. Him fresh out of the firefighters' academy and possessing a body that had made her drool, not to mention the knowledge of how to use that body to make hers go wild...

But that had been what, six years ago? Hell, she could barely think, much else handle any math at the moment, so she couldn't be sure.

He was towing her out, away from the boat and any danger of falling debris, while shouting something to two firefighters on the other side of the burning vessel, both of whom had hoses on the fire.

She'd been in a fire before. On the set of her soap opera, Hope's Passion, before it'd been cancelled. But that was under carefully controlled circumstances. This wasn't a TV show with lines for her to follow. This was the real thing, with no makeup department standing by to color in pretend injuries, dammit.

She'd have loved a script right about now, with a happy ending, please.

At least she was still breathing.

Hard to beat that.

Blake's Girl hadn't gotten so lucky.

Neither had Blake. Oh, yeah, there was the familiar rush of pain, slicing right through the numbness from the cold water, lancing her heart—the pain that had been with her since she'd learned Blake was dead. Making it worse, adding confusion and anger to her grief was the fact that he'd been accused of being an arsonist and murderer.

God, Blake...

Another chunk of burning debris fell from the still flaming boat, and she imagined it was something of Blake's, something she'd never see again. Or maybe it was her own suitcase, or her laptop, which wasn't a big loss in the scheme of things, but it held the scripts she'd been writing...

At least if she died, she would no longer be a freshly unemployed soap star.

It was so damn ironic—she'd never been able to come home when Blake had been alive because she'd been too busy working. Then days after he'd died, her soap had been cancelled. Now she could drive up all she wanted, and he was gone.... Her first trip home in forever and it had been to see after his things, things that were now smoldering in the water around her.

"Don't give up on me," Aidan said. His eyes focused ahead on where he was swimming to, some point invisible to her. It was too dark to see their color clearly but she knew them to be a light brown with flecks of green that danced when he laughed.

He wasn't laughing now.

Nope.

He glanced at her, then resumed swimming straight and sure, moving them away from the flames, which also meant away from any warmth, while she did as he'd asked and just held on. She could do nothing but. Like old times...

Why did it have to be him, the guy who'd crushed her heart, stomped on her pride and then walked away from her without a backward glance?

Did he hurt over the loss of Blake?

Did he believe the lies?

Because that thought, and all the others that came with it, came close to defrosting her, she shoved them aside. The blessed numbness was working for her. She hadn't come to Santa Rey in the past six years, but Blake had visited her in L.A. on the set, whenever he could, and on top of his visits, they'd been in frequent contact by e-mail, texting and phone calls, and had remained close despite their physical distance. He was the only family she'd had.

And now he was gone.

Forever gone.

"Kenzie? You still with me?" Aidan's lean jaw was tight with tension and was scruffy, as if he hadn't had time to shave in a day or two. Or four.

"Unfortunately." She'd like to be anywhere but "with" him. She could feel his longer, stronger legs moving, bumping into hers, and it made her irrationally mad. She didn't want help, not from him, but when she wriggled free to prove herself fine, she went down like a stone. Straight beneath the surface of the icy water, where she promptly did the stupid thing of opening her mouth to breathe and got a lungful of extremely cold salt water for her efforts.

Thankfully, she was immediately hauled back up again and pulled against a hard chest, one hand fisted in the back of her shirt, the other arm across the backs of her thighs in a grip that could have rivaled Superman's.

Firefighter to victim.

Not ex-boyfriend to ex-girlfriend.

And wasn't that just the problem? Once upon a time he really had had her, only he'd been the one to let go. He'd done it, he'd said, because of their respective careers and because he didn't like hiding their relationship from his friend Blake, but she knew the truth. It was because he'd decided she'd been falling in love with him and he hadn't been ready for love, so he'd shooed her away and had moved on.

She'd hated him for that for a good long time, for not giving himself a chance to feel what she'd felt, and, yeah, he'd been right—she had been more than halfway in love with him. It'd taken a while, but eventually her anger had drained, and she'd acknowledged that he'd been right to break it off with her before she'd gotten even more hurt.... But that hadn't eased her pain at the time.

Maybe she should consider herself lucky they were doing this reintroduction in an official capacity—him on the job, and her being just one in a blur of people he rescued. Less personal.

"Stop fighting me." His voice cut through the shocking noise of the night: the sirens, the shouting of the other firefighters and personnel, the ever-present, horrifying crackling of the flames, the small waves smacking into each other, waves that would be cresting over her head if it wasn't for Aidan's holding her with what appeared to be little to no effort. "I've got you."

"I don't want you to have me."

"Okay, roger that. But at the moment you don't have a choice."

"Of all the firefighters in this damn town..."

She thought she caught a flash of a grim smile. So he was no more thrilled than she was. He wasn't even looking directly at her, his attention instead focused on the boat behind her, and the dock behind that, reminding her that not only was he saving her hide, he was simultaneously looking for other people who needed help.

"I was alone on the boat," she told him.

"What were you doing?"

"Saying good-bye to Blake."

Sorrow, regret, and anguish all briefly flashed in his eyes. "Kenzie—"

"He didn't do those things you're all accusing him of, Aidan."

She had his attention now, all of it, and she'd forgotten the potency of having Aidan Donnelly giving her one-hundred-percent of his focus. "He didn't."

"Did he say something, anything to you at all, before he died?"

Died...Hearing the words from his mouth made Blake's death all the more real, as did being back here in her hometown, and it hit her hard. Throat so tight that she couldn't speak, she shook her head. No, Blake hadn't said anything at all, which made her feel even worse. "It wasn't him who set those fires. I know it."

"Kenzie," he said very gently, but she didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear anything he said, so she shook her head again and closed her eyes, which brought an unexpected and horrifying sense of vertigo, making her clutch at him. "I want out."

"I know. They're coming for us right now."

That was good. Because something was definitely wrong. Her vision was getting fuzzy. Her brain was getting fuzzier. Scared and a little overwhelmed, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her nose to his throat, the position hauntingly familiar and at once flooding her with memories.

She'd been here before.

Okay, not here, not in the water, freezing, scared, but she'd been held by him, had pressed her face against his warm flesh and inhaled him in, absorbing the way he held her close, as if he'd never let anything happen to her.

He smelled the same, a scent she'd never quite managed to forget, and it was messing with her brain in spite of the fact that she'd just survived an explosion, a nighttime swim in the freezing ocean, and an uncomfortable reunion with the one and only guy she'd ever let break her heart.

Dammit. She blamed Blake. Blake...

"Kenzie." Aidan gave her a little shake. "Stay with me now."

No, thanks...

"Open your eyes," he demanded. "Come on, Kenzie. Stay awake, stay with me."

As opposed to giving in to the delicious lethargy slowly taking over? Nah... "Too tired."

"I know, but you can do this. You can do anything, remember?"

She nearly smiled at the reminder of her own personal motto, but then remembered who was talking. Yeah, she'd once believed that she could do anything, with him at her side.

He'd proved her wrong.

Oh, boy. Her eyes were closing. It'd be so easy to let them, to just drift off and not feel the cold anymore, but even in her fuzziness, she knew that was bad, so with great effort, she pried her eyes open.

And her gaze landed on him. The last time she'd seen him, she'd been so young. They'd been so young. She'd just turned twenty-two, been signed by a Los Angeles agent, and had landed her first small walk-on role. He'd been two years older, fit and gorgeous, and on top of his world as a young firefighter.

Plastered against him, her hands clenched on his biceps, her legs entwined with his, her chest up against him the way it was, she could feel that he was still fit.

Very fit.

And thanks to the flames and also the spotlights from the guys on the dock keeping track of them, she also knew that he was still gorgeous. If he hadn't cut her loose without a backward glance, she'd be happy to see him.

Very happy.

A group of firefighters had made their way through the flames to the end of the neighboring dock, and had secured it with criss-crossing lines of water. One of them leaped into the ocean, and with long, sure strokes swam toward them.

"Here," he called out to Aidan, holding out an arm for Kenzie.

"I've got her," Aidan said.

But Kenzie had had enough, of Aidan and his capable, strong arms, of his scent and especially of the memories. So she reached out for the second firefighter, going into his arms without looking back, arms that had never held her before, arms that didn't know her, arms that didn't evoke the past.

Even though she wanted to, she wouldn't look back.

## 3

BY THE TIME AIDAN HAULED himself out of the water, Ty had handed Kenzie off to the EMTs. Dustin and Brooke took her away from the flames and straight to their ambulance.

Good.

Chilled, drenched to the skin, Aidan made his way through the organized mayhem to his rig, where he stripped down and pulled on dry gear, the questions coming hard and fast in his head.

What the hell had Kenzie been doing there? Odd timing, given that in all these years, she'd not shown up in Santa Rey, not once. At least that he was aware of. Blake had never mentioned any visits, but then again, why would he? He'd had no idea that Aidan had dated his baby sister, and then walked away rather than engage his heart. They'd never told him, knowing he wouldn't have liked it.

Nope, Kenzie hadn't been back, not even for Blake's memorial service, and yet suddenly here she was, on Blake's boat, a boat that just happened to blow sky high once she'd set foot on it.

Odd coincidence.

During the time the two of them had been in the water together, the sky had lightened. Dawn had arrived. The chief had put an explosives team in place, and had a plan to contain the fire. Aidan needed to get back into the thick of it, but first he had to see Kenzie and make sure for himself that she was okay. She'd had a head laceration and multiple cuts and wounds, and that had been before he'd tossed her into the water.

He looked through the horde of people working the flames—Eddie and Sam, Aaron, Ty and Cristina, plus the guys from Thirty-Three, all on hoses and past the explosives experts surveying the still burning shell of Blake's Girl to where the ambulance was parked.

Kenzie was seated at the back of the opened rig between Dustin and Brooke. She was dripping everywhere, her clothes revealing what he already knew, that she was petite and in possession of a set of mouthwatering curves that had gotten only more mouthwatering in the past few years. She wore layered tees, the top one pink, ribbed and long-sleeved, unbuttoned to her waist, the one beneath white with pink polka-dots, opened to just between her breasts, both soaked through and suctioned to her body enough to expose her bra, which was also pink, lace and quite sheer.

He'd been a firefighter for years and he'd rescued countless victims, many female, some of whom had been as wet as Kenzie, and never, not one single goddamn time, had he ever stopped in the middle of a job to notice their breasts.

It was his first clue that he was in trouble, deep trouble—but when it came to Kenzie, that was nothing new. He chose to ignore his observation for now, for as long as he possibly could. His gaze dropped past her shirt with shocking difficulty, to a pair of button-fly jeans low on her hips, also dangerous territory because he'd always loved her legs, especially how bendy they could get....

Don't go there.

She shoved her hair out of her face, which still looked far too pale, even a little green, although that didn't take away from her beauty. Once upon a time she'd been a gorgeous study of sexy, frou-frou feminine mystery to him.

Some things never changed.

As if she felt his gaze, she looked up, and from fifty feet, between which were other firefighters, equipment and general chaos, she found him.

Between them the air seemed to snap, crackle, pop.

Six years ago, the thought of a long-distance relationship had been as alien to him as a close-distance relationship, and he'd told himself he had no choice but to break things off, even though that had really just been an excuse.

He'd broken things off because she'd scared him, she'd scared him deep. And apparently, given the hard kick his heart gave his ribs, she still did.

She'd been able to get inside him, make him feel things that hadn't been welcome, and, yeah, he'd run like a little girl.

He felt like running now.

But this time it was Kenzie who turned away. Dustin unfolded a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, while Brooke checked her pupils, then dabbed at the various cuts on her face.

Kenzie sat still, eyes closed now, looking starkly pale but alive.

Alive was good.

She huddled beneath the blanket, cradling a wrist, nodding to something Brooke asked her. Aidan knew that Brooke and Dustin, both close friends, would take good care of her. They took good care of everyone, which meant that Kenzie was in the very best hands.

Still in the thick of the organized chaos around him, Aidan took a second to let his gaze sweep over her. She really did seem as okay as he could hope for, and he told himself to turn away.

He was good at that. After all, he'd learned to do so at a young age from his own family, who'd shuffled him around more than a deck of cards on poker night. Yeah, he was good at walking away. Or at least good at pretending he didn't care when others walked away from him.

And after all, he'd done the same to her.

God, he'd been cruel to her all those years ago. Not that he'd meant to be. Going through the academy had been a life lesson for him. He could belong to a "family." He could make long-lasting friends. He could love someone with all his heart.

But loving his fellow firefighters like the brothers they'd become was one thing.

Loving Kenzie had been another entirely.

Since she'd left, he'd seen her only on TV. As a rule, he didn't watch soaps. He didn't watch much TV at all, actually. If he wasn't working, he was renovating the fixer-upper house he'd bought last year, emphasis on fixer-upper. If he wasn't doing that, he was playing basketball, or something else that didn't cost any money because the fixer-upper had eaten his savings.

But there'd been the occasional night where he'd sat himself in front of a game and caught a promo for Kenzie's soap. There'd also been the few times at the station where one of the guys had flipped on the TV during her show.

Three times exactly—and yeah, he remembered each and every one. The first had been five years ago, and she'd been wearing the teeniest, tiniest, blackest, stringiest bikini in the history of teeny-tiny black string bikinis, her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head with a few wild curls escaping, looking outrageously sexy as she'd seduced her on-screen lover. It'd taken him a few attempts to get the channel changed, and even then it hadn't mattered. That bikini had stuck with him for a good long while.

The second time had been a few Christmases back. She'd been wearing a siren-red, slinky evening dress designed to drive men absolutely wild. She'd been standing beneath some mistletoe, looking up at some "stud of the month." Aidan hadn't been any quicker with the remote that time, and had watched the entire, agonizing kiss.

The third time had been for the daytime Emmys. She'd accepted her award, thanking Blake for always believing in her, and then had thanked some guy named Chad.

Chad.

What kind of a name was Chad?

And where was Chad now, huh? Certainly not hauling her off a burning boat and saving her cute little ass. Guys named Chad probably only swam when playing water polo.

In the ambulance, Dustin said something to Kenzie, and she opened her eyes, flashing a very brief smile, but it was enough.

She was okay.

Aidan forced himself to move, to get back to the job at hand, and it was a big one. The explosions had caught the boats on either side of Blake's Girl, escalating the danger and damages. They had the dock evacuated, and as the sun streaked the sky, they were working past containment, working to get the flames one-hundred-percent out.

With one last look at Kenzie, Aidan entered the fray.

IT TOOK HOURS.

Aidan and his crew piled into their rigs just as the lunch crowd began to clutter the streets of Santa Rey. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the imprint of Kenzie in his arms. He'd held onto her for what, three minutes tops? And yet she'd filled his head and his senses, and for those one-hundred-and-eighty seconds, time had slipped away, making him feel like that twenty-four-year-old punk he'd once been.

He'd been with Kenzie for one glorious summer, and she'd wanted to stay with him, which should have been flattering. She'd wanted to wear his ring and have a house and a white picket fence.

And his children.

But it hadn't been flattering at all. It'd been terrifying.

So he'd acted like a stupid, shortsighted guy. There was no prettying that up, or changing the memory. Fact was fact. He'd gotten a great job, and he'd had the world at his feet, including, he'd discovered, lots of women who found his chosen profession incredibly sexy.

He'd not been mature enough to realize what he already had; he'd been a first-class asshole. He'd sent Kenzie away, pretended not to look back and had filled his life with firefighting, women, basketball, woodworking, more women...

A hand clasped his shoulder. "Hey, Mr. 2008. Home sweet home."

"Shut up." They'd pulled into the station. He hopped out of the rig and went straight to Dustin, who was cleaning out the ambulance. "The victim? How is she?"

Cristina poked her head out from the station kitchen. "Hey, guys, there's food—" At the sight of Dustin, who she'd gone out with several times before unceremoniously discarding him without explanation, she broke off. "Oh. You're here."

Dustin looked at her drily. "What, is the food only for the staff that you haven't slept with and dumped?"

Aidan winced at the awkward silence, and if he wasn't in such a desperate hurry to hear about Kenzie, he might have refereed for the two of them, because if anyone needed refereeing, it was these two. "The vic," he said again to Dustin.

"Sorry," Dustin said, turning back to him. "She's not bad, thanks to your quick thinking. A few second-degree burns, possible broken wrist, some lacerations."

"Her head trauma—"

"No concussion."

"Stitches?" he demanded, causing Dustin to take a quick glance at Cristina, who raised an eyebrow.

Aidan knew he was bad off when the two of them could share a worried look over him.

"No stitches," Dustin said. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Aidan took his first deep breath in hours, which prompted another long look between Dustin and Cristina.

"You sure?" Cristina asked.

Jesus. "Yes." Leaving them alone to work through their issues, he headed inside the station. After he'd showered, cleaned up and clocked out, he got into his truck and debated with himself.

Home and oblivion were attractive choices.

Or he could go to the hospital, see Kenzie and get a question or two answered.

Not quite as attractive, because nothing about sitting with Kenzie and looking into her soulful eyes was going to be simple. Nope, that was a guaranteed trip to Heartbreak City.

Home, then, where he wouldn't have to do anything but fall facedown into his bed. Yeah, sounded good. He put his truck in gear.

And drove to the hospital.

KENZIE OPENED HER EYES and stared at a white ceiling. She was on a cot in the emergency room, her cuts and burns all cleaned and bandaged, her wrist wrapped, her head stitched back on—okay, so it'd only needed butterfly bandages. Now she was being "observed," although for what, she had no idea.

At least she was warm again, or getting there. She had three blankets piled on top of her, which helped, and a hospital gown, which didn't.

She'd just seen the fire investigator, Mr. Tommy Ramirez. Tommy was short, dark, and quite to the point. The point being that he'd found it extremely odd that she'd been on Blake's boat at the time of its explosion.

She did, too, considering she'd only gotten to town that night. Closing her eyes, she frowned. She also found it odd that he was wasting his time questioning her instead of investigating the real perpetrator of the arsons, because her brother was innocent. No way had Blake set all those awful fires they were trying to pin on him. Blake, sweet, quiet, loving Blake, the brother who'd been there for her when their parents had died fifteen years ago, when they'd gone through foster care, when she'd wanted to go off to Hollywood. He'd never have hurt a fly much less purposely hurt another human being. And endanger a child?

Never.

God, she hated hospitals. They smelled like fear and pain and helplessness, and all of them combined reminded her of her own uncertain childhood. She wished she was back on the L.A. set of Hope's Passion, acting the part of the victim instead of really being one. Comfort food would help. Maybe a box of donuts—

From the other side of her cubicle curtain came a rustling, and then the hair at the back of her neck suddenly stood up, as if she was being watched. Opening her eyes, she blinked the room into focus. Everything was white and...blurry. But not so much so that she missed the back of a guy's head as he ran off and out of sight. "Hey!"

He hadn't been wearing scrubs but a red T-shirt, so he couldn't have been hospital staff. Who'd come to see her and then leave without a word? She struggled to think but she was so tired, and a little woozy still, and when she let her eyes drift shut, she ended up dozing off...

"NOT THE SAME TYPE of point of origin as the other fires."

Kenzie opened her eyes and turned her head, taking in the curtain, now pulled all the way closed around her cot. She was a woman who liked change, who in fact thrived on it, but she had to say, she didn't like this change. Not at all.

How much time had passed?

"So you're saying what, Tommy, that the chief has you on a gag order?"

Oh, boy. She didn't need to peek around the curtain to know that voice. That voice had once been the stuff of her daydreams, of her greatest fantasies. That voice had used to melt her bones away and rev her engines.

Aidan.

"I'm not saying anything," Tommy said. "Except what I told Zach weeks ago. I'm on this. It's a kid glove case. So you need to back off."

"I want to see Kenzie when she wakes up."

He'd been the one who'd looked in on her? She didn't know how she felt about that. Had he seen her sleeping? Had she been snoring?

Why hadn't he come back when she called out?

"Tell me this much at least," Aidan said, presumably still to Tommy. "Did either you or the chief even know Blake had a boat?"

"No, but I was waiting on a full investigative report from the county, and it would have shown up on there."

"And then you would've what, seized the property as evidence?"

"Yes, of course. To search it, just like we've done with his house. All the current evidence regarding the case points to Blake being in on the arson."

In on the arson. Kenzie absorbed the odd choice of words. Did he mean that he thought there could be more than one arsonist?

"So who beat you to the boat, Tommy? Who wanted to make sure there was no chance of extracting any evidence from it?"

The answer actually gave Kenzie hope—because it meant that someone else could possibly be proven to be responsible for the arsons, maybe even someone who'd framed Blake.

"There's been at least seven highly destructive fires," Tommy said. "Adding up to millions of dollars in damages. The chief's ass is on the line, and so is mine. If Blake was still alive, he'd be behind bars. That he's not doesn't change anything. The investigation is ongoing."

"But it's possible he was working with someone," came Aidan's voice. "Is that what you're saying?"

"No comment."

"Do you know who?"

"No comment."

"You know something's off, Tommy, or you wouldn't be here."

"Yes," the investigator agreed tightly. "Something is off, and..."

Their voices lowered to a whisper. She leaned toward the curtain, but they were talking so quietly now she couldn't hear anything but...her name. Definitely, she'd heard her name.

Why were they talking about her?

She scooted even closer to the edge of the cot and cocked an ear, but still couldn't hear anything. Dammit! Blake couldn't have done any of those things they'd accused him of. She knew it, and she was going to prove it herself if necessary, starting with eavesdropping on this conversation. Tommy said something Kenzie couldn't quite catch, so she leaned even further, and—

Fell off the cot to the floor. "Ouch."

At the commotion, the curtain whipped open. She tried to push herself upright but with one wrist useless and the other pinned beneath her, she was pretty much a beached fish. A nearly naked beached fish, with her butt facing a crowd of three: Tommy, the nurse and, oh, perfect—Aidan. She could see the tabloids now: Ex-Soap Star Mackenzie Caught Panty-less. "Ouch," she said again and rolled to her back, gasping when the cold linoleum hit her bare backside. She sighed just as someone dropped to his knees at her side, and then Aidan's face swam into her vision.

"Are you okay?" he demanded.

Sure. Sure, she was okay. If she didn't think about the fact that she'd just mooned him.

"Here." After helping him get her back on the cot, the nurse fussed a moment, checking all of Kenzie's various injuries. Luckily, Tommy had backed out of the room, vanishing, for now at least.

"What the hell were you doing?" Aidan demanded when the nurse left them alone, too.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that—" Realizing her gown was twisted very high up on her thighs—which, of course, was nothing to what he'd just seen—she grabbed her blanket and tried to cover herself up. A little like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, she knew, but she was mortified. Except the movement made her want to throw up, and she reached up, holding her head tightly.

"Here." He took over the task of covering her, quickly extricating his hands when he was done, not quite meeting her gaze as he sat at her side.

Awkward moment..."So," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking in on you."

Yep. And he'd gotten to look in on far more than he'd probably intended.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Depends on your definition of all right."

At that, his eyes cut to hers and he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, his fingers rasping over the growth there. He looked and sounded exhausted. "I'm sorry, Kenzie."

"For what? That I just mooned you, or that I'm here at all?"

Aidan got to his feet, pulling the curtain shut again to give them privacy, privacy that she wasn't sure she wanted.

He'd changed his clothes. He wore a pair of jeans now, loose on his long legs, low on his hips, with a long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over a gray T-shirt that seemed to emphasize his broad shoulders and tough, athletic build. "Your shirt isn't red," she said slowly.

"What?"

"Before, somebody in a red shirt was looking at me."

"When?"

"I don't know." She rubbed her temples. "I'm out of it."

"It was a tough night."

"Yeah." But he didn't look like he'd just worked his ass off and managed to save her life to boot; he looked casual, relaxed.

Cool as a cucumber.

And so hauntingly familiar, not to mention gorgeous, that she couldn't keep her eyes on him. How unfair was it that he'd gotten even better-looking with age? "Thanks for stopping by, Aidan, but you can see I'm fine. You can go."

He looked doubtful.

"Seriously. I'm really okay."

She almost had him, she could tell, but then she ruined it by shivering.

Without a word, he grabbed another blanket and settled it over her. She appreciated his sense of duty, but what she would appreciate even more would be his vanishing.

Or her.

Yeah, that might be better. If she could just vanish on the spot. Poof. "Okay, now I'm good, thanks. Really."

"Really?"

"Yes. I mean you can't even look at me, so—"

Lifting his head, he met her eyes, his hot enough to singe her skin.

"Oh," she breathed, feeling her heart kick, hard.

"I can't look at you?" he repeated in low disbelief. "Are you kidding me? Kenzie, I can't do anything but look at you."

## 4

AT AIDAN'S WORDS, Kenzie's breath caught and held. She didn't know how to take him, especially the way he was looking at her, as if maybe he could see all the way through her, to her heart and soul, right to the very center of her being, where all the hurt was so carefully bottled up.

She'd gotten over him. Years ago. She really had. She'd gotten over how he'd once made her laugh, made her think, made her happy...

Made her come...

No way could he possibly reach her now. Not with that hard body, not with the look in his eyes and definitely not with the memories.

Okay, maybe the memories got to her, just a little bit. For one glorious summer, he'd been the best part of her life—before he'd walked away without so much as a glance back, that is.

Good. There was her anger, which would hopefully negate the fact that he was standing right here in the flesh looking good enough to...well...That thought made her want to sweat. But apparently she could be both over him and turned on by him at the same time, which confused her to say the least. She had no idea what that was about. No idea at all.

None.

She'd moved on years ago from that young, sweet, innocent girl. Now she was a woman with a backbone of sheer steel that had gotten her through some tough times.

She knew people tended to look at her carefully cultivated outer package—thank you, stylist to the stars—an outer package that was petite and willowy, even fragile-looking, and completely underestimate her.

But on the inside she was one-hundred-percent survivor, thank you very much. She'd lived through losing her parents early, through a happy-as-it-could-be teenage-hood with just Blake. She'd lived through being in the public eye, through the ups and downs of TV fame and most recently, through the death of her brother. All of that would have cracked most women, but she wasn't easily cracked.

She would get to the bottom of this mess, no matter what she had to do in order to get there. No matter what. Even if she had to use her beauty, her checking account, her damn body.

She would do it.

Whatever it took.

For Blake.

"I heard you talking to the investigator," she said softly.

Aidan's eyes met hers, and she wished like hell she could read his mind. But she couldn't, and he didn't say another word to help.

"I think he's wondering if I'm guilty of something."

He just looked at her some more.

"The only thing I'm guilty of is knowing that he hasn't done his job if he thinks Blake did those things."

At that, his face softened, and regret filled his eyes, along with a grimness that had her shaking her head before he even spoke.

"Don't say it," she warned, not willing to hear it, not from him. Not from anyone. Not when she was this close to a breakdown. A grief breakdown. "Don't." She knew Blake, goddammit. She did. She didn't remember much about her parents before they'd died in a car crash, but she remembered Blake. Every bit of him. He was the boy who'd held her hand every time they'd had to move to a new foster home. He was the teenager who'd punched a boy in the face when he'd hurt her, he was the man who'd believed in her enough to work double shifts to pay for her publicity shots so she could pursue her acting dream.

He could never have committed arson. She'd have sworn Aidan would have known that as well, but apparently she was wrong.

"There's evidence—" he began, but she shook her head.

"Circumstantial." She swallowed hard but a lump of emotion, the one that had been there since Blake's death, remained. "I see that you're no better a friend than you were a boyfriend."

He opened his mouth, but before he could respond, the nurse pulled aside the curtain and entered the cubicle, followed by a doctor. "Everyone out," the nurse ordered.

"I'm the only one here," Aidan said.

"So get out," the nurse responded sweetly.

Kenzie closed her eyes and lay back. She didn't look at Aidan again; in fact, she didn't open her eyes until she heard the rustling of the curtain, signaling he'd left.

Which was fine. Perfect, really. Because she'd sure as hell rather be alone than look into his eyes and see things she didn't want to see.

AIDAN EXITED the emergency room, feeling like a class-A jerk. Though how that was possible, what with his saving her life and all, he had no idea....

Okay, he knew.

She'd seen the look in his eyes; she'd understood something she hadn't wanted to understand—that he knew Blake was involved with those arson fires.

Aidan felt torn up about it, sick over it, but facts were facts. Blake had been placed at the scene of each arson by various witnesses. He had been depressed since losing Lynn, his partner before Cristina, in a fire the year before. His home had been seized and searched, and in his garage they'd found a stack of wire mesh trash cans, similar to the ones identified as the point of origin in each of the arsons.

Most damning, Aidan's partner, Zach, had also seen him holding a blowtorch just moments after Zach's house had been set on fire, with Zach and Brooke inside. Zach had almost died there.

And Blake had died there, perhaps deliberately. He'd died, leaving all of them, Zach, Aidan and the other firefighters, even Tracy, the woman he'd had such a crush on, everyone, destroyed.

Kenzie was in denial. He got that. She was angry. He got that, too. She needed someone to vent that anger at, to place it on, and he'd been handy enough.

I see that you're no better a friend than you were a boyfriend.

Yeah, that had been a direct hit. Having her look at him as if he was the bad guy had really gotten to him, especially considering he still had the scrapes and bruises from saving her.

The late afternoon sun was sinking fast, cooling off the day. Having been up for two straight days now, he desperately needed sleep. He could close his eyes standing up right there in the hospital lot, and not wake up if a cyclone hit. He was so tired that he'd probably sleep completely dreamless. Well, except for maybe dreaming about Kenzie's bare ass. Yeah, now that he'd seen that again, he'd most likely dream about it for a good many hours.

Days.

Years.

"Aidan."

Hell. Tommy was leaning up against Aidan's truck, a file in his hands, mouth pinched tight, looking as if he had plenty of things to say, and all fantasies about Kenzie's ass vanished. "What now?"

"I wasn't aware that you knew her personally."

"Who?"

"Come on, Aidan. Don't play with me. Mackenzie Stafford. You didn't say that you knew her."

He sighed. "So?"

"So it felt to me like maybe you knew her...well."

"Yeah. Once upon a time."

"Okay, and so once upon a time, did you know she was Blake's sister?"

Getting into tricky territory here. No one had known he and Kenzie had dated in the past. It'd been a quick, hot thing, very hot, and he certainly hadn't been in any hurry to tell Blake he'd gotten his sister in bed. Kenzie hadn't told Blake, either, for her own reasons, and then when Kenzie had gone off to Los Angeles, it hadn't mattered anymore.

Did it matter now, with Blake dead? He couldn't see how it did. "Yeah, I knew she was Blake's sister."

"Did you know that boat was Blake's?"

"Where are we going with this, Tommy?"

"Did you?"

Aidan let out a breath. "Not until we were in the water and she told me."

Tommy nodded. "Because you always sit around with someone you're rescuing and chat about property ownership."

"I asked her why she was there, on that boat. I was under the impression that she was in Los Angeles."

"Yeah?" Tommy's eyes studied him, considering. "So just how well do you know her?"

"Irrelevant."

"I wonder if Blake would have thought so."

Aidan fished his keys out of his pocket. "I'm going home to sleep. For many, many hours. When I'm back on duty you can drill me all you want. Maybe I'll be able to think more clearly."

"Maybe I don't want you thinking more clearly."

"And what the hell does that mean?"

"It means I need answers now. Did you know she was staying on the boat? Did you maybe visit with her there before the fire?"

"I told you. No. And no."

"Ms. Stafford thinks Blake is innocent. That he was not only framed but possibly murdered, and she intends to prove it."

Sounded right. Kenzie might look like a pretty ball of fluff, but she had sharp wits and was loyal to a fault. She also had the tenacity of a bulldog. Once she got her brain wrapped around an idea, there was nothing anyone could do to change her mind. Not about falling in love with him, not about being an actress and most definitely not about believing that Blake couldn't be guilty of arson.

"So the question stands," Tommy said quietly. "How well do you know her?"

"Did." Well enough that when he'd looked into her eyes, he'd felt an odd stirring, a sensation almost like coming home. Yeah, once upon a time he'd known her well. As well as he'd known anyone. "Past tense."

"Good enough."

"For what?"

"To get you to tell her to stay the hell out of this investigation and not interfere."

"People don't tell Kenzie what to do."

"You're going to. Because the chief has put out the word. If anyone hinders this investigation, we'll have them arrested, Blake's sister or not."

Great. Perfect. If Aidan told her that, she'd jump in with both feet, because one thing he remembered and remembered well—nothing scared her. Nothing. "Seriously. It's not a good idea for me to tell her anything."

"Well, then, I hope she has bail money."

Shit. Aidan watched Tommy walk away, then he turned to his truck. Needing sustenance before he passed out cold for at least the next twelve hours straight, he stopped at Sunrise, the café that was the perpetual hangout for everyone at the station. The two-story building was right on the beach. Downstairs was food central, while the second floor was the living quarters for Sheila, the owner. The rooftop was the place to go to view the mountains, the ocean, the entire world it seemed, and to think.

Stepping inside, his sense of smell immediately filled with all the aromas he associated with comfort: coffee, burgers, pies...Sheila smiled at him, and as the sixty-two-year-old always did, fawned over him as he imagined a mother would.

His own mother wasn't too into fawning, at least not over him. She'd divorced his father when Aidan had been two, and he'd spent most of his childhood years being shuffled from family member to family member while she'd relived her wild youth. Granted, he'd been more than a handful of trouble, purposely going after it in a pathetic bid for attention, so in hindsight he didn't blame anyone for not keeping him around for long.

Eventually, he'd ended back up at his dad's, where the two of them had spent a few years doing their best to tolerate each other until, when Aidan had been fifteen, his dad had remarried and promptly given his new wife three babies in a row.

Aidan had landed at his mom's once again, a little bit rebellious and a lot angry, but by then his mother had settled down some, remarrying as well.

Now Aidan had five half brothers and sisters, and didn't quite belong on either side of the family.

Not that he'd had it as rough as Blake and Kenzie had. He knew exactly why the brother and sister had been as close as they had, and exactly why Kenzie would fight tooth and nail to prove her brother's innocence.

What he didn't know was how to convince her to let the law handle things, or if he even had a right to ask such a thing of her.

Between a rock and a hard place.

He ate his fill, and by the time he set down his fork, he felt halfway human. He still needed his bed, badly, but with Tommy's words echoing in his head, he knew he had to try to talk to Kenzie again first. He needed to warn her to let Tommy do his job. For old times' sake.

Or so he told himself.

He pulled out his cell phone and called the hospital, but was told she'd been released.

Where would she go? Back to Los Angeles? No, she wouldn't leave Santa Rey, not until she did what she'd come to do, which was prove Blake's innocence, so he asked Sheila for the local phone book and a slice of key lime pie, both of which he took up to the roof. Sitting facing the ocean, he began calling. But as it turned out, Kenzie wasn't registered at any of the three hotels in the area, probably because there were two conventions in town and everything was fully booked. He looked at the remaining list of several dozen motels and B and Bs, and sighed. He'd made his way through the most likely candidates when Sheila came out on the roof with a fresh mug of coffee.

"What's up for you tonight?" Even with her bouffant hair, she barely came up to his shoulder. "You planning on saving any more damsels in distress?"

He didn't bother asking her how she knew about last night's fire—the gossip train in Santa Rey was infamous. "No damsels, distressed or otherwise. I have a bed in my immediate future."

"You sleeping alone these days?"

Unfortunately, yeah. The last woman he'd gone out with had found someone else, someone with more money and more time, and he'd gotten over her fairly quickly but hadn't yet moved on. He couldn't tell that to Sheila, though, or she'd set him up with her niece, as she'd been trying to do all year....

"My niece would be perfect for you, Mr. 2008."

He winced. "You saw the calendar."

"Honey, I saw, I bought, we all drooled. Now about my niece..."

Her niece was divorced with four kids, and while she was a very lovely woman, a waitress at Sunrise, in fact, he wasn't anxious to help create yet another fractured family. "I'm sorry, Sheila. But at the moment, I'm—"

"Enjoying being alone," Sheila finished for him with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it before."

Standing, he handed her back the phone book, then gave her a hug. "How about you? You could marry me."

She cackled good and long over that one, and walked to the roof door. "If I was thirty years younger, you'd be sorry you said that...."

He laughed, but his smile faded fast enough. With no idea how to track down Kenzie, he left and drove home, thinking he'd just go horizontal for a little while and then figure it out, but as he drove up to his house, he saw a red convertible Mercedes Cabriolet in his driveway.

And the outline of a woman sitting on his porch, lit from behind by the setting sun.

She was wearing two hospital gowns layered over each other and a pair of hospital booties, reminding him that her clothes had gotten sliced and diced pretty good and probably any luggage she'd had on the boat was long gone.

Her hair, wild on the best of days, had completely rioted around her face in an explosion of soft waves, the long side bangs poking her in one eye and resting against her cheek and jaw, where she had a darkening bruise that matched the one above her other eye, accompanied by a two-inch-long butterfly-bandaged cut. She was cradling her splinted left wrist in her lap. Her good hand was cut up as well, and so were both her arms—nothing that appeared too deep or serious, but enough to make him wince for her. Her legs were more of the same.

She was alone and beat up, and hell if that didn't grab him by the throat and squeeze. Then there were those melt-me eyes that lifted to his and filled.

Jesus. He thought he was so damn tough but one soft sigh from those naked lips and he was a bowl of freaking jelly.

She had a plastic bag beside her, and one peek at it tugged at him harder than he could have imagined given what he did for a living and how often he'd seen this very thing.

Her clothes from the fire.

Probably all that she had left here in Santa Rey. In her unsplinted hand she clutched a small prescription bottle, most likely pain meds. Hell. He was such a goner.

"I haven't taken any yet," she whispered, shaking the bottle. "Couldn't, because I took a cab from the hospital to the docks where I had my car, which I drove here."

"Kenzie—"

"You had a package. It was torn, so I looked in." She lifted one of a stack of firefighter calendars, with his own mug and half-naked body on the cover.

"Nice," she said, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. "Mr. 2008."

He bit back a sigh. "It's for charity."

"And you definitely contributed." She waggled her eyebrows, then winced. "Ouch. I'm not allowed in Blake's house—evidence. And the hotels are all booked up, just my luck. Did you know you have a convention of dog trainers in town? Why are there five hundred dog trainers in Santa Rey?"

"Because we let dogs on our beaches."

"Oh." She sighed. "So we let dogs on our beaches, but not me into a hotel. Kinda makes sense when you think about it."

How that made sense, he had no idea.

"Because my karma sucks."

"Okay, come on." Gently, he pulled her up, taking the bag. Letting her hold onto the medication, he led her inside, telling himself he was going to give her Tommy's warning and that was it.

Other than that, he was going to stay out of it entirely.

But holding onto her, he realized she was trembling, and as he took her into his living room, she went directly for his couch, which she sank onto with a grateful little sigh. "I think she went on vacation."

"Who?"

"My karma." She gave him an exasperated look, like he wasn't listening to her, and then very carefully leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"Hey." Squatting down before her, he put his hands on her thighs, looking into her eyes when she opened them. "You okay?"

She let out a sound that might have been a laugh, or a sob.

He hoped to God it was the first. "Rough twenty-four hours," he murmured.

Another nod, carefully slow and precise, giving her away. She definitely wasn't laughing. In fact, she was in pain, lots of it; rising, he went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Bringing it back to her, he pried the prescription drugs from her fingers, read the label—yep, painkillers—and shook one out.

"I'm okay."

"You don't look it. You look like hell."

"You say the nicest things."

With another sigh, he once again hunkered down at her side. "Look, you've been through a lot. I know you're alone and..."

"If you say helpless, I'll slug you with my good fist."

Once upon a time she'd been the most amazing thing in his life.

The. Most. Amazing. Thing.

On the outside she'd been so mind-blowingly, adorably, effortlessly sexy. Inside, she'd been pure warmth and sweetness, loyal to a fault, always believing the best in everyone, willing to defend what she believed in to the death if necessary.

From their very first moment together, she'd wreaked havoc with his common sense. Before her, nothing in his world had been warm or sweet or particularly loyal. She'd brought lightness into the dark.

Until he'd sent her away. "Not helpless," he said a little thickly. "Never helpless."

"Okay, then." She hugged herself and shivered.

With a frown, he moved to the fireplace. For late summer, the evening did have a chill to it, and she probably was still in some shock. He set up kindling and held a lit match to it until it flamed with a low whoosh.

With a startled cry, Kenzie shrank back from the small flames, covering her face.

Yeah, still in shock. He should have thought about how she'd feel about a flame of any kind, and cursing himself, he rose and went to her.

"I'm okay," she whispered, peeking out from between her fingers, very carefully not looking at the flickering fire. "It's the crackling." She grimaced. "And, okay, the sight. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's normal."

"I don't feel normal."

He didn't feed the small fire, letting it burn out. "I'm sorry. Let's go with the heater instead, okay?"

Once again she leaned her head back, carefully not moving a single inch more than she absolutely had to. "Thanks."

She was killing him. "Kenzie—"

"Could we not talk? It's threatening my head's precarious perch on my shoulders."

"Take the pill."

"I guess I could use a little oblivion. Okay, I could use a lot of oblivion...." Turning her head, she eyed the fireplace as if it were a spitting cobra. "You know, they don't call me Kenzie in Los Angeles."

"Or in the gossip rags."

Without moving another muscle, she arched an eyebrow, appearing to be genuinely surprised. He'd given himself away.

"You read them?"

"Hard to miss when you're going through the grocery store," he said defensively. "They're right next to the candy bars."

The smallest smile crossed her lips.

"You dated that underwear model. The one who danced naked on all the commercials. Chad."

"Chase. And he wasn't naked. He was wearing the underwear he was marketing. Which isn't that much less than what you're wearing in that calendar, Mr. 2008." She gave him a long look.

"Last year you went out with a European prince."

"Now that was just publicity."

He didn't know if he believed her, or cared.

Strike that. He cared. "Take the pill." He watched her chase it with the glass of water he offered.

Yeah, he cared.

Dammit.

"Problem," she said, and licked a drop of water off her bottom lip.

He dragged his gaze up to hers. "What?"

"Even if there were no dogs. I still couldn't get a room. I have no money—my purse either burned up or is below several yards of water, probably both." Kenzie winced. "The hospital had to give me an emergency taxi voucher to get to my car. I'd be really screwed right now if my keys hadn't been in my pocket. Luckily, I also left my cell in the car, so I called my financial manager and he's overnighting emergency funds. But your address was the only one I could think to give him, and I have no place to go until it arrives. And now I can't drive." She shook the bottle of pills. "It's not recommended."

Their eyes met as the implications of her little speech sank in.

"Apparently, I still trust you," she whispered. "At least a little."

Damn if that didn't cut right through everything to the heart of the matter. For better or worse, she trusted him, and he had to admit, that meant something to him. Plus, there was the other truth—there was no other place she could go. Like it or not, he was her only contact in town. Which meant...

She was staying here.

With him.

## 5

KENZIE SAT ON AIDAN'S COUCH absorbing the awkward silence. Her eyes were closed but she could feel him close. Thinking. Probably panicking. "Or if you loan me a few bucks, I'll call a cab."

"And go where?"

Right. Well, dammit, if he'd just give her some room, she could just sit and try to ignore him—try being the key word.

It wasn't his good looks that held her interest. She'd had her fill of good-looking guys on a daily basis at work and she would have said Aidan wasn't that pretty, at least not soap-star pretty. Until she'd seen the calendar. Because holy cow, he'd looked pretty damn fine in eight-and-a-half-by-eleven color glossy, there was no doubt. But he was also tough, and far more rugged than that. There was just something about his eyes and mouth, and the laugh lines lining both that suggested he could be dangerous or outrageous, sweet or maybe not so much so, sheer trouble or the boy next door....

She knew all to be true.

What she didn't know was why she'd come here, to his house.

Okay, she knew. He was the only familiar thing in her entire world. She'd gotten his address easily enough by calling his station, where some friendly firefighter had recognized her and cheerfully offered up direction. She'd driven here on auto-pilot, having no trouble remembering her way around Santa Rey, getting spooked only when she'd thought she was being followed by a gray sedan.

Which was ridiculous and paranoid. God, she needed a nap.

Aidan's house was tiny, and definitely old, but cozy. From the looks of things, he'd been remodeling it. The living room had lovely hardwood floors and gorgeous wood trim on all the windows, which looked out to the ocean and the rolling hills surrounding it.

He'd always been handy—with tools, with his mind, his words.

His body...

Yeah, he'd been really good in that department. In fact, it was fair to say he'd been her willing tutor, and she a most apt pupil.

But that thought led to others, including the fact that she'd once been young and stupid enough to believe in fairy tales. Aidan had been her prince, her happily-ever-after.

Until he hadn't been.

Luckily she was no longer young or stupid. She no longer dated men while dreaming of that white picket fence and two point four kids. Nope, she dated simply to have fun, and once in a while, to have good sex.

Easy come, easy go.

Too bad she and Aidan weren't having a go at things now, because she was finally with the program, she finally got the rules. They'd probably have a hell of a time.

An evening breeze came through an open window and she drew in a fresh breath. Her pain pill had begun to kick in, and she sank a little deeper into the very comfortable couch. The last time she'd been in Aidan's place, which back then had been an apartment, he'd owned a bed, a TV, a stereo and a box of condoms.

That'd been all they'd needed.

She hadn't been the only one to change. His needs had apparently upgraded. His couch was extra large, and double extra comfortable. There was a TV, triple extra large, and the perennial stereo. But he also had a desk with a computer on it, and some beautiful prints on the walls, which were painted in muted beachy colors.

No condoms in sight. That was undoubtedly for the best. But she liked the house. Low maintenance, calm, even warm and clean. Her place wasn't so different, which meant she felt far more at home here than she would have ever admitted out loud.

How ironic that she'd come back into town to handle Blake's affairs, and to raise hell on the arson charges, intending to stay as far out of Aidan's path as possible, only to end up here in his house, with nowhere else to go.

High on meds...

From the windows she could hear the waves slapping against the shore. Next to her, he was still, just sitting there breathing, soft and even, but she didn't look at him. Wasn't ready to look at him. Yet apparently her nose didn't get that memo because her nostrils quivered, trying to catch a quick whiff of the man—except all she could smell was herself and the smoke and soot stuck to her skin. "I stink."

"It's stress."

"No, not like that." She rolled her eyes, which hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. "Like smoke."

"You could take a shower." His voice was low, a little gritty, and a whole lot suggestive, although she knew that last was all her own imagination.

She couldn't help it, the guy had a voice that brought to mind slow, hot sex. Seriously, if he could bottle the sound, he'd have been rich.

"Kenzie? Do you want to take a shower?"

Yes, please. In her own place with her own things and her own thick, cozy, warm bathroom and fuzzy bunny slippers. And then she'd like a good DVD and a bag of popcorn, something to give her mind a mini-vacation from its current hell. "That would be nice, thanks."

He offered her a hand. She stared at it, and then into his face, which was solemnly watching her. "Just a hand," he murmured.

Knowing she was a bit wobbly, she put her hand in his bigger, warmer one and let him pull her up. She staggered into him, and for a moment he held her, and caving in to her own yearning, she pressed her face to his throat and was immediately overcome with memories.

But she didn't do memories, at least not anymore, so she forced herself to step free of him.

He led her down the hall and into what must have been his bedroom. The walls were a soft cream, which went beautifully with the cedar ceilings. But what caught her eye was the biggest bed she'd ever seen, piled high with a thick navy-blue comforter and a mountain of pillows. It was made, sort of. It was boy-made, which meant the covers had been tugged up. His hamper appeared to be a pile of clothes in the corner, but other than that, the room was as warm and clean and welcoming as the rest of the house.

She shouldn't have been surprised. The Aidan she'd known had been rough-and-tumble tough, always cool and calm and impenetrable no matter the circumstances, which she imagined served him well in his field. She'd seen that in action on the boat and in the water.

But much like his house, he had a warm, soft, welcoming center. It was what had made him so damn likeable.

Now, with the dubious honor of a few years and some maturing, that likeability had turned into an undeniable sex appeal she discovered while standing there staring at his bed, feeling a rather inexplicable stirring deep in her belly.

"Here." With a hand to the small of her back, he gently nudged her all the way into the room, then passed by her, his arm brushing hers as he moved into the bathroom, which was all cool, white tile and more wood trim. He flipped on the shower, which was nearly as big as his entire kitchen.

"Wow," she said, staring at it.

He shrugged. "I like showers."

"I remember." The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. Damn, she really needed a script writer for this real-life thing.

His gaze slid to hers. Very slowly, he arched an eyebrow.

She turned away to blush in peace, but he turned her back toward him with a careful hand on her arm. "Kenzie?"

She stared at his chest, her vision a little compromised by the nice little pill she'd taken, but not so much so that she couldn't appreciate the view. "Yeah?"

"Do we need to talk?"

Absolutely not. "No."

She didn't want to discuss her carnal knowledge of his love of showering. Not when she remembered, in vivid Technicolor, taking more than a few with him. She remembered, for instance, the time he'd backed her up to the shower wall in his apartment, lifting her legs around his waist, thrusting into her until she couldn't have told him her own name. She remembered the feel of him, hot and thick inside her, remembered how it felt to be pressed between the hard wall and his harder body, the water pounding down over the top of them until she'd cried out so loudly his roommate had pounded on the bathroom door to make sure she was okay.... They'd laughed so hard they'd barely been able to finish, but they'd managed.

They'd always managed.

The humbling truth was, once upon a time, he'd been able to make her come in less than three minutes, using nothing more than his mouth and his portable showerhead.

God.

Just the reminder had her beginning to sweat and her knees wobbling. And if she was being honest, there were some other even more base reactions going on. She firmly ignored them all and lifted her chin. "No. We don't need to talk."

He nodded very solemnly, but she would have sworn his eyes had heated, and along with that heat was a sort of wry humor.

Oh, perfect. Now he was remembering, too.

But what really cooked her goose was while she was squirming, nipples hard, thighs trembling, he was amused.

She ought to slug him. She thought about it, but just then, from the plastic hospital bag came the muffled sound of her cell ringing. Since it could only be someone she didn't want to talk to, like her agent wanting her to get in line for auditions before everyone else from her show snatched up all the jobs, she ignored it.

He gestured toward the steaming shower. "It was the first thing I redid in the house."

Thinking about his shower was infinitely more appealing than thinking about being unemployed. Thinking about him in the shower? Priceless. But he was still looking just amused enough at her interest that she shrugged lightly. Look at me not caring...

But on the inside she was caring big-time, wondering how the hell to get him un-amused and hot, because dammit she wanted him hot.

Why the hell she wanted it made no sense to her, none whatsoever, but she couldn't stop thinking about it. She was hot, so he needed to be the same. Call it petty revenge on the guy who'd once walked away from her. Call it desperation for a diversion from her real reason for being here. But she wanted him to want her. Needed him to want her. She wanted that more than her next breath, and she wanted him to suffer for it.

Around them the steam started to rise, but instead of declaring his undying lust for her, he turned and walked back into his bedroom, vanishing from view.

Kenzie let out a breath. Weary, tired of her own smoky stench, she removed her splint and reached for the tie on her hospital gowns, then went still in surprise when Aidan reappeared.

His broad shoulders filling the doorway, his dark eyes met hers as he held out two folded towels. "You still like to use two?"

She blinked as he set them on the counter by the sink. "Yeah." She cleared her throat. "Thanks."

Jaw a little tight, he nodded, and very carefully didn't come any closer.

Huh. He didn't look that amused now. He looked, dared she think it, a little...hot.

Interesting.

He was going to give her some privacy. Privacy that, shock of all shocks, she didn't actually want. But there he went, turning away again.

"I'll be in the other room if you need anything," he said. "Just call for me."

Wow. He was being considerate, sweet and sensitive, none of the traits she would have associated with him. "You know, this would probably be a lot easier on me if you could continue to be the asshole that you once were."

"Yeah, there's a problem with that."

"Which is?"

"I'm not the same guy I was then."

She opened her mouth, not sure what she planned on saying, but it didn't matter because he walked away, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Kenzie stared at the closed door before stripping and then getting into the shower. Once there, she hissed when the water hit her various cuts but she stood beneath the spray anyway, for a very long time, before finally soaping up. It took five shampoos to get out the smoke smell and even then she wasn't sure she managed completely. By the time the hot water was gone, her skin was wrinkled like a prune and she smelled like Aidan. It was ridiculous but she kept lifting her arm to her nose so she could inhale the scent of him.

When she'd wrapped herself up in the towels, one on her head, one around her body, she opened the bathroom door and found Aidan sitting on the bed, his legs spread, his hands clasped between them, his face pensive. "Better?" he asked, looking for himself.

"Almost human."

A brief smile curved his lips as he held out bandages and antiseptic cream for her injuries. "I was wondering if you planned on drowning yourself in there."

"I'm angry and frustrated and devastated, but not stupid."

He let out a slow nod, his gaze dropping from her face to her body, studying the towel covering her from just beneath her armpits to mid-thigh. She was gratified to see an absolute lack of humor now.

Slowly he stood up, and something surged within her. Lust, which she beat back. Triumph, which she let take over. Want me... Yeah, that worked for her, him wanting her. Because when he admitted that out loud, she was going to lift her chin, flat-out reject him and maybe feel just the tiniest bit better.

She hoped. God, she hoped. Because something had to ease this knot in her chest. Knot, hell. It was a ball, a huge ball, and it was suffocating her. If she gave too much thought to it, it swelled even bigger and threatened to overcome her.

Then he walked toward her, and she shivered in anticipation because here it came, the him wanting her portion of the evening.

But he simply held out her cell phone. "It went off again when you were in the shower. Local cell number."

"Oh." She flipped it open and looked at it, having no idea who would be calling her locally. Blake had been her last tie to Santa Rey. In any case, whoever it was hadn't left a message so she set the phone down.

Aidan strode right past her, going to his dresser.

Okay, she could work with this. Maybe he was going for a condom. Which of course he wasn't going to need—

He held up a shirt. "You still like to sleep in just a T-shirt?"

She stared at the shirt in his hand, at the hand that had once been able to make her purr. She lifted her head, met his gaze, and smiled.

He gave her a little smile in return, and it was all the more sexy because it was a little baffled, a little bowled over, as if he was surprised, pleasantly so, to find her finally smiling at him.

But she wanted more than that. Needed more than that, and she thought maybe she knew what to do.

If she dared...

But she'd always been bold, especially in front of a camera. And if she closed her eyes, she could be bold here as well.

Doing just that, she then reached up, pulling out the end of the towel from between her breasts, and let the thing drop.

It hit the floor with a soft thud.

Naked as a jay bird, she opened her eyes.

Aidan, unflappable, cool, calm as the eye-of-a-storm Aidan, had gone still as stone, his only movement his Adam's apple when he swallowed hard.

She held out a hand for the proffered T-shirt.

He didn't let go of it, seemingly frozen into place, as he looked her over from head to toes and back again.

She'd never thought of herself as particularly vengeful, and especially didn't wish him harm after he'd saved her life, but he'd once been able to walk away from her without a backward glance, and that had not only broken her heart, but destroyed her confidence.

The look on his face took a good part of that remembered pain away. "Thank you," she said, tugging on the T-shirt, practically having to pry it out of his fingers.

He didn't say a word, he didn't have to. The bulge behind the button fly of his jeans said it all, and with a little shimmying movement, she pulled the shirt over her head, letting it cover her body, before turning and walking out of the room, a real smile on her face for the first time since she'd heard about Blake's death.

## 6

THE MOMENT HE WAS ALONE in his bedroom, Aidan let out a long, slow breath. He needed to go after Kenzie to tell her she could have his bed to sleep in, but after the past sixty seconds, he needed a moment.

Or ten.

Or maybe a cold shower.

Bending for the towel she'd dropped, he winced. Still hard as a rock, but who wouldn't be? She had the body that most red-blooded males fantasized about—all soft, warm curves, and then there'd been her tan lines, outlining what looked like a string bikini.

God bless tan lines.

Yeah, he was going to need another moment. He calculated a few multiplication problems in his head, and then went after her. She stood in his living room with her back to him, facing the large picture window that looked out on a darkening sky. She wore the T-shirt he'd lent her, which thanks to the show she'd given him a moment ago, he now knew she had nothing on beneath it. Her shoulders were ramrod straight, her hands at her sides.

And he had no idea what she was thinking.

"I wanted to spread Blake's ashes into the ocean," she said softly to the window. "Off the bluffs. He would have liked that."

He let out a low breath, knowing what was coming next, hating what was coming next.

"Only there are no ashes."

The pain reverberated in her voice, and somehow bounced off his own chest, rolling over his heart. Dammit. He headed toward her.

"All I can do is put a marker next to our parents' graves." Her voice wobbled at this, but she didn't lose it, just stared out at the night. "He's innocent, Aidan."

The Kenzie he'd known had always believed the best of everyone, to a fault. Seemed that hadn't changed, only this time it was going to bite her on the ass.

"And I would have thought you'd think so, too," she said with more than a little accusation in her voice. She sighed, the sound soft and heart-breaking as it shuddered out of her.

"Look," he said. "Why don't you go to bed and get some sleep. You'll feel better if you do."

"I doubt that." But she finally turned from the window. The last of the day's light slanted in through the glass behind her, casting her in its soft glow, rendering the T-shirt just sheer enough to stop his heart.

Not sure how much more of her glorious body he could take without dropping to his knees and begging for mercy, he stayed right where he was instead of getting any closer to her.

Closer would be a mistake, especially with those hugely expressive eyes on his, and that look of grief all over her face.

"Sleep won't change anything that I'm feeling," she whispered. "He'll still be innocent."

"Kenzie, they found a scrapbook of all the fires in Blake's house. He was keeping track of them."

"That doesn't mean he's guilty."

"What does it mean?"

"Something else." She hugged herself, looking miserable and alone, and hurting. "I wish we were friends," she said very quietly. "I wish that you hadn't hurt me, and that I didn't have the urge to hurt you back."

Feeling bad, feeling a whole host of things he shouldn't be feeling at all, he took her hand. "I'm sorry I hurt you back then. I'm sorry I let you go. But I was young and stupid, Kenz. I was a complete ass."

She lifted a shoulder, tacitly agreeing with him.

"I'd like to think that if we were seeing each other now," he said softly, "and one of us wanted out, that we'd do better. That we'd make the friendship work."

Another lift of her shoulder, with slightly less temper in it this time.

Okay, that was something, a step at least. Pulling her toward him, he turned to lead her back to his bed, where he was going to tuck her in and then walk away.

Be the good guy.

Only she tugged him back, and suddenly he was holding onto her and she was pressing her face into his throat and breathing in deep, and...and hell. He was in trouble, sinking fast. "I showered at the station," he murmured into her hair. "But I need another. I still smell like smoke, Kenz, and—"

"Right." Pulling free, she turned away. "Sorry."

And now she thought he didn't want to hold her, when that was all he wanted. "Kenzie—"

"No, you're right. Absolutely right. Let's not go there." She smiled, and anyone who'd ever seen her smile for real would have recognized it as a first-class fake, but he didn't dare say a word about it because he had the feeling she was barely hanging on.

As was he.

She turned away. "You're right. Sleep might be best. But I'll take the couch—"

"No, don't be ridiculous. I—"

"Make no mistake, Aidan. I still want to hurt you. It's immature and extremely juvenile of me, but it's fact. So, no. I'm not sleeping in your bed." She walked back to the couch.

"Kenzie—"

"Please," she said, sinking down to the cushions and closing her eyes. "Could I have a blanket?"

"Of course." He went and got several, came back and spread them over her.

She didn't speak, or for that matter, move.

"Call me if you need anything," he finally said.

She gave no response to that, either, and he nodded even though she wasn't looking at him. "Okay then...night." He paused, but she still didn't say anything to release him from the strange torment he felt. In the end, he did as she seemed to want, and left her alone.

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Kenzie heard the shower go on, and in spite of herself, pictured Aidan stripping off his clothes and climbing in.

Soaping himself up...

Standing there beneath the steamy hot water all naked.

And unintentionally sexy.

Behind her, from somewhere else in the house, a phone rang. A machine clicked on and she heard Aidan's voice saying, "You know what to do at the beep."

Then came a "Hey, you" in a low, Marilyn Monroe–like purr. "It's Lori. You didn't call me back. I've been lonely for you, baby. Come over sometime soon, okay? I'll be waiting..."

Kenzie listened to the click as the machine went off and silence filled the house.

Seemed Aidan was still the guy who left women feeling lonely for him. She should return the favor. She should go...somewhere.

But as she listened to the shower running, she let out a long breath and admitted to herself—as silly as it seemed—there was something undeniably consoling about being here with him. She'd told him she trusted him a little, and that was as truthful as it was unsettling. Yes, she had nowhere else to go, but it was far more than that. At the moment, he was the only familiar, comforting presence in her life. At the moment, she wanted to be there, she really did, even knowing that the longer they spent together, the more they would grow closer, whether she liked it or not.

Only, she was afraid she would like it. A lot more than was wise.

AIDAN SURFACED from a deep, deep sleep, aware that something had woken him, but not sure what. He opened his eyes and saw his dark bedroom lit up in black and white by the faint glow of the moon slanting in through his horizontal blinds.

There, by his bed, stood an angel.

An angel in his T-shirt, in the same white swaths of moonlight as his room.

She was hurting, sad, scared...and why the hell hadn't he given her a suit of armor instead of just a T-shirt? Had he been looking for punishment? Because there it was, in flesh and blood and glorious curves and wild hair, and a face so hauntingly beautiful she took his breath. He was in trouble, deep trouble, because although he'd managed to resist opening his heart to her that first time, he wasn't quite sure he would be able to manage it this time.

Without a single word, she lifted his covers and scooted into the bed.

With him.

He was exhausted, beyond exhausted, and was afraid he didn't have the self-control to deal with this. "Jesus," he gasped as she pressed her icy feet to his.

"Sorry."

But she didn't pull them back. Nope, she tucked them beneath his, sucking the warmth out of him.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered.

He had no idea what she was talking about. There was no way she could clearly see his expression, she couldn't see any more than he could in the strips of moonlight. He could see her eyes, not her nose. He could see her mouth, not her chin...

"I'm not sleepwalking, or pain-pill walking." She pressed a little closer, so that her legs entangled in his.

Now would probably be as good a time as any to remind her that he slept naked, but as he opened his mouth, she spoke first.

"And I'm not here for another broken heart like I got the last time." She poked a finger into his chest. "In fact, if anyone's going to have a broken heart this time, it's going to be you. So you can just wipe that look of pity off your face."

"Pity is the last thing I've got going on," he assured her. He lay there achingly close, freezing his ass off thanks to her feet. "So you're going to break my heart?"

"Going to do my damnedest."

"I never meant to break yours."

"At least let me think I'm getting my revenge, okay?"

Her toes were killing him. So were her legs, the ones all caught up in his. And somehow he had a thigh between hers...

She propped her head up with her good hand, staring at him in the oddly lit room. Now he could see her forehead and her nose, but not her eyes or her mouth.

"It really is going to be you nursing the heart this time," she whispered.

That could very well be. But honestly, he wasn't sure his bruised heart functioned enough to break. Hell, it was probably dried up from misuse. And yet...and yet lying there with her in his arms seemed to jump-start the organ. It ached, and not just because of their past, it ached for the here and now, for the woman she'd become.

"You," she repeated softly, even a little smugly, and for some reason, some sick reason, it was a turn-on.

And because he was weak and maybe just a little bit stupid, he put his hand on her hip and leaned in to see her better, which he couldn't. She was still in slatted black and white. "I meant what I said, Kenz. I'm sorry you got hurt."

"Good. I want you sorry. Very, very sorry."

Yes, but did she want him aroused? Because he was. Her T-shirt had risen up enough to remind him she wasn't wearing panties.

Yeah, colossally stupid.

By now it had to be crystal clear to her that he was butt-ass naked. In the name of fair warning, he pulled her in a little closer.

"What are you doing?"

What was he doing? No idea. Bending his head, he rubbed his jaw to hers, bumped the tip of his nose to her earlobe.

With a shiver, she clutched at him and arched her neck, giving him better access.

Which he took.

"I can't remember what I was saying," she murmured.

He let out a breath in her ear and she shivered again, which he liked. He liked that a lot. "You were telling me how you're going to break my heart."

"That's right." Her fingers dug into the small of his back as she moved, the black and white shadows shifting over her. "I am. Aidan?"

"Yeah?"

"You're naked."

He'd been wondering when that would come up. Seeing as he was already quite "up"...

She gulped, and then did something he didn't expect. She rolled to her back and pulled him on top of her, allowing him to settle between her thighs, which were not cold like her feet, but warm and cushy and very, very welcoming.

"You should know," she whispered in his ear, making sure her lips brushed his flesh, causing a series of shivers of his own. "I plan to make you beg for mercy this time."

God. "I'm close to begging right now," he admitted.

"Really?"

She sounded breathless as hell, which was another big turn-on. So many..."Really."

He was hard. She was soft, so soft, and pressing all that softness up against him. "If you're not sleepwalking, or having a bad dream," he wondered, "why are you in here?"

"No hotels, remember?"

"Why are you in bed with me?" he clarified.

Her hands glided up and down his back, going lower on each pass. "My feet were cold."

He pressed his feet to hers, and then his mouth to her throat. "Is that all?"

"Absolutely. That and the begging."

He let out a huff of low laughter against her skin, and then because his mouth was right there against her neck, and because she was touching his butt, and because she smelled good, he took a little nibble.

Her fingers dug into him, telling him how much she liked it but she shook her head. "No more touching until you beg."

"I wasn't touching, I was kissing."

"No kissing until you beg. No anything until you beg."

"I've never begged for this before."

"No? Well, it's good for your character to try new things."

He laughed again. Laughed while trying to get laid. That was new. "Okay." Lifting his head, he cupped her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. She was smiling, too, and it was good to see her doing so. It was good to see her period; his smile slowly faded. "Can I kiss you, Kenzie?"

"Is that the best you got?"

"Can I pretty-please kiss you?"

"Well, I suppose..."

That was all he let her get out before he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. She let out a little murmur of surprise and what he sincerely hoped was pleasure, because holy shit, it was like taking a time machine back in time, back to that sweet, hot, most amazing summer he'd once spent in her arms.

She made the sound again, the one that drove him crazy with wanting, and then she entwined her arms up around his neck, gliding her fingers into his short hair and tightening them, as if she didn't want him going anywhere.

Fat chance.

When he slid his tongue to hers, it was another homecoming, and this time her shuddery sigh was pure, hungry delight with a sprinkle of unadulterated lust on top.

Oh, yeah. Pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, he found the same sense of bewildered wonderment across her face that he imagined was across his. Because, yes, they were attracted to each other because of their past, but suddenly it was much, much more than that. Then the next thing he knew, they'd lunged for each other again, trying to climb into each other's body, just like old times.

Only it was new, all so damn new, and all the more heart-wrenching and gripping for it. They were no longer young and stupid. They were old enough to know better, old enough to know exactly what they were doing, old enough that he knew that this time, there would be no escaping unscathed.

It didn't stop him.

## 7

OH. MY. GOD.

Kenzie struggled to think, but Aidan had taken her breath away. And, as he surged up to his knees between her spread thighs, his hands fisted in the hem of his own shirt, his intention perfectly clear, he nearly stole her sanity—but she held on by a thread. "Wait," she gasped, putting a hand to his chest. "Hold it."

Still kneeling between her sprawled legs, his hands on the big T-shirt, about to strip her as naked as he was, he looked into her eyes. "Wait?"

She could have drowned in his gaze. Happily drowned. "You stopped begging."

He arched an eyebrow, which was highlighted by the slants of moonlight across his face. Stripes of light and dark, and in them, he was beautiful. "I mean it," she managed. "Absolutely nothing else happens here without some serious begging."

He stared at her, then lowered his head for a moment. When he lifted it again, she expected him to tell her he never begged for anything. That this—she—wasn't worth it. After all, she hadn't been once.

But he surprised her. "When we were together," he said quietly, "I dreamed about your body on the nights we didn't sleep in the same bed. Did you know that?"

"No." She shook her head. "You never said." He'd never said a lot of things. He'd held back so much.

And to be honest, so did I....

"I'd get off on it," he said, not holding back this time. Which did exactly what she hadn't wanted—it opened her heart to him.

"On you," he murmured. "For years afterward, I'd get off thinking about you."

She stared up at him. "You mean you..."

"Uh-huh. I jerked off." Leaning over her, he was nothing but a shadow until he bent even closer. Through the shutters, rectangles of light slashed over him as he let her look into his eyes, which were dark and scorching. "So much I'm lucky I'm not blind."

She laughed but also swallowed hard, surprisingly aroused at the thought of his touching himself while picturing her. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." His eyes glittered with heat and memories and suddenly both the heat and memories were making her feel awfully warm from the inside out.

Actually, they were making her hot.

Very hot.

"Tonight, just looking at you..." He let out a long breath and shook his head. "It brings it all back, but it's even stronger."

His mouth was in the shadows. She couldn't see his lips moving but his voice washed over her, as did the images he evoked. He was bringing it all back for her, too.

"You were beautiful then," he said. "But you're even more beautiful now. I want to take this shirt off of you, Kenz. Please let me."

At his words, she nearly turned the tables and begged him. She could feel the T-shirt caught high on her thighs. His hips were holding her legs open to him, and with just a little nudge of the shirt, he'd be able to see all her god-given goodies, along with the fact that she was already wet.

"Please," he murmured. "Please let me."

Oh, God. "Yes."

He shifted, and then she could see his mouth, which rewarded her with a smile as he made his move, his fingers closing around the hem of the shirt, slowly tugging it up, revealing her body.

She'd wanted this, sought it out under the guise of getting her long-needed revenge, but that was really just a lie, and her first flicker of doubt hit.

Just who was going to get hurt here...?

The night air brushed over her breasts as he pulled the shirt all the way off and over her head. Her nipples hardened. Goose bumps spread over her flesh, and it wasn't because she was cold. There were five stripes of moonlight across her body, one across her eyes, her throat, another highlighting her breasts, her belly and her crotch. He couldn't have lined her up more perfectly for his perusal, and he definitely perused.

"Aidan—"

His hand stroked over her hip, and her breath backed up into her throat. She opened her mouth to say maybe she'd been hasty about this whole breaking his heart thing, but before she could, he'd put a hand on her inner thigh and pushed, further opening her to him.

The slants of shadows hampered his view, but he didn't seem bothered, not with his front row seat.

The only sound in the room came from him as he let out a groan. "God, Kenzie. You're so pretty." He lowered his head, then paused, his mouth a hairsbreadth away from her trembling belly. "I want to kiss. I want to taste. I want that more than I want my next breath. Please let me..."

As far as begging went, it was pretty good. "O-okay," she managed, and almost before the word was out, he'd nudged her legs open even wider, wedging them there with his broad shoulders. He slowly lowered his head. "Pretty please," he whispered across her flesh.

Her wet flesh.

"Yes." Her heels dug into the mattress as he "pretty pleased" his tongue over her, and then his teeth, and then his warm lips, over and over again leaving her a panting, gasping, quivery mass of sensitized nerve endings, and when she exploded for him, he surged up, produced a condom and slid into her with one sure, powerful thrust.

"Oh," she gasped, reaching up to hold onto him because her world had just spun on its axis. The feel of him deep inside her—and he was deep, as deep as he could get—had her spiraling. Gone were all thoughts of hurting him, or revenge. She could think of nothing but this, but him. Not that she would admit such a thing. "You...you didn't beg for that."

Cupping her face, he tilted it up to his. "Pretty-please may I drive you out of your living mind?"

Oh, God.

"Kenzie? May I?" His voice was thick with the same hunger and need that was driving her.

"Yes."

"Good. May I also pretty-please make you scream my name?"

In answer, she arched up, her breasts pressing into his hard, warm chest, her legs wrapping around his waist.

He groaned, a low, rough sound that scraped at all her good spots but he didn't move. "Can I?"

"I don't usually do much screaming."

He just smiled, and then took her mouth as he took her body, indeed driving her out of her mind with all too disturbing ease, and when she exploded again, she cried out his name.

Loudly.

She might have even screamed it.

As the blood finally slowed in her veins, as the roar of it lowered to a trickle in her head, she became aware of the fact that she was gripping him tight, holding him close with her arms and her legs, not letting him escape.

He didn't say a word, just nuzzled lazily at her neck as his breathing slowed.

Hers wasn't slowing. Embarrassed at how tightly she was holding him, she forced herself to let him go, certain he'd roll away.

But in perhaps the loveliest thing he'd done all night, he didn't. Instead, he remained right where he was, turning just his head to press his lips to her jaw, murmuring her name on a sigh.

It was one of those defining moments, where she suddenly knew the truth—she'd not exacted a single ounce of revenge. In fact, she'd made things worse.

She'd risked her own heart.

But for that one moment at least, she didn't care, because maybe he'd changed. Maybe things could be different this time, and—

"You screamed my name." He lifted his head, revealing a strong smile. "You begged." He out-and-out grinned then, not broken, not even a little bit. "We still work hard."

"There's no we." She pushed him off her, suddenly and irrationally irritated. "No we at all."

Completely oblivious to the picture he made sprawled out on the bed, buck naked, he put his hands behind his head and continued to smile like an idiot. "Are you telling me you have no desire to do that again?"

"None."

"Ah, Kenzie. You're such a pretty liar."

Yeah. Yeah, she was. A pretty liar, and a good liar. But she had no idea how else to hide the fact that she still had feelings for him in spite of their past—or maybe because of it. God. She needed to get out for a while, needed to clear her head. Get some answers. Alone.

"Stay," he murmured.

"Okay." She looked at him. "I'll stay if you tell me this. Why did you really dump me?"

At that, his amusement faded. "I told you I was an idiot back then."

"Granted. Why else?"

He looked at her and she nearly backed down; she certainly held her breath, but he touched her face. "Because I didn't know what I had."

AIDAN SLEPT like the dead. Or like a man who'd been far too close to serious exhaustion. When he opened his eyes, he felt the various aches and pains from the fire, and from the mattress gymnastics he and Kenzie had executed, and was grateful to know he had two days off, because more sleep was on his To Do list. Much more.

So was more mattress gymnastics.

Considering that Kenzie was wrapped around him like a pretzel, that shouldn't be too difficult to manage. As he looked into her face, taking in each of the cuts and the bruises there in the light of day, he felt a tug in his belly.

He wished like hell he could say he was just hungry, but he knew the truth.

He was a goner.

She was as cut up and bruised as he was, more so, and if he hurt like hell, he could only imagine how she felt. He was used to such injuries. She wasn't.

"I realize I've spent my days on a television set, where my worst injury was a paper cut from that day's script," she whispered, eyes still closed. "But I'm not feeling as bad as I probably look."

Her face was relaxed now; and he realized it hadn't been before—not on Blake's boat, not when she'd crawled in bed with him, not even when he'd stripped her out of his shirt and proceeded to make her scream.

That he'd undone her so easily didn't stroke his ego. She'd undone him just the same. It'd always been like that for them, a virtual explosion of need and lust and hunger.

But he'd attributed much of that to being young and horny. He hadn't anticipated a resurgence of those feelings, And he doubted she had either. But that's exactly what they'd gotten.

With a sigh, she slid out of his arms and off the bed. He enjoyed the view as she walked to the bathroom, but when she shut the door, his smile faded. She needed sustenance, and a bandage change. Getting up, he pulled on his jeans and went into the kitchen, where he grabbed a pan and eggs and went to work getting them both some protein so that they could go back to bed and burn it all off again.

His doorbell rang and Aidan stopped dicing peppers long enough to sign the clipboard of a pudgy guy in brown shorts, who handed him a slim package.

When he heard the shower go off, he finished the eggs and then grabbed his first-aid bag and knocked on the door. "Bandages, aspirin and breakfast. And your package from L.A. is here."

"Perfect timing—I've got to run."

"You mean back to Los Angeles?"

The door opened and steam came out. As did Kenzie wrapped in another of his towels. "Not back. Not yet."

The towel was tucked between her breasts, which pushed them up and nearly out, a fact he'd have taken the time to thoroughly enjoy except for the nasty bruise arcing along her left collar bone. "You need rest."

"I need clothes." She moved past him and into his bedroom. "Can I borrow a pair of sweats?"

"Sure." He opened his dresser and handed the clothes over.

"Thanks. I've really got to go."

She was going to go snoop. Get in Tommy's way. Get herself arrested. "Kenzie, listen to me. You need to stay out of the investigation. The chief doesn't want you digging—"

"I don't work for him. He can't tell me what to do."

"If you stay—"

"No. Thank you, but, no."

Usually in the light of day, with a woman in his bedroom, he was the one who had to go. Usually.

Okay, always.

It felt odd to have the shoe on the other foot. Especially given the magnitude of what they'd shared last night, and he wasn't alone in feeling it, dammit. He knew he wasn't.

But Kenzie moved carefully away from him, slowly, as if still in pain, but with conviction. She was set on going, leaving him with a disconcerted feeling in his gut.

Was this how he'd made women feel? Like they'd already been forgotten? "Let's change your bandages—"

"I can do it on my own."

Seemed she was used to doing stuff on her own. That was new.

So was his unsettledness over the way this was going down.

"Yeah," she said at his quiet surprise. "I'm not the same helpless little thing I used to be."

"I never thought you were helpless."

"Well, I was. But I've grown up. I've changed. In many ways. And I don't need anyone's help. For anything."

He arched an eyebrow. "You needed me when we—"

"No. Well, yes, yes, I needed you to save me from the fire, but—"

"That's not what I was talking about." He pointed to his bed.

"Oh, no. That was just me, breaking your heart. I warned you, remember."

Bullshit. That hadn't been just revenge. "Kenzie."

"Sorry. Got to go. Have to go." Once again she dropped her towel, which had the same magical effect on him as it had last night. While he stood there taking in the glorious sight of her naked body, she pulled on the sweats, kissed him on the cheek, then walked out of the room.

And, given the sound of the front door opening and then closing, out of his house.

And, most likely, out of his life.

Fitting justice really, as he'd once done the same to her. Moving to the living room, he looked out the window in time to catch her taillights as they vanished down his driveway.

I've changed, she'd said, and she had.

But as the blood once again began a northward flow from behind the zipper of his pants back up to his brain, another thought managed to get his attention.

He'd changed as well. And he was going to prove it.

## 8

SOMEONE WAS KNOCKING on Aidan's door when he turned off the shower. She'd come back. With his pulse kicking, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, heading for the door at a speed far faster than his usual get-there-when-I-get-there saunter.

Only it wasn't Kenzie at all. "Dammit."

His best friend and partner Zach just looked at him. "Nice to see you, too." Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed past Aidan and walked in.

Fair enough. Aidan had let himself into Zach's house plenty of times. Aidan shut the door behind Zach and shoved his fingers through his wet hair. "Sorry. Thought you were someone else."

Zach took in Aidan standing there dripping wet, wearing only a towel. "Clearly. Who is she?"

"How do you know it's a she?"

"Because if you're meeting a guy dressed like that, we have a whole different issue to talk about."

Aidan rolled his eyes and left Zach to go get some clothes. In his bedroom, he looked at his bed as he pulled on a clean shirt. The covers were tossed half on the floor, and on his nightstand were two empty condom wrappers.

And though it was crazy given that Kenzie had used his shampoo, his clothes and his soap, he'd have sworn he could smell her scent, some complicated mix of soft, determined, sexy woman. He stared at the bed, remembering how he'd felt when she'd crawled in with him, remembering how natural it'd been to kiss and touch her, to sink into her body and go to a place he hadn't been in a long time.

Then they'd slept together, and that had felt good, too, being all tangled up in each other again. Familiar, but new. Even better, if that was possible. Things hadn't been complicated in the dark.

Things had been amazing.

But she'd left.

When he walked back into the kitchen, he found Zach staring at the breakfast he'd made for Kenzie.

"You made breakfast," Zach said. "As in got out a pan and cooked something."

"Yeah. So?"

"You put out napkins."

"Let me repeat myself. So?"

"So you never put out napkins. Not when it's me or the other guys."

"Do you want to split the food with me or not?"

"You didn't cook this for me."

"You're right."

Zach raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to question a plate of food?" Aidan said. "Really?"

Zach didn't have to be asked twice. He grabbed a plate and pulled up a chair.

"I thought you and Brooke were going away for a few days since you haven't been cleared to go back to work yet."

"We are. We're leaving tomorrow morning. Wanted to see you first."

"Ah, that's so sweet. You're going to miss me."

"Actually, I'm not." Zach shoveled in some food, and looked at him. "I heard about the explosion. I should have been there."

Aidan looked at the cast on Zach's left wrist, remembered how close he'd come to losing him along with Blake, and felt the food get caught in his throat. "You're not healed yet."

"It's coming along though." He squeezed his fingers into a fist, then stretched them straight out. "I could be back at work, dammit. I have no idea why the chief's being so hard-assed about this. I'm willing and able."

"Enjoy your few days off. You and Brooke deserve it."

"Yeah." Zach sighed. "So is the boat a complete loss?"

"Unfortunately."

"Kenzie all right?"

"Heard about that, too, huh?"

"Yeah." Zach paused. "Was it awkward, considering your past with her?"

"To be the one rescuing her?"

"What else?"

Yeah, genius, what else. Maybe sleeping with her...But that hadn't been awkward. Not one little bit.

Zach was looking at him. "What am I missing?"

Aidan shook his head. "Nothing."

"Come on."

"Okay, nothing I want to talk about."

"That I buy," Zach said, and like the good friend he was, changed the subject. "I heard that Blake must have kept his accelerants on the boat, which is why it blew like it did."

That was one theory, Aidan was sure.

But he had another. "Well..."

"What?" Zach asked.

"You're going to tell me I'm crazy."

Zach stood up and went to the refrigerator for the milk. "All those times I thought those fires were arson, you were the only one who believed me. I'll be the last one to tell you that you're crazy."

"Yeah, but now we know that Tommy was behind you the entire time, he was just in the middle of his investigation. Still is, with the chief riding his ass to put an end to this."

"Yeah." Zach pushed away his plate. "So I wonder what they'd say now."

"About...?"

"About your not buying that boat fire was any more accidental than the other fires. Or me not buying it, either."

Aidan looked into his best friend's eyes and let out a breath. "That boat was blown up for a reason and I think that reason was to hide something. Something that someone didn't want found."

"What?"

"I don't know. And I'm betting Tommy and the Chief don't know either but they want to."

"It doesn't make sense," Zach said. "Blake's dead."

Aidan pushed away his plate. "Yeah." Goddamn, but he wasn't going to get used to that any time soon, the fact that Blake, a friend, one of them for Christ's sake, was not only gone, but accused of arson.

"Which means that he wasn't working alone and whoever the other person is, they're running scared of something."

"Or someone," Zach said. "Kenzie shows up out of the blue after what, six years? Seems kind of odd, doesn't it?"

Aidan's gut tightened. "Her brother's dead, Zach."

"Yes. Her arsonist brother. They were close, right?"

"What are you saying, that she's his co-felon?"

"Look, I don't want to think about Blake doing the things they've accused him of, either. And I really don't want to think about the fact that if he was still alive, he'd be in jail. But those are the facts."

Aidan scrubbed his hands over his face. "She just got into town."

"You know that for sure?"

Actually, no, he didn't.

"Why was she on his boat?"

"Going through his things." Listen to him defend her. "Missing him."

Zach closed his eyes and rubbed them hard. "If that were true, wouldn't she have come sooner?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything except that Blake was all she had." Aidan got to his feet because he had to move, had to pace the length of the kitchen. "She's...devastated. Horrified. And pissed off that we all believe that Blake's guilty. I think she's going to go digging on her own and find out what she can."

"Which should make Tommy oh-so-happy."

"He's going to have her arrested if she hinders the investigation," Aidan admitted. "And she's going to hinder. It's in her nature. She intends to prove Blake innocent."

Zach raised a brow. "You got all that from pulling her out of the water?"

Well, shit. Aidan picked up his fork and shoveled some food in.

"You saw her after the fire. At the hospital."

"Yeah."

Zach paused. "And after that as well, I'm thinking."

"Yeah."

Zach peered around Aidan and into the living room, pointedly looking down the hallway.

"She's not still here."

"But she was here? Jesus, Aidan. What would Tommy say?"

"Since when does that matter?"

"Since we both now know that he was on our side about the arsons all along. He'll be on this, too, you can guarantee it."

Yeah. In hindsight, sleeping with Kenzie been a pretty stupid thing to do. And yet, what else could he have done but given her a place to stay?

Except for that using up two condoms part. He probably could have not done that.

"We've got to let Tommy do his thing here," Zach said quietly.

"I can't believe you're suggesting I stay out of it, when you did the very opposite."

"And paid for it," Zach reminded him, lifting his casted wrist.

"She was hurting, Zach. And alone. Her purse had burned in the fire and she had nowhere else to go so I let her stay here. End of story."

"You could have lent her money. She's a famous soap diva—I think she'd have been good for it."

"The hotels were all booked up."

When Zach just looked at him, Aidan lifted a shoulder. "It was just bad luck on her part."

"Just bad luck, huh? Funny, you don't look so put out."

"Don't you have a fiancée to go home to?"

Zach grinned dopily. "Yeah."

"So go already."

Zach got up, then paused. "Look, Aidan, I know she meant something to you once, but—"

"She's Blake's sister."

"And your ex. I'd think that'd be reason enough to stay away from her."

Yeah. One would think...

OPENING THE SLIM ENVELOPE she'd scooped from Aidan's kitchen table on her way out the door, Kenzie practically kissed the credit card she found inside. She needed some personal items, like clothes of her own, not to mention underwear. Not that she didn't love Aidan's sweats, because she did. They smelled like him. They felt like him.

Which was exactly why she had to get out of them.

She did her best not to pout over the loss of her Choos, which she wasn't going to find at Wal-Mart, but the store was still one of God's greatest creations. When she'd bought and put on a peasant skirt, two layered tank tops and a pair of sandals, she got back into her car. She'd missed two calls on her cell, both from that same local number as before, but no messages, so she put it out of her head and drove to the docks. Then she sat in the parking lot nursing a hot chocolate and a blessed box of donuts, staring at the charred remains of Blake's boat.

She was alone except for the occasional car. One was a light-gray sedan that slowed as it passed her, the windows so dark that she couldn't see in. Probably another looky-loo like herself, except...except she'd seen a car like it before, somewhere...

She ate a donut.

Until a couple of weeks ago, before Blake's death, she hadn't had chocolate or donuts in months. Maybe years. She'd been on a strict eighteen-hundred-calorie diet, combined with a workout every single day, without fail. All to look good.

That's what TV stars did. They looked good. She was paid to.

Except she no longer had a TV show to look good for. Back in L.A., she knew the job-finding frenzy had already begun. All her co-stars were busy auditioning, and what was she doing? Eating donuts instead of facing the fact that she was unemployed.

Her cushy, easy, comfortable, fun job had come to an end.

Life over.

She looked at Blake's Girl and felt the last donut congeal in her throat. No. Her job was over, not her life.

Blake's life was over.

God. Brushing the sugar from her fingers, she got out of the car. She wasn't looking her best, but then again, there were no paparazzi in Santa Rey. And thanks to no one in the press making the connection between her and Blake's Girl, there were no reporters to take pics of her pale, makeup-free face, or all of the bruises and cuts she'd sustained in the fire. Her wrist wasn't bothering her, but the splint was a pain in the butt. She hadn't been able to corral her hair into a ponytail, which meant it was flying wild around her face and in her eyes.

She could have asked Aidan for help but she'd rather have the wild hair than have his hands on her again.

Okay, that wasn't true, wasn't anywhere close to true, but she could pretend it was.

Dammit.

For those few hours last night in his arms, she'd not been alone and lost and hurting. She'd been transported, taken out of herself.

And along the way, she'd forgotten to make him regret dumping her. Nicely done. Rolling her eyes at herself, she moved closer to the docks. The charred remains of Blake's Girl were taped off with yellow crime scene tape.

She didn't know what that was about.

They thought Blake was a criminal? Fine. But they couldn't pin this one on him, he was already gone.

Gone...

Chest tight, she walked along the yellow tape, getting as close as she could, which wasn't close enough. No one was around, on the dock or otherwise, and she couldn't stop the thought—what if she ducked under the tape? Surely, as Blake's only living relative, she deserved to have a look.

The two boats on either side of Blake's Girl were still there. Barely. One was nearly burned black, and in fact looked as if it might still be steaming. The other was half gone, and half untouched.

And between them? A shell of a boat, blackened and charred beyond recognition.

Blake's boat was completely destroyed.

Looking at it, she could see it as it'd been two nights ago, when she could stand on it and still feel her brother's presence, when his things had still been okay. She wished she'd gotten something of his, something, anything...

Maybe she could crawl beneath the tape and get onboard to comb through the torched remains, and thinking it, she bent down, but at the sound of an engine, stopped and turned.

It was the gray sedan again, making another pass of the parking lot.

Goose bumps rose on her arms as she got that same sensation of being watched she'd had at the hospital.

Who was following her?

It wasn't Aidan. No way. He'd make himself known, that was for damn sure. He had a way of making himself known...

Someone else then.

Tommy?

No. Tommy didn't have the resources to have her followed. She doubted anyone in Santa Rey did.

Then she remembered her earlier missed calls, and pulled out her phone, hitting the number.

No one answered.

She ran her hand along the yellow police tape, but the truth was, she didn't quite have the nerve to boldly defy the law.

At least not during the daylight hours.

But tonight...

Yeah, tonight.

Under the cover of darkness.

Turning away, she squeaked as she accidentally bumped into a hard wall.

A hard wall that was really a warm, hard chest she recognized all too well, along with the big, warm hands that settled on her arms.

## 9

THE COLLISION SET KENZIE back a step, but Aidan held her upright.

She tilted her head up, up, up...and looked into his face, which was unfortunately indecipherable.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and calm, and concerned.

Okay, concern was good. Concern implied that he hadn't noticed what she'd been about to do. But was she okay? Hell, no.

Not even close.

"Are you?" His gaze swept down her body, then up again, as if categorizing her injuries, which reminded her of last night, when he'd also been categorized her body.

With his tongue.

"Yes," she managed. "I'm fine."

"Good. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing. Are you following me?"

"No."

"You're not driving a gray sedan and going everywhere I go?"

"I drive a truck, a blue one and I didn't follow you here. I got lucky on the first try. I figured you'd come here and try to do something stupid."

"I did nothing of the kind."

"You don't consider ducking beneath that yellow tape stupid?"

"Only if I'd gotten caught."

"Hello," he said, still holding on to her. His fingers tightened. "Caught."

"Yes, but you don't count."

He looked both boggled and irritated. "And why is that?"

"Because what are you going to do, arrest me? Last night you were kissing me, touching me, fu—"

"Okay," he said with a low laugh. "Now just hold on a second—"

"I'm just saying." She narrowed her eyes and went for bravado, even though she could hardly breathe while looking at the big blackened sailboat that less than two days ago had been Blake's Girl.

Aidan had saved her.

He'd saved her and she was poking at him because she was all twisted up inside. So she let out a breath and looked into his face, where she found a surprising blend of sympathy and old affection mixed in with the frustration and fear.

"I came here to talk," he said. "Not arrest you. Jesus. Now what the hell is this about a gray sedan?"

"Nothing."

He just looked at her for a long moment. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing."

"More like everything." He let out a breath. "Tommy expects you to let him do his job."

"I'm not going to get in his way. I'm going to help him."

"Now see, I don't think he likes help."

"Too bad for him."

"It's going to be too bad for you if you piss him off. He can and will have you arrested if you don't stay out of his way."

"Believe me, I plan to stay out of his way."

"Okay." He nodded. "New subject then."

Uh-oh.

"Last night..."

Kenzie didn't know how she felt about last night. And because she didn't, she absolutely didn't want to talk about it. "Yeah. Now's not a good time for me."

"You don't think so?"

She shook her head.

His eyes lit with something that might have been wry humor. He'd been just as beat up as her yesterday, but unlike her, today he did not look like something the cat dragged in. No, he looked tall and fit, and in his loose cargoes and T-shirt, he seemed very in charge of himself and his world.

She, on the other hand, was in charge of exactly nothing at the moment. "Maybe later." And maybe not.

He hadn't taken his hands off of her arms, and if asked she'd have said she wasn't sure how she felt about that, but that would be a lie. At the moment, his support felt like a lifeline.

Her only lifeline. "Tell me something," she said very quietly, her eyes on his so she didn't miss any little nuance, because this was very, very important to her. "Arson. It's a well studied crime, right? The people who do it, most of them belong to a particular character type. Aggressive. Violent. Repeat offenders."

"Yes," he agreed. "How do you know this?"

"We did a whole plotline about an arsonist last year. Would you characterize Blake as aggressive or violent?"

"Not even close."

"Exactly," she said.

"Which doesn't prove anything. There's physical evidence—"

"Okay," she agreed. She knew about the evidence. "But most arsonists want their work admired. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"But Blake maintained his innocence. Tommy told me that much."

"Yes," Aidan agreed, his expression reflecting his worry for her, whether he wanted it to or not.

Which she didn't want to face. She meant to do two things when it came to Aidan, especially after last night. First: keep her distance. And second: leave him pining for her.

It was going to be nearly impossible to handle the second while doing the first but she would give it her best shot. "So can't you concede that it's possible that you're wrong about Blake?"

"I'm not the one accusing him of anything."

She looked at him, really looked at him, and understood something she'd missed before. He didn't want to believe the worst of Blake any more than she did, and that was so much more than she expected from him, from anyone, that it was like a balm to all her fear and grief.

He wasn't against her or Blake. She wasn't completely alone, at least not in that moment, and she found herself closing the gap between them to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders, hugging him hard, so damn relieved to have him there with her.

With a rough sound, his arms came around her, too, and he pulled her in, letting her lean on him. "Kenzie," he whispered, bowing his head over hers. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Yeah. Keeping her distance from him was going to be damned tough.

So would be breaking his heart, but she was still going to do it. It was that, or see hers crushed again, and that was simply not going to happen.

Aidan had never been a hugging sort of guy. He loved physical contact, especially the naked kind, with the fairer sex, but touching just out of sheer affection and nothing else? That hadn't really been a part of his life. Having been the sort of child who'd made it difficult for others to like him, much less love him, he hadn't inspired a lot of affection growing up. And working with mostly guys all the time...well, they tended to shove and wrestle rather than hug.

So this, with Kenzie, should have felt awkward. Alien. At the very least it was an intrusion of his personal space that he would have thought would make him squirm to be free.

But it didn't. Even though a piece of her hair was poking him in the eye and she was stepping on his toe, and her nose—pressed against his throat—was icy enough to make him wince, he didn't move.

In fact, he tightened his arms on her, pressing his face into her hair, inhaling her as if he didn't want to let go.

Because he really didn't.

She was warm and soft and sweet, and when her fingers slid into his hair he nearly purred. His hand skimmed down her spine, pressing low on her back, urging her even closer as he just continued to breathe her in.

Just down the dock, two seagulls argued over some found treasure. Water slapped at the wood pylons. Beyond that, the devastation of the fire sat right before their eyes. Aidan didn't want her looking at it. "You need to get out of here."

"Yeah." She stepped back. "I know. I'm going."

He caught her hand, and when she looked at him questioningly, he saw the truth in her eyes. Wherever she was headed, it was to make trouble.

"I'm a big girl now."

Yes. She was a woman who could more than take care of herself. Which in no way eradicated the need within him to protect her. "Have you eaten?"

She stared at him, then let out a low breath. "I tell you I can take care of myself and you want to feed me? Even after I also told you that I only wanted to be with you in order to break your heart?"

"Yeah, see, about that..." He stroked a loose strand of hair off her face, letting his finger trace the rim of her ear, absorbing her little shiver. "I don't really believe you."

"Oh, it's true," she said with utter conviction. "I'm going to break your heart."

"That wasn't the only reason you stayed with me last night. Slept with me."

"Okay, true. You saved my life. I owed you."

He shook his head. "That wasn't it, either."

"What was it then, smart guy?"

"You like being with me."

A helpless laugh escaped her at that.

"I like being with you, too, Kenz."

She shook her head. "You're off your rocker."

"Already established. So. Food?"

She stared at him, then caved. "I guess I could eat."

She followed him in her car to Sunrise Café. Aidan had no idea why he took her there, other than that taking her back to his place, where they'd be alone, seemed like a really bad idea.

Sheila was thrilled to see him and gave him a huge hug, smiling with some speculation at Kenzie. Even though it was afternoon by then, Aidan ordered a large breakfast. When Kenzie tried to get just coffee, he merely doubled his order, and then took her up to the roof.

There was a long bench against the far wall, where they sat to watch the surf. It was rough, which didn't stop the surfers from enjoying it.

Kenzie stared out at the waves. "It's nice up here. A good place to think. You come here a lot?"

"I do."

"Sheila's fond of you."

"Very," he agreed.

She smiled at him, and just like that, melted his heart. "You've made some good ties," she said softly.

He got a little lost in her eyes, and leaned in with some half-baked idea of kissing her, and—

"Come and get it!" Sheila yelled up from the bottom of the stairwell.

Sighing—what else could he do—Aidan led the way down to the crowded dining room. Sheila seated them, then brought them their plates, winking at Aidan before leaving.

Kenzie looked down at her loaded plate. "I'm not that hungry."

"Uh-huh." He nudged her fork closer to her fingers. "That's what you always used to say. You'd tell me you weren't hungry and then you'd eat everything off my plate, remember?"

Humor lit her eyes. "What I remember is that you were my boyfriend. You were supposed to share."

"So, what are you saying? That you wouldn't, say, eat off Chad's plate?"

"Chase. And he's vegan and doesn't eat anything that isn't completely raw, so, no, I wouldn't."

Aidan leaned over and stroked another stray strand of hair off her cheek. He had no idea why he kept finding excuses to touch her, other than she looked sad and just a little lost. She wore no makeup, and all those gorgeous blond waves had rioted around her face, a few long strands curling around her jaw. It was just Kenzie. No smoke and mirrors, no pomp or celebrity. Just the woman who'd once touched his heart.

And, apparently, still did.

So he did what he'd wanted to do on the roof—he leaned over their food and kissed her, just once, softly on the lips. When he pulled back, she gave a baffled little smile and touched her fingers to her mouth. "What was that for?"

Before he could answer, Zach walked up to their table. "Hey."

"Hey," Aidan said in surprise. "Kenzie, this is Zach. Zach, Kenzie is—"

"Blake's sister." Zach's eyes softened as he looked at her. "I miss your brother."

"Thank you," she murmured. "Me, too."

Zach turned to Aidan and handed him a file.

"What's this?"

"I wanted you to have it while I was gone. In case you need it for anything."

Aidan opened the file and instantly knew what he held. All the evidence Zach had gathered over the past few months on the mysterious arsons. Zach had been the first one to suspect something was going on and the first to go to Tommy for answers. Closing the file he met Zach's steady gaze. "Thanks. Want to join us?"

"Can't. Brooke's waiting for me. I just talked to Eddie and Sam. Did you know there was another explosion last night? The hardware store on Sixth."

"Injuries?"

"Several, and one death. Tracy Gibson."

Aidan's stomach dropped. The woman Blake had had a crush on for months before his death.

Kenzie divided her gaze between them. "Who's Tracy?"

"She was an employee at the hardware store," Zach told her. "Same setup as Blake's Girl," he said to Aidan, tapping the file with meaning. "So keep this."

Aidan understood. Zach thought he might need the info in the file when he was gone.

"Nice meeting you," Zach said to Kenzie. With a squeeze to Aidan's shoulder, he left.

"So what does that mean?" Kenzie asked. "If there was a similar explosion, maybe Blake's boat wasn't an accident."

"Maybe."

"A new serial arsonist?" she scoffed. "What are the chances of that in a small town like this?"

"I don't know."

"I know," she said. "Next to nil."

She was watching him with sadness still in her eyes, along with a sense of sharp intelligence that said she wasn't going to let this go. The brash tilt of her chin alluded to a strength of will, of passion, he knew firsthand, and suddenly he was afraid for her.

For her, of her, and of the feelings she invoked inside him. Damn, not again...Not falling for her again, he told himself. But it didn't matter that he was seated across from her in a crowded café, surrounded by people.

She was all he saw.

He watched her push her food around the plate for a few minutes, then wrapped his fingers around her wrist, guiding her fork to a large bite of eggs and bringing it to her mouth.

She took it into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, all with her gaze never leaving his. "You keep looking at me like you care."

"I do."

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not going to care about you back." At that, she broke eye contract and stared down at the food. "At least not like I did before."

"So you've mentioned."

"I mean it."

"I believe you." He also believed that she just might get her big wish, because looking at her sitting there, knowing she'd be walking away from him this time, caused a strange sensation deep inside him. He'd have sworn it was his heart rolling over and exposing its underbelly.

Kenzie took another bite of food as his cell phone buzzed. It was Dispatch. "Sorry," he said, standing. "I have to take this."

"No problem." She was suddenly engrossed in her food, not even looking up when he went outside to get good enough reception to hear that two firefighters had come down with the flu. They needed replacements for the next shift. So much for a day off—he was going back on duty, starting now.

He turned to go back inside the café and nearly bumped into Kenzie. "Sorry," she said, flashing a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. "I've got to go."

Huh. That had been his line.

"I paid the bill—"

He reached for his wallet. "Let me—"

But she put her hand over his and shook her head. "It's on me. Consider it a very small down payment."

"For what?"

"For what I owe you for saving my life."

"Kenzie—"

"Thank you," she said softly, looking into his eyes, making his head spin. "I'm not sure I said that enough. I am extremely grateful."

Wait. That sounded like a good-bye. "Okay, hold on a second. Are you—"

Going up on tiptoes, she put a hand to his chest, leaned in and kissed him on the jaw. She added a smile to the mix, one that went all the way to her eyes this time as she touched her fingers to her lips and then blew him another kiss.

Then she turned and walked away.

As he'd once done to her. "Kenzie."

But she'd already gotten into her car. Where the hell was she going? She revved the engine and was gone, out of the lot, perhaps out of his world. He stood there a moment, absorbing a barrage of emotions, starting with regret and ending with a surprising hurt, and then he shrugged it off and walked inside to say good-bye to Sheila. That's when his head stopped spinning and it hit him.

Kenzie had stolen his file.

## 10

UNFORTUNATELY FOR KENZIE, the doggie convention was still in town. She tried a couple of B and Bs and got excited when a cute front desk clerk recognized her and said he'd stir up a room. But then he picked up his phone and yelled, "Ma! Get out of the room, I've got a girl!"

Kenzie shouldn't have been surprised, since her karma was clearly still on vacation. She made the clerk leave his mother in the room and escaped. Back in her car, she sighed, feeling very alone.

She missed Blake.

And dammit, she already missed Aidan, too. Missed his voice, his smile, his touch.

How was that even possible? She'd just left him. She'd stolen his file for God's sake. No doubt he was cursing her right this minute.

And definitely not missing her.

She pulled into the library and made herself comfortable on a large chair in a far corner, then opened the file. Almost immediately she felt an odd prickle of awareness, and then the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She was being watched again.

She craned her neck left and then right, but no one in her immediate area was so much as looking at her. Behind her was a set of shelves, and she shifted, trying to see through a gap to the aisle on the other side.

Nothing.

Clearly she was still in the process of losing her mind. Determined, she went back to the file. Zach and Aidan had been thorough. There was a list of fire calls from Firehouse Thirty-Four over the past six months, five of them highlighted. The questionable fires, she realized.

The arsons Blake had ultimately been accused of starting.

Attached were details of those five properties: architectural plans, permits, a history of ownership, purchases and sales. Each had been plotted out on a map, and scrutinized up one side and down the other, including everything that had been found on site after the fire.

Zach had noted finding a metal mesh trash can at each site, and even had a picture of one, from the fire just before the one at Zach's own house. As she was looking at it, her cell phone vibrated. She nearly ignored it until she saw it was the same local cell phone number as before, and she grabbed it. "Hello?" she said breathlessly.

When several people in chairs nearby glared at her, especially one older woman going through a stack of history books, Kenzie hunched her shoulders, mouthed a "sorry" and whispered "hello" much more softly.

An equally soft voice spoke in return. "Forget about it, forget about all of it, and go back to Los Angeles."

Kenzie clutched the phone. She couldn't tell if she recognized the speaker because the voice was purposely being disguised. "Is that a threat?"

"You're going to be stubborn. Goddammit."

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"It doesn't matter. Just get the hell out of Santa Rey."

"So you are threatening me."

"If I said yes, would you go?"

"No."

"Shit." There was a beat of silence. "Okay, listen to me. There's only one way out of this."

"What?" she said, forgetting to whisper, receiving more glares for that. With effort, she lowered her voice. "What do you mean?"

"Your laptop was destroyed in the boat fire?"

"How do you know that?"

"You have backup."

"What does that have to do with—" She went still as it hit her. She and Blake had shared files. Music files, movie files...they'd e-mailed and IM'd each other regularly. And once a week he'd send her a large backup file from his laptop so that if it ever crashed, she could just send him back what he needed. She'd done the same. She'd saved all her stuff, and Blake's, in her Yahoo account. All she had to do was get to another computer. "Who are you?"

"Check the demos. That's the key."

"What?" Kenzie clutched the phone. "What does that mean? Who are—"

But she knew before she even finished her sentence that he was gone. But who was he? A friend of Blake's? "Dammit."

"Shh!" everyone around her hissed.

Yeah, yeah, fine. But the prickle in the back of her neck hadn't gone away. She got to her feet and moved to the end of the aisle, peeking around the corner just in time to catch sight of the back of a guy running away. No red shirt this time but she knew it was the same guy she'd seen at the hospital. She hightailed it after him, but when she got to the other end of the aisle, she plowed directly into the librarian.

"No running in the library!"

"Sorry." Kenzie stepped around her, but it was too late. Her helpful mysterious caller was gone. She turned back to the librarian. "Can I use an online computer?"

"You have to sign up."

"Okay, where?"

"We're closing in half an hour, and the computers are in use until then. How about the morning?"

"Fine." She'd spend tonight going through the boat and Blake's place for anything that could help her. Then she'd borrow Aidan's computer—if he let her—or come back here to prove that Blake had been set up. Because that was the only answer she was willing to accept.

Someone had framed him, was still framing him.

And she was going to find out who.

AT THE STATION, Aidan was run ragged by one call after another. Near the end of the shift, his unit was called out to a secondary fire at the hardware store, where the explosion from two days ago had killed Tracy. Looking at the scene woke Aidan right up. The new fire wasn't from any smoldering spark left over from the explosion. No way. This fire had been set.

Purposely.

In a wire mesh trash can.

Tommy was already there, and at the look on Aidan's face, shook his head. "Don't start."

"Arson."

"I said don't start."

"Let me guess. We're not going to have this conversation."

"Bingo." Tommy sounded extremely tense. "And this time I'll tell you why." He got up in Aidan's face.

"Because I'm close, okay? I'm very, very close to finishing this. So you need to let me do just that. Got it?"

Aidan didn't see that he had a choice. Later, back at the station, he stretched out on the station couch, closing his bleary eyes, needing to think.

Somehow it was all connected, he just knew it...He fell asleep trying to piece it all together, and then dreamed of a certain hot, curvy, sweet woman. A hot, curvy, sexy woman who happened to also be a thief.

He woke up when someone sat on him.

And then bounced on him.

Opening his eyes, he met Cristina's frowning ones. "Trying to sleep here."

"No, you're not. Your eyes are open."

"Watch this." He closed them again.

She bounced again, a maneuver that threatened to break his legs. "How's Blake's sister?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're sleeping with her. Is she okay?"

He shook his head. "How? How do you know what I barely know?"

"Rumor mill." Her derisive humor hid her misery. Cristina was hurting. Hurting over losing Blake, her partner. Hurting over somehow blowing it with Dustin. She was so hard on the outside that they all forgot how soft and sensitive she was deep inside. She'd loved Blake like a brother, and cared about Kenzie by default.

"How is she, Aidan?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"She hasn't returned my phone calls."

"So you're losing your touch, too." She broke off, momentarily distracted when Dustin walked into the room.

The tall, tough-bodied, soft-hearted EMT pushed up his glasses, glanced at Cristina and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

Cristina didn't appear to breathe. Five agonizing seconds passed, and finally, she looked away first.

Dustin merely sighed.

The two of them had been doing some kind of emotional tap dance for weeks now. Dustin said he wanted more. Cristina said she didn't.

Now the tension in the room was so thick Aidan could hardly even see them anymore. "Hey, here's an idea. You two could lust after each other in secret and then ignore each other in person. Because it's not awkward at all."

"Shut up, Aidan." Cristina sent a glare in Dustin's direction, one that said you're an idiot.

Without a word, Dustin walked away, into the kitchen.

Cristina expelled a low breath.

"Looks like I'm not the only one losing my touch," Aidan noted. "What did you do?"

"How do you know I did something?"

"Please."

Cristina sighed. "He's got his panties all unraveled because I went out with an ex."

"Ouch."

"No. No ouch. It was just dinner for God's sake. No biggee."

"Yeah. But it was dinner with a guy you've gotten naked with."

She shrugged, but dejection had settled over her pretty features. "Whatever."

"Cristina."

"I told you, it was just dinner." She got off of his legs, making sure to get an elbow in his gut. "And if he can't see that then screw him."

"Why don't you just talk to him? Tell him the truth?"

"Talking isn't what I want." She headed outside, slamming the door as she went.

Aidan's cell rang and he leaped for it, hoping for Kenzie, but he got Tommy instead.

"Might want to get down to county," the inspector said in an undecipherable tone.

"Why?"

"Because I had your girlfriend arrested."

"You arrested Kenzie?"

"You have another girlfriend I don't know about?"

"She's not my—" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the hell happened?"

"She's in for trespassing and interfering with a crime scene, so you figure it out. You don't control your women very well."

"She's not my woman!"

"Either way, I'd hurry. Oh, and get your checkbook. This date's going to cost you big."

## 11

JAIL WASN'T NEARLY as adventurous as it'd been that time Kenzie had been arrested on her soap. Then she'd had a costume director and a makeup artist. Oh, and nice, soft, flattering lights. Plus she'd been able to walk off the set when the director had yelled "cut", and had sipped her iced tea and laughed it all off.

No such luxuries today.

Real life sucked.

She was given her phone call—which went to her attorney, who promised to work on getting her out. With Kenzie's own checkbook, of course.

After several hours in a holding cell, during which she contemplated the odd and unwelcome turn her life had taken, and also chewed on a few nails, she was handed her see-through baggie of personal belongings—that was twice in two days—and shown the door.

Standing in front of it wasn't her attorney, but her own gorgeous, personal savior.

Aidan was dressed in his firefighter uniform, which told her he'd come right from the job. He still wore his firefighter badass expression, too, and was looking more than a little bit temperamental as well.

Yeah. Not exactly thrilled to see her.

Nor was she thrilled to see him.

Okay, so a little part of her was. The bad girl part of her, which reared its horny head and begged Oh, please can we have him just one more time?

She ignored that and her quivery belly, and tried to brush past him.

"What, no thank you?" He shifted so that she was forced to bump into him.

Backing up, she put her hands on her hips and sent him a glare as mean as she could conjure up after a few hours spent in jail. "I didn't call you."

"Yeah. I noticed."

There were several people milling around, all from a different part of society than she was used to. The guy closest to her might have been fifty, or a hundred and fifty, it was hard to tell with the multitude of hats and coats he was wearing, despite it being summer. He pulled out a cigarette and a match, and even though she saw it coming, when he struck the match to the matchbox and the little whoosh hit her ears, she cringed.

Aidan was there in a second, holding her steady, which only further embarrassed her. "Easy."

"Damn." She let out a shaky breath. "What is that?"

"Post traumatic—"

She waggled a finger in his face. "Don't say it."

"—stress. Why didn't you call me, Kenzie?"

"Who did?"

"Tommy."

"Rat-fink bastard." It was coming back to her, her childhood here—the small town mentality, the utter lack of secrets, the way everyone stuck their nose in everyone else's business. She'd had enough of that from her early years to last her a lifetime.

She and Blake had been kept together as they'd gone into the child care protective services, where they'd landed in a total of three foster homes, each as kind and as warm as they could possibly be, and for that she was more than grateful, she was also lucky—but she'd never really settled into any of them. She didn't tend to settle, didn't tend to get comfortable; it was what had made her so certain Aidan was the one.

Look how that had blown up in her face.

When she'd gone off to Los Angeles and begun acting, she'd found heaven. Pretending to live someone else's life, already all scripted out? Perfect. She'd loved it. Still loved it.

But a small part of her knew that she couldn't always rely on a script. That at some point she would have to wing it. She'd eventually need a life, a real one, and she'd always figured that life would somehow be entwined with her brother's, maybe even right here in Santa Rey....

But now there was nothing for her here, nothing except proving Blake's innocence.

Aidan caught her arm as she stepped outside. She yanked free and he put up his hands, letting her step away from him as they walked outside. He leaned a hip against a tree, looking big and tall and attitude-ridden as he eyed her like she was a lit fuse.

His hair had been finger-combed at best. She could smell soap and man, and the potent mix of testosterone and pheromones boggled her mind. If she lived to be two hundred years old, she'd never understand her attraction to him. Back in her L.A. world, she had access to dozens of gorgeous men. Hundreds.

But while some had been nice dalliances, none of them had ever really gotten anywhere. Probably because a good number of the men she met were like her.

Pretend.

Not Aidan. He lived life with his eyes wide open, no script needed. His job demanded a lot of him, and he was tough because of it, but he hadn't ever shied away from something just because it was hard. Except for her.

"Thanks for bailing me out," she conceded.

"Need a ride to your car? Or are you going to manage that on your own, too?"

The sun was warm and bright, and she stood still in it for a moment, tilting her head up to it, inhaling deeply. Then she turned to the man who had once been her everything. Whether she liked it or not—and for the record, she didn't—he could still stop her heart, make her pulse race, and worst of all, make her hormones stand up and shimmy. "Yeah. A ride would be great, if you don't mind."

He let out a sound that told her what he thought of that, and took her to his truck.

"About that ride..." She slowed, dragging her feet. "Everything's still booked. Maybe there's something—"

"You know where there's something." He turned on the engine and pulled out of the lot. "At my place."

"Yeah." She shook her head. "No."

"Yeah no?"

She sighed. "It's just that staying with you seems like a whole lot of trouble I don't want to face."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to lead you on."

"I thought you enjoyed exacting your revenge on my body."

With more than a slight twinge of regret and, dammit, guilt, she avoided his gaze.

"Come on, Kenz, be honest. You're not afraid of hurting me. You're afraid you'll get hurt."

Wasn't that the plain ugly truth.

"You made sure I understood that you'd changed," he said softly, looking over at her for a beat before returning his attention to the road. "Now you have to understand something. I've changed as well."

Yes. Yes, he had.

"Look, you wanted to know what happened all those years ago?" he asked. "I got scared, that's what the hell happened. I'd always lived my life without letting people inside my heart, where they could hurt me. But you got in, and, yeah, that terrified me. You're doing it again, by the way, getting in, and I'm not any more thrilled about it now than I was then."

Something warm slid through her at his words, and the low, rough tone in which they were spoken. Warm, and dangerously seductive.

He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine, turning in his seat to face her. "You'll have to make do without the five-star rating." He paused a beat. "Although there are certain five-star services I do offer."

When she met his gaze she saw the sparkle of pure wicked trouble in his eyes. Oh, boy. "Aidan—"

"I'm talking about my breakfasts, which you happened to miss out on. And then there's my massage specialty." He didn't add any obvious eyebrow waggle or other suggestive gesture, but his eyes crinkled and she knew he was thinking suggestively.

Yup. Dangerously seductive. She already knew how erotic his touch could be, just how earthy, how naughty, and she wasn't ready to go back there. Not if she intended to be the one to walk away this time.

And there would be walking away when this was over...

Even while she was thinking it, he took her hand and led her to his door. Her instinct was to make a smartass comment to piss him off, chase him away, and yet she didn't do anything but allow him to open the door for her. Once she started to step inside, he stopped her. When she met his gaze, he asked, "You planning anything else I should know about?"

"Like?"

"Shit. Anything. It could be anything."

The sun was bright. The surf behind them loud and choppy. She loved the scent of the ocean. She'd missed that, working long, long days on set in the middle of Los Angeles. Now that she'd been cancelled, she could see taking a laptop out on the beach and just writing to her heart's content if she wanted. "My immediate plans involve a shower."

"That's all?" he asked so warily that she smiled.

"Yeah. That's all."

He touched the corner of her smiling mouth. "That's a good look for you."

"What are you talking about, I smile all the time."

"On TV, maybe. But I haven't seen much of it here."

"Well, maybe that's because I was in a fire, then facing the fact that my brother's dead, and then..." And then she'd been in his bed, naked, panting, sobbing his name, holding onto his head as his mouth and then his body had taken her to heaven—

"That look," he said, pointing at her. "I want to know what you were thinking just then to put that look on your face."

She crossed her arms over her suddenly aching breasts. "Nothing."

"You are such a liar," he chided softly.

He gestured her inside his place, and she took a better look around than she had when she'd been fresh out of the hospital, and then fresh out of his bed. She saw the pretty windows, the wood floors he'd done himself, and felt another ache, this one in her chest.

She knew that growing up, Aidan hadn't had much of a stable home life, either. He'd been shuffled around as much as she had. Going into the fire academy had changed his life, given him a team, but more than that, his first real friendships. The kind of friendships that would last, the kind of friend that had his back no matter what. He still hadn't had any real understanding of what that meant when she'd gone off to Los Angeles, but she could tell it had come to him in the years since. There was an easy confidence about him, an air that said he'd been well liked, well taken care of...

Well loved.

Her heart did a little flop at that because she hadn't given herself the same. Oh, sure, she was liked. She'd been taken care of. But loved by someone other than Blake?

No.

And if she took away the fame, leaving just small-town girl Kenzie Stafford, what would actually be left?

The answer was as unsettling as the thought, especially given that now she really was without that fancy job. "Aidan?"

He'd headed for the kitchen, but stopped and turned to her. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For?"

"For bailing me out. For waiting to make sure I was okay."

He leaned back against the wall and studied her. "So why did you do it, Kenz? Why did you go back after I'd warned you not to—" He broke off and shook his head. "Never mind. I just heard my own words and realized exactly why you did it. Because I warned you not to."

"Am I that stubborn?"

"Hell, yeah, you're that stubborn."

She rolled her eyes, then caught the flash of humor in his. He was laughing at her, and not with her, which should have made her defensive and possibly bitchy, but in spite of herself, she let out a laugh, too. "Okay, so it wasn't the smartest thing I've done. But it was the right thing."

"How about stealing my file, was that the right thing, too?"

She let out a low breath. "I was wondering when we were going to get to that."

He just looked at her, big and bad and...patient. So damn patient. She pulled the file from her bag and handed it over. "Thanks."

"I'd say you're welcome, if I'd given it to you."

"You'd have done the same thing in my position."

"You think so?"

She looked into his compelling eyes and felt her breath catch. "Okay, no. You would have asked. But maybe you're a better person than I am."

His eyes expressed his surprise at that statement. They both knew she hadn't always considered him such a great guy. "People change," she whispered, mirroring his words back to her. "Right?"

"That's right." The smile hit his eyes before his lips slowly curved, and there was an answering quiver that began in her belly. Oh, boy. Not good. He was standing too close, and not being annoying or antagonistic, and suddenly it all seemed too intimate.

She started to turn away but that was cowardice, and if she was going to learn anything while being back here in Santa Rey, it was not going to be that, so she faced him again. "I really am sorry for dragging you into this. For getting arrested and you having to bail me out. For driving you crazy. Pick any of the above."

"You didn't drag me into anything."

"Maybe not, but I'm about to." She let out a breath. "I need to tell you something."

"Okay." When she didn't go on, he raised an eyebrow. "Is it something that's going to get you arrested again?"

"No. I'm kind of hoping to avoid repeating that experience."

"Good."

"But there are things you should know. Things you're not going to like."

"Try me."

"Okay. I've been getting calls from someone I think is trying to help me."

He stared at her. "Your local cell caller?"

"Yes. He told me the key, whatever that means, is in Blake's computer files."

"He?"

"I think so. But I can't place the voice, he's disguised it."

"How the hell does he know the key's in Blake's computer files?" Aidan asked her.

"I don't know."

"Blake's laptop was never found. I'm betting it went up in Blake's Girl."

"As did mine. But with a computer, I could access my backup files, which would include Blake's backup files."

"I have a computer." He was close enough that she could see the green swirling in his light brown eyes. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the lines on his face, only added character, and a sexiness she couldn't have explained to save her life.

His mouth was slightly curved and she knew if she leaned in and touched hers to it, his lips would be warm and skilled, and most of all, giving.

"I didn't think I'd be happy to see you," she murmured, stepping closer. "But I've been proven wrong on two accounts now. When you saved me from the fire, and when I came out of jail and saw you standing there."

"Just the two?"

"Well, maybe one other time..."

Leaning close, he let his mouth brush her ear. "Try a couple."

At the reminder of how he'd made her come several times, easily she might add, as if he knew her body better than she did, a little shiver of awareness went down her spine, chased by another one, this one pure anticipation.

He could do it again. He could take her there again, to heaven, to oblivion...Only this time it wouldn't be adrenaline. This time she'd go in with her eyes wide open. His needed to be as well.

"I was worried about you," he murmured. "You've got to stay out of this one, Kenzie. Stay out of Tommy's way."

Somehow her face was nuzzling his throat, and she was trying to breathe him in. "I'm going to prove Blake's innocence in all this," she told him, liking the feel of her lips against his skin. "No matter the cost."

"Even if the price is my friendship?"

Her throat actually tightened at the thought and she pulled back to look into his eyes. "Is it going to cost me that?"

"Depends." He took her hand, put it on his chest and offered her a smile. "You still intending on stomping all over my tender heart?"

At that, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the ones telling her he was teasing her, she out and out laughed, feeling much of tension drain away. "Yes."

His hands went to her hips, pulling her closer, and she stared into his face, feeling so at home in his house that she found herself hesitating, not for the first time that day, and wishing she had a script for what came next.

"You're thinking again," he murmured.

"Yeah."

He leaned back against the front door, unexpectedly giving her space. Space she thought she'd wanted, but found she didn't want at all. "I really did intend to stomp all over your heart, you know. When I first saw you again, I wanted to hurt you the way you'd hurt me. But then we kissed."

"We did a lot more than kiss."

She flashed back to that night, when she'd climbed into bed with him, pressing her icy feet to his, then her body. She remembered realizing he was naked and warm and strong and hard...God. He'd been so utterly irresistible, she'd lost her head. And, yeah, they'd done a lot more than kiss. "Fine. We kissed, and then I decided I should sleep with you and then walk away. Perfect, neat revenge."

"Neat, maybe. But not perfect." His eyes were glittering with knowledge, hard won. "Because it wasn't as easy as you thought, was it?"

No, it hadn't been. Because it'd been amazing between them. So damned amazing. "Maybe I've been looking at this wrong."

He didn't move from the door, just kept looking at her, his eyes warm, his mouth curved, his body big and bad and so gorgeous she could hardly stand it.

She wanted him.

Again.

Still.

"Maybe it's not about sleeping with you once and walking away," she heard herself say. "Maybe it's about letting this thing take its own lead for as long as I'm here."

"'This thing'? You mean the way we apparently can't stay out of each other's pants?"

At the huskiness in his voice, her nipples hardened. "Yes."

## 12

AIDAN PUSHED AWAY from the door and came toward Kenzie, all easy, loose-limbed confidence, yet radiating an intensity that made her breath catch. He didn't stop until they were toe-to-toe, and she slowly tipped up her head to look into his inscrutable eyes.

"You want to have sex," he said silkily. "Here. Tonight. Now."

Her breath caught at his bluntness. "And then maybe again later."

"Later," he repeated, as if trying to process this.

"Maybe even until I leave Santa Rey. At which time we both walk away, eyes wide open."

He just stared at her for the longest moment. "What happened to trouncing on my heart?"

"It seems you were right. I don't really want to hurt you."

When he shot her a not-buying-it look, she caved. "Okay, so I want to hurt you less than I want to sleep with you again."

"You know, you'd think I'd be tough enough to walk away from such an overwhelmingly romantic offer," he said drily, sounding both intrigued and baffled. "But apparently..." He put his hands on her hips. "I'm not."

She offered a smile that was sheer nerve. "So...yes?"

His eyes never wavered, holding hers, leveling her as he pulled her in. "I don't know, Kenzie. I'm a little afraid..."

"Be serious."

His smile was crooked and impossibly endearing. "I am. This time you could really do it, whether you're trying to or not. This time, you just might take out my heart."

"Come on," she quipped, even as a part of her was afraid he was right, for both of them. "If we're just having a physical relationship and nothing else, how can we get hurt?"

With a soft laugh, he slid his hands up her spine, and then back again, low enough now to cup her butt and squeeze.

He was hard.

Bending his head, he put his mouth to her ear and let out a breath that made her shiver in longing. "Just a physical relationship, Kenzie? Is that all this is? Really?" He sank his teeth into her lobe and she shivered again.

"It—it's all it should be," she managed.

Another soft, deprecating laugh rumbled through his chest, this one aimed at the both of them. "Okay, well as long as we're being honest, you should know..." His hands glided up her spine again, this time beneath her shirt to touch bare skin. "Even though you are going to hurt me, it's not enough to make me say no. Truth is, nothing could..."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then he kissed the spot he'd just nipped at, soothing the ache as his fingers stroked over her skin. Her eyes drifted shut, and she slid her arms around his neck, pressing close. "No pain, no gain," she whispered, and he let out another low laugh as he lifted her up and carried her to his bedroom.

To his bed.

He settled over her, looking down into her face for a beat before lowering his head and taking her mouth with his demanding one.

If simply walking into his house had felt like a homecoming, then this, here, now, felt even more so. He felt like home, he smelled like home, and he tasted even better; she hesitated, thinking, uh-oh.

His hands came up to hold her face. "What?"

She stared up into his eyes and saw herself reflected there, as if they were one, and although it was deeply unsettling to realize that this time she could fall even harder for him—if she let herself—she also couldn't imagine walking away, without being in his arms again.

"Kenz?"

"Nothing, it's nothing." And she pulled him down for another kiss as the heat of him seeped into her bones, warming her with a sensual promise of what was to come. Those big, warm hands slid along her arms, lifting them up over her head, entwining their fingers as his mouth continued to plunder hers, delivering on that promise.

It was familiar, and it was comforting, and yet it was so, so much more as well. Not since being with Aidan six years ago had she given any thought to what it would be like to be with a guy long enough that he felt...like home. She was a woman who liked change, who liked the new and exciting, who lived off the lines someone else wrote for her each day.

But with Aidan, she knew what he felt like, what he tasted like, exactly how crazy he could drive her with a touch of a single finger, and yet being with him felt almost unbearably right, and far more arousing than she could have ever imagined.

Still kissing her, he pulled off her top, then her skirt. Her new bra was a front hook, which didn't slow him down at all, and when he had her naked except her panties, he hooked his fingers in the thin strip of cotton on her hips and let his gaze meet hers. Then he tugged, slipping the underwear down her legs and off, sailing them over one shoulder. Towering over her, fully dressed while she was as naked as she could get, he let out a low breath. "You're so beautiful."

"And you're overdressed." Still in his fire gear, in fact...

"In a minute." He was kneeling between her legs. He spread his, which in turn spread hers, and his gaze took her in, in one fell swoop, heating her skin everywhere he looked. He traced his fingers over her breasts, her belly, her thighs.

Between.

When he bent his head with fierce intent, she sucked in a breath, a breath that clogged her throat when he replaced his fingers with his mouth.

"Aidan," she managed, hardly recognizing her own voice. "I—"

His tongue encircled her tender, sensitized flesh, making her quiver from the inside out, and she promptly forgot what she'd meant to say. While his tongue and fingers circled and teased and stroked, she gripped the sheets and stared down at him. His hair stood up, from her fingers, she realized. His eyes were closed, his expression dreamy as he brought her such bliss she could hardly even see, much less think.

But she didn't close her eyes. She watched him concentrate on her pleasure as if it were his own, took in his moves, the moves that were driving her right out of her ever-loving mind.

It was as if he knew what made her tick, inside and out. That was a terrifying thought, really. Because the girl he'd once known no longer existed, and since then...well, she hadn't really let anyone know her.

An ever-changing script.

That was her life.

A life she was no longer sure about. But having him take her apart the way he was, that she was sure about.

He opened his eyes, so molten hot that they were nearly black, and looked up at her. He was sure, too, which should have stopped her cold, and she stirred. "Aidan—"

"Shh."

Then he swirled his tongue in a precise rhythm over ground zero, and she lost it.

Completely.

Lost.

It.

Panting for breath, arching up off the mattress and into his mouth, she dug her fingers into the sheets, throwing her head back at the peak, sobbing out his name.

Slowly he brought her back to planet earth. She closed her eyes, savoring the pleasure, still quivering and pulsing as he kissed his way back up her body, his tongue stroking a rib, a nipple, her throat...and then he cupped her face and smiled at her.

"You shushed me," she said, her voice sounding weak and raspy.

"It was for a good cause." He rocked his hips into hers.

"I'm going to get you back for that."

He smiled wickedly. "Should I be scared?"

"Terrified." Rolling him over, she sat on him and tugged his uniform shirt off. She could have spent a year lapping him up with nothing but her tongue. He had a tight body, toned from years of physical labor. His chest was broad, hard, his belly rippled with sinew and rising and falling in a way that assured her she was in no way alone in this almost chemical-like attraction they shared, which transcended both time and logic.

His hands went to the button on his pants to help speed up the process, and she ran her fingers up the taut, corded muscles of his abs. He unzipped, she tugged, and then nearly drooled at the sight of the part of him so happy to see her.

She licked her lips.

He groaned.

She kissed him, on the very tip.

"Kenz—" he choked out, tunneling his fingers through her hair.

Since her mouth was now full, she couldn't answer, and he said something completely unintelligible anyway, which, she had to admit, only egged her on. God, she loved rendering this big, bad, tough man completely incapable of speech. Loved the power that surged through her at the way he was breathing, saying her name.

Loved so much about it that it scared her. Scared her into being even more bold and brazen so that she didn't have to think about how much being with him meant to her.

How much he meant to her.

Using her hands and mouth, she drew him to the edge. "Two-minute warning," he groaned out, his hands fisted in the sheets at his sides as she ran her tongue up his length. "Okay, thirty seconds. Maybe."

She kept going until he swore and grabbed a condom, nudging her to her back, his hands running up the undersides of her arms until they were over her head. His knee spread her legs, his thigh rubbing against the core of her.

"In," she gasped, arching into him. "In me now."

Lowering his body to hers, he nipped at her lower lip, then kissed her, hard and deep, his tongue slipping into her mouth at the very moment he slipped into her body. "Like that?"

She couldn't answer. Hell, she could hardly breathe.

"Kenzie?"

"Yes," she managed, then shuddered as he withdrew, only to thrust into her again. And again. "Like that."

The feel of him, thick and hot and filling her to the brink, had her gasping his name, wrapping her legs around his hips, leaving her unable to remember exactly what she was supposedly paying him back for. Her toes were curling, her skin feeling too tight for her body, which seemed to swell from the inside out. "Aidan—"

"Come," he demanded, grinding his teeth in what looked like agony. "I want to feel you come before I—"

She burst in mindless, blind sensation, and barely heard his strangled answering groan as he exploded.

For long moments afterward, they lay there entwined, panting and damp, and powerless to move, their breathing echoing loudly through the bedroom.

"Is it just me," she finally managed, "or does that get better and better?"

"Oh, yeah."

She fell quiet a moment, but then couldn't resist. "You think it'll keep happening? You know, until I leave?"

"If it does, it's likely to kill me."

"Yes." She sighed dreamily. "But what a way to go."

His soft huff of laughter was the last thing she remembered before she drifted off to sleep.

AIDAN WOKE UP SOMETIME LATER with a smile, his body ready for another round. In the pitch-dark, he rolled over for Kenzie.

And got nothing.

With a very bad feeling in his gut, he sat up. "You're gone, aren't you?" he said into the night.

When he got no answer, he tossed back the covers and got out of bed, but it was too late. She had left. He told himself he wasn't her keeper, and she could go wherever she wanted, but he'd been lulled into the impression that she hadn't been done with him yet.

She wasn't done with him, not yet. Which meant she was probably out there looking to poke her nose into the arsons. Aidan hurriedly got dressed. He had no idea where she was but he needed to find out, because with whatever information she'd get, she'd go snooping into things that were guaranteed to piss off Tommy.

Hell. They'd just spent hours in his bed. And in his shower. And then his bed again. Hadn't he tired her out?

His stomach was grumbling and his head starting to pound when he picked up his cell phone and called hers; he was shocked when she answered.

"Hi," she said in that soft, breathless voice that had only a few hours before made him come.

Just hearing it stirred him halfway to life. He was little better than Pavlov's dogs. "Where are you?"

"Oh, out and about." She still sounded breathless.

"Kenzie, what are you doing?"

"Um...exercising?"

"That's a bad word to you."

"Not anymore. Do you have any idea how much work it takes to stay in TV shape?"

And then he heard it, the unmistakable sound of a sliding door either opening or closing. "Where are you?"

"Whoops, bad connection," she said.

He gnashed his teeth together. "We have a great connection. What are you up to?"

"Wow, I can hardly hear you..."

"Kenz—"

"Gotta go."

He didn't have to hear the click to know she'd shut her phone. Nor did he bother with swearing. Instead, he grabbed his keys and went after her, figuring her options were severely limited. She wouldn't have gone back to the docks because there were no sliding door there. So she was probably at Blake's house. He supposed she could also be at any one of the arsons Blake had been accused of, but most of them had been demo'd, and plus it seemed likely that if she was butting her nose in, she'd start at the top.

So would he.

He hit the jackpot on his first try. Pulling into the small house Blake had claimed as his own, he parked right next to Kenzie's flashy Mercedes. He got out of his truck and felt the hood of her car.

Still warm.

So she hadn't been there long. She was just damn lucky she hadn't gotten herself arrested again, considering the yellow tape surrounding the house. Just thinking about what Tommy would say, and how long he'd jail her this time, had him sweating. The front door was shut and, as he discovered, locked.

Aidan moved around the side of the house. His plan was simple. He was going to scare the hell out of her. And then he was going to kiss the hell out of her.

And then...and then he had no idea. Spanking her seemed like a good option.

The sliding back door on Blake's deck was unlocked and opened an inch. This was where she'd entered, and following suit, he slipped inside. The place was dark, but there was a light on upstairs, and he headed in that direction. At a sound behind him, he whipped around just as two hands smacked him in the chest and shoved. As he fell back, he reached out and hauled his assailant with him. He hit his ass on the bottom step and Kenzie landed on him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

The stairs biting into his back, her full weight over the top of him, he hissed out a breath of pain. "What am I doing? What are you doing?"

"I'm—" She bit back whatever she'd been about to say, crawled backward off of him and stood up.

"No, it's okay, I'm fine, thanks," he muttered, getting up on his own and brushing himself off. "How did you get in here?"

"Blake gave me his spare key a long time ago."

"Okay, so back to my first question. Why are you here?"

"Looking for clues to Blake's innocence." She glared at him, then pointed to the door. "You need to leave."

"So do you."

"Oh, no. This is my brother's place. I'm his beneficiary. I get to be here."

"Not with the caution tape still blocking the front door, you don't."

She was breathing fast, her voice thick and husky as if she'd been crying. Or maybe she still was. He couldn't see her clearly enough to decide. "Ah, Kenzie. Don't—"

"Go," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Fine. But you're coming with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are." Wrapping his fingers around her arm, he headed toward the sliding door, toting her with him, until she yanked free. Then, lifting her nose, she stalked out in front of him, going willingly but not happily. "Kenzie," he said as she got into her car.

"I don't want to talk right now." She tried to shut the driver's door on him but he stepped closer, holding it open.

"Isn't that convenient."

"Dammit, Aidan. Get out of my way."

"Just tell me where you're going."

For the first time, she hesitated.

"You could try my house," he suggested. "My computer."

She paused another beat. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Imposing would be getting your pretty ass arrested again, goddammit. Meet me there."

"Fine." Putting the car into gear, she peeled out, leaving him little choice but to hope that she would.

## 13

WITH LITTLE TO NO TRAFFIC in the middle of the night, it took only five minutes to get home. Aidan pulled into his driveway next to the little red sports car, watching Kenzie storm up the walk to his front door, looking irritated and frustrated.

Just as irritated and frustrated, he followed. Did she have no clue what she was doing to him?

How could she not?

"Wait," she said, stopping so fast he plowed into her, staring back at the street. "Did you see that car?"

"No."

"It was gray." She chewed on her thumbnail. "Look, I'm not trying to change the subject here, because trust me, I'm pissed and enjoying being pissed, but I think someone's following me."

Reaching past her, he unlocked the door and gestured her in ahead of him, keeping his body in front of her back as he turned to eye the street.

He didn't see the car—at the moment, there were no cars—but he didn't doubt her. "You've seen it before?"

"Yes. Truthfully, I'm beginning to feel sort of stalked." She whirled to face him. "Okay, so back to being pissed off."

Oh, no. Not yet. He'd anticipated her, and was standing so close she bumped into him, squeaking in surprise, but when she tried to take a step back, he held her still. Christ, she smelled good and the way her hair framed her face..."How long have you suspected someone's been following you?"

"Since the boat fire, I guess."

"Have you told anyone? Tommy? The police?"

"I wasn't really sure. I'm still not sure. It's just a feeling."

He let go of her to pull out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling the police."

Kenzie stepped close and shut the phone, stuffing it back into his pocket. "Aidan, listen to me. We both know that you and I don't do real relationships, especially not with each other. Now sex, we do that just fine. And in case you're confused, the biggest difference between the two is that with just sex, there's no sharing of personal information."

He was not liking where this was going. At all. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't have to account to you, and you're not responsible for me."

He stared at her, more stung than he'd like to admit. "Well, shit."

"I mean it, Aidan."

"You don't want me to call the police."

"And scare off the guy? No, I don't."

"Fine."

"Fine. Now where the hell is your computer? We have some files to access."

"My bedroom."

They were nose-to-nose, now. Breathing in each other's air. He could feel the heat of her radiating into him, and for whatever reason, his hands ran down her arms and then back up again, squeezing a little, more moved by the close proximity than he'd like to admit.

The very tips of her breasts brushed against his shirt. Her thighs bumped into his. Sparks were flying from her eyes, her mouth grim.

A mouth that suddenly he couldn't stop looking at.

Her hands had come up to his chest and she dug her fingers into his pecs, hard enough to have him hissing out a breath. Her eyes were on his, but then they lowered to his mouth.

She was thinking about kissing him.

Leaning in, he took care of that little piece of business for her. Covering her mouth with his, he swallowed her little moan of pleasure and promptly lost himself in her when she melted against him, entwining her arms around his neck so tightly he couldn't breathe. Since breathing was overrated anyway, especially when kissing her, he just hauled her up tighter against him and kept at it. Her hands were in his hair, his molded the length of her body to him, until suddenly, she shoved him clear, turned and stalked off, heading down the hallway and into his bedroom. He stared after her, breathing like a misused race horse, warring with himself. He could go after her. Or he could walk out on her for a change of pace.

Yeah, right. He went after her.

WHEN AIDAN OPENED THE DOOR of his bedroom, Kenzie held her breath. She hadn't turned on the light, so he was silhouetted from behind by the lamp in the living room, looking tall, dark, and so sexy she could hardly stand it.

And attitude-ridden. Don't forget that. Stalking past her, he opened his laptop and hit the power button. While it booted up, she just stared through the dim room at him, wishing...hell.

Wishing things were different. That's all. If only she could call the writers and complain about this particular plotline, and maybe get it adjusted. Or get a new script delivered. Yeah, that would be best. One with a happy ending, please. With a sigh, she moved to the laptop. "Should I download it to your desktop?"

"Yes."

She accessed her mail, and the files she'd saved, clicking on the first of Blake's. "It's going to take a while. It's a big file. And it'll take even longer to flip through it all and see if there's even anything in it that we can use."

"Your caller suggested there was."

"Yes, but how did he know? What did he know?"

"Let's find out. Kenzie—"

"I'm not ready to talk."

He stepped closer, a big, tall, badass outline. "What are you ready for?"

"How about the only thing we're good at?"

With a low sound that might have been an agreeing groan, he came even closer. "Kenzie—"

"No. I mean it." He was hard. She could feel him. Could feel, too, the tension shimmering throughout his entire body. It matched hers. "No talking."

"Fine." With a rough tug, he hauled her up against him. His body was warm and corded with strength, his hands hard and hot on her. And his mouth...

God, his mouth.

He was the most amazing kisser, his lips warm and soft and firm all at the same time, his tongue both talented and greedy and generous.

So generous that she moaned into his mouth and held on for the ride until she couldn't stand it anymore. "Clothes," she muttered, and yanked off her own top, gratified to see him doing the same. She stared through the dark at his bared torso as she worked the buttons on her jeans while simultaneously kicking off her shoes. God, he was gorgeous. Sleek, toned and so damned yummy she wanted to gobble him up on the spot. She shoved down her jeans, watching him do the same, but unlike her, his underwear went bye-bye with his jeans, and her mouth actually went dry.

Riveted by the sight, she stood there in her bra and panties and socks. Staring.

He stood there in nothing. In glorious, mouth-dropping, heart-stopping nothing. Yeah, she'd seen it before, all of it and more—but, damn.

"You cheated," he said, reaching for her bra.

His erection nudged her belly, and forgetting to finish stripping, she wrapped her fingers around him.

He hissed out a breath.

"Too tight?" she asked as she stroked.

"No, your fingers are frozen."

For some reason that made her laugh. How the hell that was even possible with all the sensations crowding and pushing for space in her brain was beyond her but she stood there, her fingers wrapped around a very impressive erection and laughed.

"Yeah, see, you're not really supposed to hold onto a guy's favorite body part and laugh."

Which, of course, made her laugh harder.

With a shake of his head, he just smiled, clearly not too worried because he remained hard as a rock in her hand...

As his fingers worked their magic and her bra fell to the floor at their feet.

When he stepped even closer, her nipples brushed his chest, and it was her turn to hiss in a breath as they hardened.

And then she couldn't breathe at all because he dropped to his knees, hooked his thumbs in the edge of her panties and tugged.

At the sight he revealed, he gave a low, ragged groan and slid his hands up the backs of her thighs, cupping her bottom in his big palms. "God, look at you."

"Aidan—"

"You're so pretty here." He ran a finger over her. "All wet and glistening. For me." There was a deep, husky satisfaction to his voice that made her thighs quiver.

"Spread your legs," he murmured, skimming hot, wet, openmouthed kisses up an inner thigh. "Yeah, like that." He pulled her forward, and right into his mouth.

At the first unerring stroke of his tongue her knees nearly buckled but he had a grip on her, one hand on her hip, holding her upright, the other exploring between her legs, working with his tongue to drive her out of her mind. "Aidan—"

"You taste like heaven," he whispered against her. "Heaven."

And he felt like it. She strained against him, her fingers tunneled into his hair, her head thrown back as he took her exactly where he wanted to her to go, which was to the very edge of a cliff, so high she couldn't see all the way to the bottom, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel.

And she was feeling plenty. Mostly a need for speed at this point, but he purposely slowed her down, dancing his tongue over her as light as a feather. She tightened her fingers in his hair, silently threatening to make him bald if he didn't get back to business. Her business. "Aidan, dammit."

"I could look at you all day."

"Look later. Do now."

"Always in a hurry." He tsked, but obliged.

Oh, God, how he obliged, skimming his hands up the front of her thighs, gently opening her. For a moment he pulled back, admiring the sight before him, wet from his tongue, wet from her own arousal.

Standing there so open and vulnerable, she let out a growl of frustration and need, and he leaned in, this time sucking her into his mouth hard, giving her the rhythm she needed to completely lose it.

When her knees gave out, he let her fall, catching her, rising to his feet, spinning toward the bed, his mouth fastened to hers. His hands moved over her body, thoroughly, ruthlessly, ravenously kissing her as they went, until from somewhere behind them, from the pocket of her pants, her cell phone went off. She couldn't even think about getting it. Hell, the entire place could have gone up in flames right then and there and she doubted she would have thought about it. "In me, in me."

He let out a rough laugh.

"Now."

Because now was the only thing that mattered, and this was the only thing that registered, the feel of his hands on her body, molding, sculpting, flaming the wildfire flickering to life inside her.

Aidan crawled up her body. He'd found a condom, and made himself at home between her thighs. Then he stared down into her eyes, his unwavering and fierce. "This is not just sex." His voice was low and rough. "It's not. Not for me."

She blinked, trying to clear her fuzzy head.

"And if that's all it is for you, I want to know it now." He lifted her hips, his strong callused fingers gliding over her flesh, making sure she was ready for him.

She was.

Beyond ready.

"Tell me," he demanded, holding still, waiting on her word. She stared up at him, her heart swelling at the truth. "It's more," she admitted, which—ding, ding, ding—was the right answer because then he spread her thighs wider and drove himself into her, hard and fast, the way she'd wanted, and took her right where she needed to go.

Halfway there, with her breath sobbing in her throat, with their bodies straining with each other, she cupped his jaw and looked into his face.

He was damp with sweat, hard with tension, and so damned sexy she could scarcely speak. "Aidan."

"Don't stop me."

She shook her head at his rough plea. Stop him? Was he kidding? She wanted him to never stop.

Never...a terrifying thought. "Aidan..."

His mouth nuzzled at her ear. "Yeah?"

"I missed you," she whispered, letting him in on her biggest secret, giving it to him without reserve, letting him look deeply into her eyes.

She absorbed both his surprise and his next thrust, and then that was it.

She burst.

And so did he.

## 14

AIDAN LAY ON HIS BACK, a hot, naked, still quivering Kenzie in his arms, and let her words soak in.

She'd missed him. "Kenz?"

"Mmm." Her face was pressed against his throat, her mouth sending shivers of delight down his spine even now, when his bones had turned into overcooked noodles and he couldn't have moved to save his life.

Well, except a certain part of his anatomy, which appeared to have segregated from his brain. That part moved. That part wanted round two.

And possibly round three, please.

Kenzie lifted her head and looked at him, all sleepy-eyed and still glowing. Waiting for him to speak.

He found himself cupping her face, and bringing it in for a kiss that lingered.

And deepened.

"I missed you, too," he whispered against her lips.

She pulled back and closed her eyes.

Staring down at her, he let out a breath. Okay. So she hadn't meant it. It'd just been the heat of the moment talking. He supposed he could understand that. Had to understand that. After all, the moment had gotten pretty damn heated. "It's all right." God, listen to him lie. "I get it."

Across the room sat his laptop, with answers. Or so he hoped. "We'd better get up." He was relieved to note that his voice seemed to sound normal, that he was still breathing and that the heart she'd just stabbed was apparently still in working order.

Even if it was bleeding all over the place. Internal carnage...

But he had no one to blame but himself for opening it up to her in the first place. She'd warned him, hadn't she? She'd warned him and he'd been cocky enough not to believe it possible.

"Aidan?"

He managed to look at her.

"I did miss you. I missed this. But..."

"But life intrudes. I get that, too."

She looked into his eyes, sighed, then slipped from the bed. Gloriously naked, she walked to his computer. Lit only by the glow of the screen, she afforded him a particularly fine view. "Huh," she said, and bent over a little so that her fingers could move over the keyboard.

She was absolutely clueless about the picture she made in green glowing profile, with her hair wild around her head, a whisker burn from his face across a breast and her ribs, and her very sweet ass looking good enough to bite.

"That's odd," she muttered, her fingers moving faster, the furrow between her eyebrows deepening as she frowned.

He opened his mouth to ask what was odd, but she bent a little farther and he couldn't gather enough working brain cells to do anything but stare. Her spine was narrow and pretty, and his gaze followed it down past the indention of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips to one of his favorite parts of a woman's anatomy. Her legs were spread slightly, her thighs taut, allowing him a peek of the treasure between—

"Aidan?"

At the tone, he managed to squelch the lust. Barely. Rising, he walked up behind her. Also naked. Curling his body around hers from behind, a good amount of that lust came barreling back, hitting him like a freight train. He couldn't help it. His chest was against her back, her world-class ass pressed into his crotch. His hands went to her hips, one slipping around to her ribs, his fingers just brushing the underside of her breast. Pressing his lips to the side of her neck, he let his hand skim up, gliding over her nipple, which hardened gratifyingly in his fingers.

Oh, yeah.

His other hand slid to her belly and began a southward descent—

"Look." Catching his hand, she pointed to an opened Excel worksheet. She had brought up an interesting list. "My mysterious caller said to look at the demos," she told him. "I didn't know what he meant, but all the burned buildings have been razed to the ground. I saw the photos in Zach's file—not all of those buildings were severely damaged."

With great difficulty, he frowned at the computer and not at her nude body, his hands still full with warm, sweet, sexy-as-hell woman. "It's true," he said. "But the properties were demolished anyway. Except for the last two."

"On whose orders?"

"The records have been sealed."

"Why?"

"That's the question. Zach tried to get the answer to that and it cost him."

Forcing his concentration from her body, he took in the worksheet in front of him. "Pretty impressive information here." Blake had been busy.

So had he been keeping track of his own handiwork, along with what happened to each property after the fires?

"Who has the power to order a demolition of a burned property?" Kenzie asked him.

"The owner, anyone acting on the behalf of an owner or the fire department, if the property is deemed unstable or unsafe for any reason."

She pulled free and went for her clothes, which were strewn across the room. He watched with great regret as she found the pieces one by one and covered up that gorgeous bod.

With a sigh, he reached for his jeans and slid them on. Back to the grown-up world apparently..."How is it you've never looked through Blake's files before?"

"I never thought to. We regularly sent each other files, just in case. It was our backup system."

"What did you send him?"

She lifted a shoulder. "Rough drafts of stuff."

"Stuff?"

"I've been writing. Scripts." Another lift of her shoulder. "For the day I finally ate too many donuts and didn't get asked to audition anymore."

"I bet you're a great writer."

"Really?"

He thought about how deeply she felt things, how good she was with words, and nodded.

Looking touched, she smiled. "Thanks."

"How long ago did he send you this file?"

"He sent me a backup file every week. We were supposed to keep only the latest version for each other, but I was always too lazy to go back and delete the week before, so I should have them all—" She stared at him for a beat before whipping back to the computer. Her fingers raced over the keys as he bent his head close to hers, looking at what she brought up.

An entire list of arson-related backup files from Blake, starting shortly after the first suspicious fires, until the day before he died.

"So," she said slowly. "Either he was a damned stupid felon, or he was investigating the arsons himself."

Her tone made it clear which she believed.

"Or," he said softly, knowing she was going to hate him. "He's keeping track of the arsons for a partner."

She looked at him again, her eyes cooling to, oh, about thirty-five degrees below zero.

"Open the first file."

Without a word, she clicked on it. It was a Word document, a diary of notes with a running commentary. The first read:

Hill Street fire:

Second point of origin mysteriously vanished on day of cleanup. Wire metal trash can, unique enough in design that it should be traceable. When I mentioned this to the chief, he said I should stick to fighting fires.

Kenzie read the entry out loud, twice, then scrolled down to the next entry, several weeks later.

Blood is thicker than water. I was told that today and apparently need to remember it. If I want to live.

Kenzie whipped her gaze to Aidan. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Sounds like a threat," he said grimly.

"Blood is thicker than water," she repeated. "Who is he talking about? We have no family. At least no family who cares about us, anyway."

He hated the look on her face, the faraway, distant, self-protective look she got whenever she had to talk about her past. There was no doubt, she and Blake had had it rough growing up, being shuffled from one foster home to another. The saving grace was that they'd been kept together. It was what had made their bond so strong—they'd been all each other had had. "Is there possibly a blood relative somewhere?"

"A few, scattered here and there across the country. A great-aunt in Florida, an uncle in Chicago, a cousin in Dallas..." She crossed her arms, closing him out mentally and physically. "Just no one who wanted us."

Gently he turned her to face him. "Could he be talking about you, then?"

"Definitely not. We were in touch all during that time, but we never had a conversation about any of this."

Aidan went back to reading the entries, one of which mentioned employee hours. Copies of the schedules were attached. So was Blake keeping track of his alibi, or someone's whereabouts?

Blake had somehow gotten Tommy's first official reports on the arsons as well. Aidan and Kenzie discovered that he hadn't been on duty at any of the suspicious fires, a fact that Tommy had apparently considered evidence since it left Blake without an alibi for when the fires had been lit. Aidan scrolled down the list.

"Whoa, stop." Kenzie pointed to the second fire. "There. That one can't be right. He had an alibi for that one, he was with me. He'd come to Los Angeles that week. I remember because he was my date for the Emmys. He flew home immediately after, catching a red-eye because he said he had to be back at work for an early shift."

"Okay." Aidan pulled up the employee schedule for that day. "But he's not listed as on duty."

Kenzie stared at the screen, shaking her head. "He wouldn't have lied to me."

She said this with utter sincerity, and Aidan was inclined to absolutely believe because she believed. But if Blake hadn't lied to Kenzie, then there was only one other explanation.

"The schedule got changed?" she asked.

"It could have happened. Someone traded. Or—"

"Or something physically changed the schedule after the fact," she said flatly. "And Blake isn't here to defend himself."

"No, but we are." He was looking at the screen, until he realized that she wasn't. She was staring at him. "What?"

Her eyes were shimmering brilliantly with anger and something else, a deep, gut-wrenching emotion. "I didn't think it was possible." Her voice sounded thick. "I didn't want it to be possible. Oh, God." She covered her face. "This is so stupid."

"What?" He looked at the screen again, trying to figure out what she was talking about. "What's stupid?"

"That I could like you more than last time."

The words reached him as little had in all these years. "Kenz." Melting, he pulled down her hands. "I—"

She put a finger in his face. "Don't get excited. I don't want to feel this way, and I'm telling you right now I am going to fight feeling this way."

His heart was squeezed tighter than a bow. "We were just kids, Kenz."

"And now we're not. It doesn't change anything except we're older, and actually, it's going to hurt more." Jaw tight, she shook her head again and looked at the screen. "This first. Blake first. He's far more important than rehashing old emotions that I don't really want to have." She worked the keyboard. "There. He's not on the schedule there, either, but he called me from the station. I know because it was my birthday, see? And he called me at 6:00 a.m. to catch me before work, but I didn't have an early morning shoot that day, and I was irritated that he woke me up. I'd been up late the night before celebrating."

"With Chad?"

She swiveled her eyes in his direction. "Actually, Teddy. Teddy White."

"Wasn't he on People's Most Beautiful list?"

"How do you know that?"

He knew it only because someone had stolen the porn out of the station bathroom, and Cristina had left her People magazine in there in its place, and—And Christ. He was crazy. "Never mind."

"It was just a one-night thing."

Oh, great. Even better. Now he could picture them having one-night sex, and—

"He's a friend."

A friend, as in someone who'd pulled her out of a fire? Someone who'd bail her out of jail?

"Yeah," she said softly. "I realize the word friend is a loose term, especially in Hollywood. Not like here."

"Do you miss it? Hollywood?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it and sighed. "I almost said yes, out of habit. The job is fun and the pay is amazing, but..." She lifted a shoulder. "It's empty. And I didn't really get that until I was here, either."

He tried to sort out his feelings regarding this revealing fact.

"And, anyway, it no longer matters." She turned back to the screen. "It's over."

"What do you mean?"

"My soap got cancelled."

"It did?"

"Yeah, and there are auditions for new parts but I've been eating too many donuts, so..."

"So...what?"

"So I'm going to get fat."

He let out a low laugh. "You look great, Kenzie. So great I haven't been able to keep my hands off you, as you might have noticed. But I'm very sorry about your job." He couldn't believe he was going to say this. "You could always stay in Santa Rey."

"I thought about it." She sighed and faced him again. "But staying seems like a comfort thing. You know, like going back to the last place where I was happy. It's a cop-out. And I was only happy here because of Blake."

He held his breath. He'd made her happy, too. Until he hadn't. "Maybe it was more than that."

"I don't know." She sighed without giving away her exact feelings on the matter, although he suspected she didn't know her exact feelings. "I wouldn't be able to get a job here."

"I know they don't film TV or movies anywhere close, but you could do something other than act."

She scoffed, then looked at him with heart-breaking hope. "Like what?"

"You know what. You could write. And eat all the damn donuts you want."

She just looked at him for a long moment, until he nearly squirmed. "What?"

"I'd have thought you'd be holding open the door for me to get the hell out of Dodge."

"Yeah, well, that was the old me."

"Well the new me is here to get Blake's name cleared. That's it."

"And also to stomp on my heart. Don't forget that part."

"I won't." She sighed. "Except I'd really rather get out of here without hurting you at all." With no idea that she'd just stunned him to his core, she leaned in close to see the screen better. A strand of her hair got stuck to the stubble on his jaw. It smelled good.

She smelled good.

It was all he could do not to bury his face in the rest of her hair and say things that would lead her back to his bed but not really get them anywhere. In fact, he'd opened his mouth to do just that when she spoke.

"Look." She pointed to where Blake had entered another note:

Not noted in any of the official investigation reports is the fact that the source for the wire mesh trash cans is the hardware store where Tracy works.

Kenzie frowned and turned her head to look at Aidan, who had gone still in sudden shock. "The Tracy who..."

"Died." Aidan managed to find his vocal cords. "Yeah. They dated a couple of times. He really liked her."

"Really? He told me he'd gone out with Tracy, but he never said how much he liked her."

"Maybe he didn't tell you everything."

"He did," she insisted. "We told each other everything."

"Kenzie, you didn't tell him when we were going out. Maybe—"

"No." She shook her head. "You're going to say he kept secrets. That he kept the arsons a secret, but he wouldn't have—He wouldn't have done this, Aidan. Tracy being killed, well that's got to be a terrible coincidence."

"I'm beginning to believe that nothing's a coincidence. Look at the next entry."

Tracy's going to get me a list of people who've purchased the trash cans, but she has to wait until the weekend when her boss isn't in.

The next entry didn't clear anything up, but made it all worse.

Got the list, and holy shit. Blood is thicker than water. Got to remember that...

Kenzie's fingers dug into Aidan's arm. "What does that mean, 'blood is thicker than water'? He's written that twice now."

Aidan frowned and shook his head. "I wish I knew."

He's onto me. Need to be damn careful now.

"Who's onto him?" Kenzie stood up and paced the length of the bedroom. "God. Whoever he's talking about, do you think...?"

Yeah. Yeah, he did. Blake had gotten himself into hot water with someone. And that someone had either been his partner in crime, or, as Aidan was coming to believe, it was the person whom Blake had been privately, quietly, investigating on his own.

And if that was true, and Blake had been a victim, then this other person had not only been an arsonist, but also a murderer.

Aidan's cell phone chirped with a message that he was needed at work, ASAP.

"Go," she murmured. "It's okay. I'm just going to go through all of this and see what else I can find."

"Stay here."

Her gaze slid to his.

"Kenzie..." How to say this without sounding like a complete idiot? There was no way to sugarcoat it, so he decided to just let it out. "I have a bad feeling."

She arched an eyebrow. "You, the most pragmatic, logical, cool person I know, have a bad feeling?"

"Go with me on this."

"You think I'm in danger," she said flatly.

He didn't just think it, he knew it. Only he couldn't explain how or why, and that was going to drive him crazy, along with worrying and wondering where she was and if she was okay.

And safe.

And alive.

"Aidan, I'm not going to hole up here. That's ridiculous. Besides, no one knows what I'm doing."

"You were arrested, Kenzie. Everyone knows what you're doing."

"I'll be fine."

Short of tying her up, which had a most interesting vision popping into his head, what could he do? "Promise me you'll be careful."

She looked at him for a long moment, her hair still crazy from his fingers, her shirt crooked, her feet bare, looking like a hot mess.

A hot mess he wanted in his life.

"I thought we weren't going to do the promise thing," she said. "Not ever again."

"Promise me," he said again.

"Don't worry." She backed away from him, her face so carefully blank. "I intend to be careful and smart, and I intend to get out of here unscathed, on all counts."

What the hell did that mean?

"See you, Aidan."

Okay, that was no simple "I'll see you later." It seemed like a we're-done-doing-the-naked-happy-dance see-you. The get-over-me because I'm-over-you see-you.

Which didn't bode well for his heart, the one that in spite of himself, had gotten attached. Again. More attached, if that was even possible. "I'll be back."

"Okay."

"I will." He paused. "Will you be here?"

She met his gaze. "I don't know."

Well, hell. That didn't bode well.

## 15

IN BETWEEN CALLS, Aidan slipped into the office of the fire station. He'd never spent much time in there, always preferring to be outside or working, or just about anywhere else.

But he made himself comfortable now. He told whoever gave him a strange look that he was working on his taxes, and given the sympathetic grimaces that got him, it was a genius excuse. Left alone, he went through the daily fire reports and employee schedules, pulling the dates that matched the arsons.

Which is where he discovered that those schedules did not match the ones Blake had saved on his computer.

In fact, according to the office reports, Blake had been scheduled on each of the days of the arsons, whether by coincidence or design, Aidan had no idea. Dispatch didn't always need all available units to go out on the calls. On two of the fires, Blake's unit hadn't been called to respond at all and yet he'd been placed on scene by witnesses.

Had he been the arsonist, or simply trying to stop him?

The door to the office opened and Aidan turned around, the excuse already on his lips about being late getting his receipts together—

"Save it," Tommy said, and dropped a disk on the table.

"What's that?"

"A copy of the surveillance tape I got out of the camera I had at Blake's place."

"You had Blake's place under surveillance?"

"I'm an investigator. It's what I do, investigate."

"What were you looking for?"

"There's a bigger, better question. What was Kenzie looking for?"

"I couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't, or won't?"

Aidan didn't respond to that.

"You're doing a shitty job of keeping her out of my hair."

Yeah. He was doing a shitty job keeping Kenzie out of his hair as well.

"Okay, here's how this is going to work," Tommy decided. "You're going to tell me everything you've discovered about these arsons and Blake, and in return, I'm not going to charge you with interfering with my investigation."

Aidan didn't care about the underlying threat in Tommy's voice. What he cared about was discovering the truth. For Blake. For Kenzie. And as big a pain in his ass as Tommy was, Aidan believed them to be on the same side.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

With a nod, Tommy locked the door and pulled up a chair.

KENZIE HAD NO PROBLEM keeping herself occupied. She spent the day reading Blake's files, poring over them, analyzing each of her brother's entries.

She slept in Aidan's big, wonderful bed all by herself, which wasn't nearly as much fun as sleeping next to the big, wonderful man usually in it. Her dreams were wild, vacillating between nightmares about being trapped in a fire and hearing Blake scream for her, and another type of dream entirely. A dream where Aidan slowly stripped her naked and used his tongue on every inch of her body, a dream she woke up from damp with sweat, panting for air, her own hand between her thighs.

Damn, the man was potent.

In the morning, she went back to Blake's Girl. She couldn't help herself. She stood on the end of the dock staring at the shell that used to be Blake's sailboat, a huge lump inside her throat, wondering what the hell she was supposed to do next when her cell phone rang. Her local caller.

"Did you get the backups?"

"Who is this?"

"You need to stay away from the boat. There's nothing there for you."

With a gasp, she whirled, searching her immediate area but seeing no one. "Where are you? Are you watching me?"

"Don't be scared."

The parking lot had only three cars in it, no people. No one was on the docks, and the neighboring boats seemed deserted. "Don't be scared? Are you crazy?"

"Listen to me," he said urgently. "It's time for you to back off. Time for you to go home, Kenzie."

The hair at the back of her neck prickled and she once again turned slowly. Behind one of the three cars was another.

Gray. Tinted windows.

Eyes narrowed, she headed toward it, needing to know who the hell she was talking to and why his voice made the hair on her arms stand up, as if she could almost recognize him, but not quite.

"Don't come any closer," he warned.

She kept walking. "Do I know you?"

The car's engine started up.

"No," she cried, breaking into a run. "Wait—"

The gray sedan squealed forward and to the right, giving her only the briefest glimpse of the driver behind the wheel. But it was enough to have her gasp in shock as her chest tightened beyond all bearing.

The car ripped out of the lot. She hardly even noticed as she hit her knees on the concrete, her hands fanned over her chest to hold her heart in because she'd have sworn, she'd have laid her life on the line, that the driver of that car had been none other than her dead brother.

Blake.

SHE SPED ALL THE WAY BACK to Aidan's house before remembering he was at work. Still shaken, she turned around and headed to the station. Zach was there, standing in the middle of the main room. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and a rueful smile as he stuck a pencil down the cast on his arm.

"This thing is driving me crazy." He tossed the pencil to a small desk against a wall. "You looking for Aidan?"

"Yes." Because she wanted to tell him her brother wasn't dead. Or that she was losing her mind. One or the other.

"He's on a call." Zach took a closer look at her and frowned. "Are you okay?"

No. "I saw the file you put together on the arsons." The fires had cost Zach his house, which in itself would have given him a good reason to hate her brother. "When Blake died, there wasn't a body."

A shadow crossed his face. "The fire was hot. Nothing survived it."

She begged to differ. "Anything survive? Anything at all?"

"A portion of the shell of the blow torch Blake had been holding, and his hard hat."

"But no physical evidence of him?"

He paused a long moment. "Why?"

Oh, because maybe he hadn't really died... "Do you know when Aidan'll be back?"

"No, but I can have him call you. He was worried about you."

"I'm fine." She smiled to prove it, but truthfully, she was worried, too. She left the station, got into her car and pulled out her cell. Taking a deep breath, she dialed her mysterious caller's number.

"Hello."

Kenzie went utterly still at that voice, still disguised, but it didn't matter. She now knew who she was talking to. "Blake?"

Click.

Oh, God. Heart pounding, she drove straight to Tommy Ramirez's office. He opened his door at her knock, raising a single eyebrow at the sight of her, then simply sighed when she pushed past him and let herself in.

He had three unopened Red Bulls on his desk. She grabbed one, cracked it open and drank deeply. Eyes closed, she stood there until the caffeine kicked in. "God, I needed that."

He shut the door, leaned back against it and just looked at her. "That was my Red Bull."

"Thanks for sharing."

"You know, most people are afraid of me."

"Yes, but most people don't know that once upon a time you paid for my dancing lessons."

"Keep it down, will you? I don't want that to get out."

She shook her head. "Always the tough guy." Back when Blake had been in the academy, she and her brother had made some financial mistakes. Lots of financial mistakes. Tommy had known Blake's situation and had lent him some money to see him through fire school, and Kenzie enough to cover her dance lessons.

Not many knew the investigator had such a soft side; he didn't like to show it. He hadn't shown it to Kenzie since, but she'd never forgotten. Nor had she ever even briefly considered that it could be Tommy framing Blake. Blake had trusted Tommy, and she did, too.

Tommy tossed the files in his hands to his desk and grabbed one of the remaining Red Bulls. "I put you in jail to keep you safe. I didn't intend for you to bail yourself out. I wanted to keep you there until this was over, but it's taking longer than I thought."

"You put me in jail to keep me safe?"

"Trust me, it made sense to me. Look, I know this has been hard on you."

"Yes," she agreed blandly. "It's been hard on me having my brother blamed for something he didn't do. It's been hard on me knowing that all his friends, his coworkers, everyone, believes he committed arson. It's hard on me knowing that he can't defend himself. But it's even harder knowing that you're not."

"You don't understand."

"Then help me to."

He opened his mouth, and then shut it. "I can't."

"Would you like to know what the hardest thing of all is?" she whispered, her throat tight with a sudden need to cry. "I know he's innocent and I know that you believe it, too."

"Kenzie—"

"You can't talk about it, I get it. But I think I saw Blake alive. Can you talk about that?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"I think I saw him at the docks, in the parking lot."

Tommy sank to his chair. "What were you doing at the docks?"

"Blake. Alive. Did you hear that part?"

His eyes filled with sympathy. "Kenzie—"

"No." She let out a low laugh. "Listen to me. I saw him. Plus someone's been calling me, giving me clues. It's him, he—"

"What kind of clues?"

"I don't know, that the key is in the demos, which I don't get. And that blood is thicker than water. I don't get that either, honestly."

Tommy went pale. He came to her, taking her arm and leading her to the door. "I need you to listen to me, okay? Listen very carefully. Go back to Los Angeles. I'll call you—"

"No." She pulled free. "I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are. If I have to have you arrested again—"

"On what charges?"

"I'll find something."

She looked into his face, where his emotions were clear. "Okay, you're scared for me. I get that. I'll stay back, I'll stay clear."

"Promise me."

She took a long look at him. "What did I say? Was it the blood is thicker than water thing?"

"Promise me."

"I promise," she said very quietly. "Now you promise me this. You'll come to me as soon as you can with answers."

"Deal."

DURING THE SUMMER MONTHS, Santa Rey swelled to upwards of three times its normal population, which was reflected in the increased volume of calls the fire station received. In the past twenty-four hours alone, Aidan had fought a restaurant fire, a storefront fire, a car fire and two house fires, each caused by human stupidity. Then, it happened.

Another explosion.

It thankfully occurred in an empty warehouse this time. No one was injured, except Cristina, who fell off a ladder and hurt her ankle.

Dustin wanted to take her to the E.R. for an X-ray, but in typical Cristina fashion, she wanted to tough it out.

Aidan left them alone to their silent battle of wills, and let himself inside the burned shell of a warehouse.

Tommy was there, with his bag of equipment, his camera out. When he saw Aidan, he jaw ticked. "I've got it from here."

Aidan's eyes went to the wall in front of Tommy, where the burn marks on the wall indicated a hot flash, and most likely, the point of origin. "I never did get onto Blake's Girl after the explosion. But I'm going to take a wild guess that you found something like this there, and also at the hardware explosion that killed Tracy."

Tommy clearly fought with himself, and then finally sighed. "Look, I'm not going to insult your intelligence the way I insulted Zach's, okay? That was a mistake, shutting him out, because it only made him all the more determined to prove he was right—"

"He was right—"

"Yeah, but I was on it. I told him that, but he didn't listen, and then he dug harder and got himself targeted by the arsonist."

"The arsonist? I thought you were so sure it was Blake."

"I'm not going to insult your intelligence," he repeated tightly, "by letting you think what we want the general public to think. So know this. I'm going to nail this guy. So when I say back off, do it. Don't pull a Zach and get yourself hurt."

Aidan stared at him. "You know there's someone else."

"I'm close."

"You've always known."

Tommy acknowledged this with a slight nod. "So now all you have to do is stay out of my way. And keep Kenzie out of the way as well. No one else dies."

"Blake's innocent."

"That's one theory."

"Is it the right theory?"

"Jesus, Aidan." Tommy scrubbed a hand over his face. "Are you just playing with that girl?"

"No. And how is this any of your business, anyway? A few days ago you were arresting her."

"Just don't hurt her. You hear me? Don't even think about it."

Aidan let out a low, mirthless laugh. "Trust me, if someone's getting hurt, it's going to be me."

THE MINUTE AIDAN GOT OFF WORK, he went straight home, hoping Kenzie would be there waiting for him. It was with great relief that he pulled in next to her car. Letting himself in, he called out her name.

No response. Dropping his keys on the small desk in the living room, he moved through the house and heard the shower running. Things were looking up if he had a naked, wet, hot woman in his shower. And at that realization, all the myriad things he'd wanted to say to her flew out the window, replaced by memories of how she looked standing under a stream of water.

She hadn't left...

Weak with relief, he knocked on the bathroom door. "Kenz?"

When she still didn't respond, he cracked open the door and found her sitting in his shower, face to her knees, arms wrapped around herself.

"Kenzie?"

"I'm fine."

Yeah. She was fine, he was fine, so they could just all be fine together.

She lifted her head when he opened the shower door but didn't say a word as he stepped into it with her.

"You're dressed," she finally said, inanely.

Yeah, which sucked. "Tell me what's wrong."

"You're not going to like it."

He already didn't like it, or the clothes now sticking to him like a second skin. "Try me."

"I saw Blake."

He blinked away the water in his eyes. "You...saw Blake." He crouched before her. "In a dream?"

"No."

"You saw Blake," he repeated, trying to understand, and failing. "Not in a dream. What does that mean?"

"It means he's alive."

## 16

KENZIE WATCHED AIDAN try to absorb her news while the shower rained down over top of him, soaking into his hair, his clothes. "I know, it's a shock," she said.

The water ran in rivulets down his face. His shirt was plastered to his broad shoulders and arms, his pants suctioned to his legs. There was something about the way he'd rushed in there to save her from her own demons that got to her. More than got to her. He devastated her.

She wasn't sure how it'd happened, especially when she'd set out to keep her heart safe, but she'd fallen for him all over again.

"You saw Blake," he repeated.

"He's alive. He's the one who's been calling me." She stood up. "He's been alive and didn't tell me. The men I love suck."

Aidan hissed out a breath and straightened to his feet as well, towering over her, his broad shoulders taking the beating of the water. "The men you love?"

"Go away."

"The men you love?" he asked, staring down at her. "Kenz—"

"No." She shook her head. "Not doing this." She put her hands on his chest to shove him away but somehow ended up fisting her hands in his drenched shirt and yanking. Surprised, he lost his balance as he came toward her, slapping his hands on the tile on either side of her to hold himself upright. "Kenz—"

She stopped whatever he might have said with her mouth. It made no sense, none at all, but she wanted to have him, needed to have him, right there, right then, if only for this one last time before all hell broke loose.

"God," he managed on a roughly expelled breath as she kissed her way over his jaw while she fumbled with the buttons on his Levi's.

His hands left the tile and squeezed her arms. Water was running down his face. "I thought you'd said good-bye to me."

She'd tried. After all, she had a life to get back to. Too bad she had no idea what that life would entail—but that was a worry for tomorrow. After she figured out the Blake being alive thing. "So I said good-bye. Now I'm saying hello." Still squished between the wall and Aidan, she slid her hands up his chest, her fingers entwining in his hair as she arched back, her breasts sliding along the material of his wet shirt.

Her nipples hardened and she felt the rough grumble of the groan in his chest. Almost as if acting of their own accord, his hands moved down her sides, to her hips, her bottom, which he roughly squeezed while letting out another of those incredibly arousing groans. "Is there another good-bye coming my way after this shower?"

"Maybe not right after," she panted because something was happening to her, something that had nothing to do with lust or hormones or getting an orgasm, but far deeper. Far more dangerous. Tightening her fingers in his hair, she lifted his head from her breast and stared into his eyes. There, she could see the reflection of her own. And in that reflection was her heart and soul, her very life.

She loved him. And if they did this, if she let him inside her body again, she'd never recover. She knew it, but like last time, it wasn't going to stop her. Small wonder when he was against her like a second skin, holding her to the wall. Closing her eyes, she hugged him close, pressing her face to his throat.

Her name tumbled from his lips in a harsh whisper, and then their hands were fighting to get his clothes off, pushing off his shirt, shoving down his jeans. Then he was reaching for those jeans, and the condom in his pocket. He pressed her back against the wall, freeing his hands to skim down her bare, trembling thighs, which opened and wrapped around his waist, bringing him flush to her. In one thrust he was deep inside, and she was...lost?

Not lost.

No, when she was with him, she was found.

AIDAN'S HEART was still thundering in his ears in tune to the water pounding his back when Kenzie slid free of him. Drained, he watched her lean past him and turn off the water. She tossed him a towel, grabbed one for herself and left him alone in the bathroom.

He had no idea what had just happened.

When he managed to dry himself off and walk out of the bathroom, on legs that still quivered, he found her dressing in his bedroom. "Did you get the license of that truck that just hit me?"

She didn't smile. "I really saw him."

When he just looked at her, she slipped into her shoes. "And I'm going to go find him."

"Kenzie," he said gently. "Blake is—"

"Dead. I know. But he's not." She left the room.

With a sigh, he headed to his dresser for clothes. He'd gotten into a dry pair of jeans when he heard her keys jangling. "Kenzie," he called out. Dammit.

"Wait." He grabbed a shirt and headed down the hallway just as she opened the front door. She hesitated when her cell phone beeped an incoming text message.

"Is it...him?" he asked.

"Yes, it's him. Texting me from the dead." She opened her phone and let him read over her shoulder.

Go home. I'll find you there when this is over, when you're safe.

As they stood there in his open doorway looking down at the screen, a huge trash truck lumbered down the street, making the earth shudder as it went past—

Boom.

Kenzie's bright red sports car vanished in a cloud of smoke and flames and flying metal as it exploded.

KENZIE SAT ON AIDAN'S CURB looking out at the street, which was littered with cops and various other official personnel, including Tommy and the chief. And lots of red car parts.

Everyone was trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

Her car had gone boom, just like Blake's Girl, that was what had happened.

"Kenzie." Aidan's athletic shoes appeared in her peripheral vision, and then the rest of him as he sat at her side.

"My insurance company isn't going to be happy," she said. "I blame the trash truck."

"The trash truck saved your life. You car had been rigged to blow when you got into it, but the truck vibrated the street so much it went up early."

"Oh." She winced. "I wish I didn't know that."

"Give me your cell phone."

"Why?"

"So I can call whoever's been calling you."

"Blake. Blake's been calling me."

"Whoever it is." His mouth was grim as some of his clear frustration and fear for her filtered into his words. "I just want him to stay the hell away from you."

"This wasn't him."

"Then who?"

"I'm working on that."

He looked down at her. "By yourself."

"It's how I work best, apparently." She stood up. During the time she'd been gone from Santa Rey, she'd closed herself off, both her heart and soul. It was a hell of a time to realize that. But no matter what happened here—whether she left and went back to Los Angeles, or whether she stayed—whatever she settled on for herself, she couldn't go back to closing herself off.

"Kenzie."

"I didn't mean to get so good at being alone. I didn't realize, living in L.A., the land of pretend, that I'd never built myself any real relationships." She let out a long breath and met his gaze. "But that changed when I got here. When I was with you. I love you, Aidan. Again. Still. I love you."

And while that shocking statement hung in the air, someone called for Aidan. But he just stared at Kenzie. "You—"

"Aidan!"

With a grimace, he looked over his shoulder. "Shit, it's the chief."

"Go."

"Kenzie—"

"Go."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

Nodding, she watched him walk toward a tall man whose back was to her, stretching out a dark blue shirt that said Chief across the shoulders.

Then she walked away. She didn't have a car, so she had no idea where she thought she was going, but she had to leave.

In her pocket, her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text.

Another half block. Gray car.

I LOVE YOU. Aidan muttered the three little words that Kenzie had said to him. She'd said them, and then she'd vanished, and he had no idea where she'd gone. One moment he'd been talking to the chief, and the next...She'd been gone. It'd been hours, and not a word.

He was at the station now, and she still hadn't answered her damn cell phone, and he was starting to lose it. He shouldn't have walked away to talk to the chief, he should have dragged her with him.

"Hey, Mr. 2008." Cristina came into the station kitchen and went straight for the refrigerator. "What are you pouting about?" She helped herself to someone else's lunch.

"You could bring your own."

"I could." Cristina pulled out a thick turkey sandwich. "But I don't."

"Hey, that's mine," Dustin said, joining them from the garage. "What did I tell you about stealing my sandwich?"

Cristina spoke around a huge mouthful. "If I was still sleeping with you, I'd bet you'd give me your sandwich."

Dustin's eyes darkened. "You slept with me once."

"Your point?"

"My point is that if we were still sleeping together, I'd make you your own damn sandwich."

She took another bite, chewing with a moan. "You know, I should give that some thought, because you do make the best sandwiches."

Dustin tossed up his hands and walked back out of the room.

When he was gone, Cristina dropped her tough girl pose, watching him go with a naked look of longing.

"You could just tell him the truth," Aidan said.

"What, that he makes crappy sandwiches?"

"No, that you're scared. He'd understand fear." Hell, he understood it all too well.

"Are you kidding me? I'm not scared." Cristina tossed the sandwich back in the fridge. "I'm not scared of anything." But as she shut the fridge, she pressed her forehead to the door. "Ah, hell. I'm scared. Everything's messed up. Dustin's mad at me. Blake's gone. There's no good food. Blake's gone."

"You still miss him."

"Hell, yeah, I still miss him. He was a great partner. And now even the chief, his own flesh and blood, wants to make him out to be a monster that we know he wasn't."

"Wait." Aidan grabbed her arm. "What?"

"He wasn't a monster."

"The flesh and blood part. What did you mean about that?"

Cristina's lips tightened. "Blake asked me never to tell."

"He asked you never to tell what?"

She sighed. "That the chief's his uncle. They were estranged, though. Blake's parents were—"

"Dead. They died years ago."

"Yeah. But his father was the chief's half brother."

Blood is thicker than water...Good God. "If that's true," he asked hoarsely, "why did Blake and Kenzie spend their childhood in foster care?"

"Because the chief didn't want kids. Or something like that." She shrugged. "Not sure on the details."

Neither was he. Except that somehow...Christ. Somehow the chief—

His cell phone rang. When he looked down at the screen, his heart skipped a beat. "Thank God," he said to Kenzie in lieu of a greeting. "Listen to me. I just realized—"

"Aidan, I need you. I'm sorry, I know I don't really have the right to say that to you, but I do. Can you come meet me? Now? Please?"

"Just tell me where."

AIDAN BURST INSIDE the Sunrise Café and looked around the tables.

No Kenzie.

"She's on the roof," Sheila told him, standing behind the bar drying glasses.

"Thanks."

"Something about Tommy being on his way, and having all the answers you need..."

Aidan had the answers. He just didn't have the girl, which he intended to rectify. He headed for the stairs as Sheila turned her attention to someone else. "Hey, there, good-looking," she called out with a smile of greeting. Aidan took the stairs without looking back, coming to a relieved halt on the roof at the sight of Kenzie sitting on the bench.

"Tommy's on his way," she said, standing up. Someone stepped out from the shadows behind her and Aidan's heart stopped.

It was Blake, who by all logical accounts should be dead.

Only there was nothing logical about any of this. Not the arsons, and not the way Aidan knew he loved the woman standing in front of him like he'd never loved anyone before.

"Listen to him," Kenzie said quietly. "Listen to your heart."

He was listening to his heart, which had kicked back to life and was screaming, demanding that he pull Kenzie close and tell her he loved her, too. That he was sorry it'd taken him so long, but like Cristina, he'd been afraid, was in fact still afraid but would no longer run from how he felt.

He'd never again run from her.

But that would have to wait. He looked at Blake, who was thinner than ever. And he walked with a cane. "I know, it's crazy," his old friend said, his voice low and urgent. "You thought I was dead and I'm not. I...faked my own death."

"I'm getting that."

"When I found out who the real arsonist was, I realized no one was safe." Blake's face was twisted in tortured misery. "He killed Tracy right after he blew up my boat."

"I know. I know all of it. I even know who we're talking about. I just don't know why."

"Oh, I can tell you why," said the man who came through the roof door to stand in front of them. The chief nodded in Aidan's direction. "If you really want to know."

Shit. Aidan pulled out his cell, hit Tommy's number and put the phone to his ear.

"Nearly there," Tommy said tensely.

"Hurry. Bring backup."

"Oh, it'll be too late," the chief said conversationally.

"Uncle Allan?" Kenzie breathed, staring at the chief. She looked at Aidan. "He's the fire chief? I thought..." She turned back to her uncle. "I thought you were in Chicago."

"I was. I came back here a year ago. A shame we lost touch or you'd have known."

"We lost touch—" Kenzie took a step toward him, or tried to, but Blake grabbed her hand and held her back "—because you didn't want us."

"Now, now. That's not entirely true. I just didn't want to be responsible for raising kids. I never wanted kids."

"But it's okay to be responsible for killing people?"

"One person," he corrected. "Not people. And that was an accident."

"You killed Tracy and that was no accident," Blake ground out. "You murdered her."

"Ah, now, see murder implies intent, and I don't have intent. I have an addiction." He smiled sadly. "It means I can't help it."

Kenzie again tried to charge him, but this time it was Aidan who held her back, not trusting that asshole with her.

"If I was an alcoholic," the chief asked, "would you still be looking at me like that? If I had a drug problem? No, you'd be trying to get me help."

"I tried to get you help," Blake told him. "When I figured out you had started that second fire all those months ago, you begged me to understand. You lied and said it was your first time, and that you'd stop, that you'd get help. Instead a child died and when I tried to turn you in you threatened me."

The chief slowly shook his head. "Tommy was getting close. You wouldn't leave me alone. I had to do something. I had to keep you quiet."

Blake gave Aidan an agonized look, as though pleading for forgiveness. "By then he had implicated me. He'd changed the schedules, he'd planted evidence. He discredited me so that even if I did tell, I'd be the first one they'd lock up. And once I was in jail, he threatened to hurt Kenzie.

"Then Zach started asking questions and the chief tried to kill him by burning down his house. I had followed him, Zach saw me, and I didn't know what to do. I panicked and faked my death. If I was gone, he had no reason to harm Kenzie."

"And I didn't."

"You killed Tracy!"

"But not Kenzie," the chief said calmly. "Look, Tracy was going to put together a list of people who'd purchased those metal trash cans. I would have been on that list."

"You didn't have to kill her," Blake shouted.

"He had to set more fires," Aidan said grimly.

"That's true." The chief nodded emphatically. "I can't help myself. I tried like hell. I couldn't stop, but at least I went for old and dilapidated properties, or overly insured buildings." He paused. "Like this one."

Aidan stared at him. "What?"

"Sheila is getting ready to renovate," the chief said.

"She has to," Aidan said. "The building has structural problems."

"Yes, and now she's over insured to protect it. It's a situation that cries out to an arsonist. It needs to burn."

"Ohmigod," Kenzie breathed, looking horrified. "You're a very sick man."

"Agreed." Her uncle smiled without any mirth. He clapped his hands together. "Well, it's been nice clearing all this up but I've got to end this now."

"You're not walking away," Aidan said. "Not from this. You have to pay for your crimes."

"I'm not paying for anything. You didn't get hurt. None of you died."

"Are you kidding?" Aidan asked incredulously. "Blake nearly died trying to stop you. You nearly killed Kenzie on Blake's Girl, and then again when you blew up her car."

"Nearly won't hold up in a court of law. I was just trying to scare her out of town, anyway. The car was supposed to blow an hour earlier, but a fuse failed me. And the boat was an accident. I was just trying to get rid of Blake's laptop. I didn't know she was there that night."

"There's something else you don't know," Aidan told him. "Blake e-mailed Kenzie backup files."

The chief's mouth tightened. "I'm not going down for this, for any of it. I'm the chief."

"Not for long you're not," Blake said. "You're going to be stripped of that title and put in jail."

"Not happening," the Chief declared. "I won't go to jail—I've made sure of it. I've risked my life to save people for almost thirty years. I won't be remembered as an arsonist."

Aidan's gut clenched. There was only one reason the chief would come out in the open like this and confess his crimes. And that was if he didn't intend for them to live to tell the tale. "Whatever you've planned, no."

"You're too late." The chief looked first to Kenzie, then to Blake. "I'm sorry. Truly sorry."

"What did you do?" Blake demanded. "Oh, Christ, you didn't—" Without finishing that thought, he whirled and limped to the roof door, yelling as he took the stairs, "Evacuate! Everyone out—"

Which was all he got out before a thundering explosion hit. The entire building shook, throwing Aidan and Kenzie to the ground.

## 17

AT THE EXPLOSION, the world seemed to stop, or at least go into slow motion. Kenzie managed to lift her head just as Aidan rolled toward her, his face a mask of concern. Her uncle, ten feet away, wasn't moving at all. Pushing to her knees, she stared at the doorway where her brother had just disappeared. "Blake!" she screamed.

He didn't reappear, no one did, nothing except a plume of smoke that struck terror in her heart. "Ohmigod. Aidan—"

"Are you okay?" He was on his knees before her, running his hands down her sides, pushing her hair from her face, looking her over, his expression calm, only his eyes showing his fear. "Are you okay?" he demanded again hoarsely.

Shaken, but all in one piece, she nodded and pointed to the doorway. "Blake—"

His eyes and mouth were grim. "I know. He's down with the others. We'll get to him." He glanced at the chief.

"Is he—"

Aidan checked for a pulse. "Just out cold." He pulled her to her feet, yanking his cell phone out of his pocket. From far below, they could hear screams and yelling over the whooping sound of smoke and car alarms going off.

All of it brought Kenzie back to the night on Blake's Girl, back to that irrational terror. Then they'd been able to jump into the water. Now there was nothing down there except concrete.

Three floors down.

"Call 9-1-1," Aidan said to her, shoving the phone into her hands as he ran past the very still chief to the edge of the building and looked over the side. "Dammit, I can't see if people are getting out of here."

The café hadn't been full to capacity, but there had been at least twenty people inside when they'd entered, and then there was Sheila and her staff.

And Blake. God, Blake. Could she really have found him only to lose him again, for real this time? "Aidan—"

"Listen to me. There's no way off of here except for the stairwell. No outside fire escape or ladder."

They both looked at the dark doorway, emitting smoke now. "Ohmigod." She felt frozen. Logically she knew she had to go down to get to Blake, not to mention to safety. But there was nothing logical about the fear blocking her windpipe. She'd thought Blake had died in a fire. She'd nearly died in the boat fire. Instead of seeing the roof's doorway, she kept flashing back to Blake's Girl, the black night and blacker water. She could feel the heat from that fire prickling her skin even as she could feel the iciness of the water closing around her body—

"Kenzie."

She blinked Aidan into view. He had his hands on her arms and he was frowning into her face.

"I can't go in there," she said, unable to catch her breath. "I just can't."

"Okay." They both looked at the chief, who still wasn't moving. Again Aidan went to the edge of the roof and looked over. Whatever he saw made his jaw go tight and his eyes, grim. Then he backed Kenzie to a corner and gently pushed her down until she was sitting there, her back to the wall, facing the opened door to the only exit. "I'm going—"

"No." She gripped his arms, digging her fingers into the muscles there.

"Kenzie—"

"No!" Icy, terrifying fear overcame her as she stared at the smoke now pouring out through the opened door. "There's a fire down there!"

He didn't say it, he didn't have to.

"I already hear sirens. They're coming to put out the fire. It's going to be okay. But I have to go help. This roof won't be safe to be on for long."

"I know."

With his eyes reflecting the torment he felt at leaving her, he pried her fingers from his arms.

"Come right back," she ordered.

"Okay."

"And stay safe, you hear me?"

"I will."

"And Blake. Bring me Blake."

"I promise." He held her gaze for one beat, letting her see into his heart and soul. He never made promises, never, and yet he did now, to her, which meant more than anything he'd ever done. Pretending to be brave, she nodded and then sagged back, covering her face with her hands so she couldn't see the smoke pouring out of the doorway as he vanished into it.

Dammit, she really needed a new script. Aidan was probably worrying about her instead of completely focusing on the fire—and that was dangerous. She forced her eyes open, glued her gaze to the black doorway. He had saved her life on Blake's boat, and that had been amazing, but she could have saved herself. She knew how to swim.

And she could save herself this time.

All she had to do was get past her fear. Any second now...

The sirens were louder now, and that reached her somehow. Tommy was probably nearly here, too. She got to her feet, wiped the sweat from her eyes and headed to her uncle. He'd hit his head on the A/C vent. Turning her back on him, she headed toward the door. "You're a coward," she told herself. "You're fine, you're fine..." She kept up the mantra as she entered the dark doorway. Unable to breathe through the smoke, she pulled her shirt up over her mouth and took another step.

And then it happened. The floor beneath her rumbled, the walls shimmied and shook, and she froze as a second explosion hit, flinging her against a wall. Then the power flickered and went off, leaving her in complete darkness.

Oh, God.

Sitting up, she felt for the railing and pushed herself upright. She was okay. Relatively speaking, anyway.

Just as she began heading down again, the stairs beneath her began rumbling, but not with yet another explosion. This time it was pounding footsteps as someone ran up the stairs, and then reached out toward her. "Kenzie?"

"Blake? Ohmigod, Blake, you're okay—"

"Where is he? The chief?" he demanded.

"On the roof."

"Stay here," he commanded. "Stay right here!" And then he rushed up and out.

Like hell. She was going to be proactive this time, dammit. She was rewriting this script her way. And when it was over, she was going to write scripts all damn day long to her heart's content. And eat donuts. Yeah, lots of donuts. Heart pounding, she stumbled after her brother. Bursting back out on the roof, she was horrified to see that part of it had begun to cave in, with flames flickering out from underneath. And standing far too close to that area was Blake, facing off with the chief.

"No," she cried, just as Aidan came out the doorway behind her, looking as if he'd been in a car wreck, all torn and bloody, calling her name hoarsely.

"You're hurt," she cried, rushing to his side.

"The explosion kicked me down the stairs." He hugged her tight, not taking his eyes off the chief and Blake. "I'm okay."

It was like a bad movie, playing in slow motion as the chief leaped for the edge of the roof, and Blake leaped for him the best he could, wrestling him to the ground.

Flames shot up through the floor at all of them and Kenzie screamed, trying to get close to her brother, but Aidan had a hold of her, even though he was the one with torn clothing and blood seeping from his various injuries, all covered in soot.

On the ground now, Blake rolled with the chief, the two of them still throwing punches.

"Stay back," Aidan told her, holding onto her. "The flames—"

They were licking at them from all angles now, but suddenly, from below, they were hit with water. Streams of it, coming up from the street.

The fire trucks had arrived, and none too soon as the flames forced Kenzie and Aidan back from yet another cave-in.

"Hold still, you son of a bitch," Blake growled out to the chief, who was trying to crawl free and get to the edge of the roof.

Aidan tried to move around the flames to help Blake with the chief, but suddenly he wavered, then sank to his knees.

"Aidan!"

"Yeah. Think maybe I hit my head before." He blinked at her face as she dropped to her knees in front of him. "There's three of you."

"Oh, God." She touched the gash along his temple, which was bleeding freely. "Hold still!"

"Not a problem."

A ladder and bucket came into view over the roofline, lifted by a crane from below. It held two firefighters, who took one look at Blake and staggered to a shocked halt.

"Later," Blake yelled at them. "I'll explain later! Aidan's down and we need Tommy and some cuffs. Tell me someone has some cuffs!"

IT ACTUALLY WASN'T THAT EASY, nothing ever was, Kenzie thought. Hours later, they were all sitting around Aidan's hospital bed, where he was being held overnight, thanks to a concussion.

The chief had been taken to jail, which was such a huge town scandal that Tommy had left to prepare for a press conference. Sheila was sitting in a chair, her wrist in a sling. It was her only injury, but the café was a complete loss. Dustin was next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Cristina was there, too, holding a bucket full of money from emergency personnel on the scene who'd already poured some of their support into it for Sheila.

"I could go to Hawaii with all that." Tears were thick in Sheila's voice.

"Or you could rebuild," Aidan said from flat on his back.

At the sound of his voice, Kenzie's heart squeezed. He'd been so damn quiet, and she'd been so damn worried.

On the other side of Aidan's bed, Blake stirred. "The chief's in custody," he told Aidan. "And he's not going to get off easy."

Aidan's gaze tracked to Kenzie. "I don't want to get off easy, either." He reached for her hand. "Not tonight, or any night."

She gripped his fingers tightly and pressed them to her aching heart. He was talking, but not making any sense. She hadn't taken a full breath since they'd taken him for X-rays and she didn't take one now. "I'll go get your nurse—"

"No." His grip was like iron. "I'm not crazy."

"I know—"

"Listen to me. You pulled it off, you broke my damn heart. We're even."

Oh, God, and now he was delirious. "Aidan—"

"Maybe we should give them a moment," Dustin said, guiding Sheila out of the room. Cristina followed.

Blake did not leave. "What's going on?"

"I love you back, Kenzie." Aidan managed a smile, although it was crooked. "But I think you already knew that."

"No." She shook her head, finding herself both laughing and crying. "I didn't. I hoped..."

Blake was staring at the two of them, mouth grim. "Wait. Love?"

Aidan, who still hadn't stopped looking into Kenzie's eyes, nodded. "Definitely love."

And just like that, Kenzie took a full breath. God, it felt good to breathe. Breathe and live and love.

"Okay, somebody talk to me," Blake said.

"Well you've been dead, or I'd have told you before now," Kenzie reminded him. "I've been busy trying to make Aidan pay for breaking my heart all those years ago."

At this, Blake blinked, then sent a glacial stare at Aidan. "You broke my sister's heart?"

Aidan winced. "Yeah, but if it helps, I was an idiot."

"He really was," Kenzie agreed.

"And trust me, she got me back," Aidan said. "Her evil plan worked. I fell hard. I love her, Blake." He broke eye contact with Kenzie and looked right at Blake, his smile gone, eyes dead serious. "I love her with everything I've got."

Blake looked as if a good wind could knock him over. "You put your heart out there? You?"

Bringing his and Kenzie's still joined hands to his chest, Aidan nodded. "Yeah."

"And then she stomped on it?"

"In boots, with spikes on the soles," Aidan assured him.

Blake took this in and considered, then relaxed. "Okay, then. As long as you're even."

"Not even," Kenzie whispered. "Not yet."

Uncertainty twisted Aidan's features. "Kenzie—"

"We're not even until I get my happily-ever-after." Her throat was so tight she could barely speak. "But since I'm going to be writing, I'm pretty sure I can plot it out for myself."

Aidan's eyes registered both surprise and pride. "You're going to be great at writing. But about that ending...Am I in it?"

"I can guarantee it."

He smiled, and right then, Kenzie knew. She didn't need a script for this, her life, not anymore. The real thing was so much better. Taking the first step, she cupped Aidan's gorgeous face and kissed him.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2122-6  
Copyright © 2008 Harlequin Books S.A.

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

Secret Seduction  
Copyright © 2008 Laurie Vanzura

The Hell-Raiser  
Copyright © 2008 Rhonda Nelson

Lie with Me  
Copyright © 2008 Carolyn Hanlon

Pleasure to the Max!  
Copyright © 2008 Camille Fuller

Whispers in the Dark  
Copyright © 2008 Kira Bazzel

Flashback  
Copyright © 2008 Jill Shalvis

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

## Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

## Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

## Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17
