Standing in the Shadows

Chapter Twenty

Connor sat on the porch and watched the sunrise turn the clouds a rosy pink. He was so happy, it terrified him. Anything that made him feel so open and soft had to be suspect.

Morning advanced, people came out of their houses dressed for work, herding their kids into car seats. It was a normal working day for the rest of the world. None of them knew that the universe had just shifted on its axis. Erin, the most beautiful girl in the world, was his future bride. He could barely breathe, he was so switched on.

The door opened behind him. He leaped up and turned. His foolish smile slipped a notch when he found himself face-to-face with Barbara Riggs's suspicious glare. He thought about the squeaky bed, and made sure she wasn't holding any blunt objects that could be utilized to bash his head in.

She looked different today. Nicely dressed, hair styled, made up. She looked like the old Barbara he remembered from before the fall.

"Uh, good morning," he ventured.

She gave him a curt nod. He wondered if he was supposed to make small talk. If so, too bad. He didn't have any to offer.

Finally she took pity on him and opened the door wider. "There's fresh coffee in the kitchen. You may have some, if you'd like."

Her tone implied that he didn't deserve a cup of fresh coffee, but he still forced himself to nod and smile. "Thanks, I would."

This, of course, meant following her into the kitchen, sitting down with a cup of coffee and confronting another screaming silence. All those years of deadly quiet meals with Eamon McCloud had not prepared him for the frigid quality of Barbara Riggs's silence.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Uh, how's Cindy?" he asked.

"Still sleeping," she said. "So is Erin."

"That's good," he said. "You all needed your rest."

"Yes," she agreed. "Are you hungry?"

Actually, he was ravenous, but her cool gaze made him feel self-conscious about it. As if being hungry were some sort of moral failing. "I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about it."

She got up, with a martyred look. "I'll make you some breakfast."

Erin came downstairs some minutes later, dewy and fresh from a shower, and found him digging into his third stack of pancakes and link sausages. Her face colored a deep rose pink. "Good morning," she said.

There was no bra under that skimpy tank top, he noticed. His glance switched her brights on. They went hard and tight against the stretchy fabric. He could feel those raspberry-textured nubs against his face, his lips fastened around them, tongue swirling, suckling.

He looked down at his pancakes. "Uh, great breakfast, Barbara."

She shot him a narrow glance and turned to Erin. "Want some pancakes, hon?"

"Sure," Erin said. She poured herself some coffee and dosed it with milk. "What's on your agenda for the day, Connor?"

"I need to track down Billy Vega," he told her. "I don't like leaving you alone, but I'd rather do it on my own." She didn't need to know the rest of his plans. Which included planting microwave beacons in her stuff so he could keep tabs on her.

"You really think Novak might have hired him to control Cindy?" Barbara asked.

He gave her a noncommittal shrug. "Just ruling out possibilities. I want you all to stay right here with the doors locked. And I want you to keep that revolver while I'm not with you, Erin."

Erin winced. He braced himself for Barbara's disapproval, but Barbara nodded, a martial glint in her eye. "I have a gun, too," she said. "A Beretta 8000 Cougar. And I know how to use it, too. Eddie taught me. Anyone tries to touch my girls, and I will blow their heads right off."

Erin coughed and set her coffee down. "Good Lord, Mom."

Connor grinned his approval and raised his coffee mug in a toast to his future mother-in-law. "Excellent. This place is guarded by kick-ass Amazon warrior goddesses. I'm outclassed. Practically redundant."

Barbara passed Erin a plate of pancakes. "Hardly that," she said primly. She forked some sausage links onto Erin's plate, hesitated, and dumped the rest onto his own, a clear mark of favor. "You certainly made yourself useful last night. Your brothers, too." She pursed her lips, uncomfortable. "I, ah, haven't thanked you yet, for your help."

Erin hid her face behind her hair. Her shoulders shook. "Don't thank him, Mom," she said. "It has a very strange effect on him."

He choked on his coffee and kicked her under the table.

She covered her face and tried unsuccessfully to muffle her giggles.

Barbara regarded them with chilly hauteur. "When you two are finished chortling over your private joke, I don't suppose you'd care to explain what's so funny?"

"No," he said hastily. "She's just yanking my chain. You're more than welcome, Barbara. Anytime."

Barbara's lips twitched, as if she were suppressing a smile. "Eat your sausages before they get cold," she snapped.

He cheerfully obliged her, sneaking hungry glances at Erin as she tucked in her pancakes. She was so amazingly pretty. Gorgeous shoulders, cute rounded arms, all soft and luscious. And those tits, high and quivering against that tantalizing tank top. Her regal posture just did it to him: her head so high, her back so straight, shooting him secret, heated glances from under her eyelashes. It drove him nuts.

Erin dipped her fingers into pancake syrup and peeked to make sure that Barbara's back was turned. Her lips curved in a seductive smile as she licked her fingertip. She drew the next finger into her soft, rosy mouth and sucked it, circling her pink tongue around the tip.

Color flared in his face as if he were thirteen again. He stared down into his empty plate and scrambled for a diversion. "Uh, would you mind if I took the cell phone when I go?" he asked. "I want you to be able to reach me at all times."

"Of course," Erin said. "I charged it up last night."

He nodded his thanks and gulped down the rest of his coffee. "I guess I'd, uh, better get going, then."

"I'll miss you." Her smile made him want to fall to his knees.

"I'll come back as soon as I can." He fled the kitchen before he could start babbling, too flustered even to thank Barbara for breakfast.

Erin padded after him. "The cell phone is plugged into the outlet by the couch," she told him. "Let me get it for you."

She handed him the phone after he shrugged his coat on, and disarmed the alarm for him. They gazed at each other. There was so much to say, they were both speechless.

Connor touched her cheek with his fingertip. "Erin. Last night was really intense. I need to know if we're still, uh… I don't mean to pressure you, but I don't want to float around on cloud nine all day thinking it's a done deal if you've got second thoughts. If you need time, I'll back off. I won't like it, but I'll do it. So tell me if—"

"I love you, Connor." She went up on tiptoe and pulled his face down to hers. Her lips were so soft and sweet, his whole body was racked by a shudder of delight. "It's a done deal."

That was as much as he could take. He pulled her soft, pliant body against his. Her tits pressed against his chest, his hands were full of the satin richness of her hair, her mouth was a pool of honey and spices and juicy, sun-warmed fruit. She arched against him and—

"Ahem. Have a nice morning, Connor."

They sprang apart at Barbara's crisp tone. Connor twitched his coat shut. Erin hid her reddened mouth with her hand.

"Thanks, Barbara. I'll, uh, be on my way," he mumbled.

"I think that would be best," Barbara said.

He was almost to Seth and Raine's place before his jeans fit normally. He was so jazzed, he practically danced up the wooden steps that led to the side kitchen entrance. He disarmed Seth's high-tech security system with practiced ease and let himself in. For the first time, Seth and Raine's altar crammed with wedding and honeymoon photos didn't make his lip curl. The whole world should get so lucky. If everybody felt like this all the time, earth would be a paradise. No war, no crime. Everybody bouncing off the walls, singing all day long.

Connor had spent enough time in Seth's basement workshop arsenal to know his way around. He rifled through the disks until he found Seth's latest version of X-Ray Specs, and dug through the numbered drawers, pulling out a handful of beacons housed in little plastic envelopes. He filled his pockets with them, tucked one of the receivers under his arm, and scrawled a note of thanks, leaving it on Seth's computer keyboard.

Next stop, Erin's apartment.

Erin's cat presented him with the first of several moral dilemmas. The animal started yowling the moment he let himself in the door with the help of his ATM card. It twined around his feet, trotted to its food bowl, and sat down. Luminous golden eyes regarded him expectantly.

"But I can't feed you," he protested. "If I feed you, I'll be busted. Erin will know that I was here. I'll bring her over later and she can feed you then. A little patience. You're too fat, anyway."

The cat licked its chops, bared its fangs, and meowed. His conscience pricked him. "Maybe some dry food," he conceded. "Just a little to tide you over." He searched through the cupboards until he found a bag of cat food, and dumped a small amount into the bowl. The cat sniffed at it and gave him a you-have-got-to-be-kidding look.

"I told you," he explained. "No wet food. It's not my fault. I've got nothing against you personally."

The cat curled sulkily down over the bowl and began to crunch.

The second dilemma was actually more a practical one than a moral one. Planting beacons on one's girlfriend during warm weather was as difficult as it was morally iffy. It was easier to hide stuff in heavy outerwear, and her purse and wallet and tape recorder, which were his best bets, were all with her at her mother's house. The Mueller report would've been good, if she'd kept it in a briefcase, but it was just a manila folder full of loose papers and photos, no way to hide the thing. He tagged her organizer, stitched beacons randomly into her jackets and blazers. That was as much as he could do until he got a whack at her purse. He wished Seth were around. Seth was born devious.

His eyes kept returning to the small jewelry box that sat on the dresser. He opened it and poked around until he found a ring he'd seen once on her ring finger, a silver and topaz thing. He slipped it onto his little finger, memorized how far it came past the joint, and voila, he had a point of reference for the jeweler. What slender, tiny fingers she had.

The third moral dilemma stared him in the face when the phone rang and the message machine clicked, whirred, and began to play back its contents. Erin must be calling her machine. She hadn't invited him to listen to her private messages, yet here he was. He could hardly put his fingers in his ears. Besides, she was his future wife. Her phone messages were the least of what he had the right to know about her.

So he stood like a statue in the middle of the apartment while the cat crunched its snack, and let her messages flow by him.

Click, whirr. "Hello, Ms. Riggs, this is Tamara Julian from the Quicksilver Foundation. It's four on Monday afternoon, and I want to schedule a meeting with Mr. Mueller, who is arriving midday tomorrow. Call me as soon as possible, please. We have a narrow window of time in which to arrange this. Please call my mobile phone number." Tamara recited the number.

Click, whirr. "Hello, Erin, this is Lydia. My goodness, you have been playing with the big kids on the block, haven't you? I just talked with the people from Quicksilver, and they told me about your work on Mr. Mueller's Celtic collection and their plans for the Huppert. I'm so excited! Rachel and Fred and Wilhelm and I have called an emergency lunch meeting, and you must be there to help us strategize! And Erin, I do hope you won't hold what happened a few months ago against us. I had no choice in the matter, as you know. It was the board who insisted on your dismissal, not the four of us. We have nothing but admiration for your skill and your determination. Call me, Erin, right away. At home tonight, if you like. Any hour is fine, even if it's late. I'm sure I won't sleep a wink tonight. Buh-bye!"

"Two-faced bitch," Connor muttered. "Get stuffed." Click, whirr. "Ms. Riggs, this is Tamara Julian again. It's seven on Monday evening. Call us, please." Click, whirr. "Ms. Riggs, this is Nigel Dobbs, hoping against hope to get in touch with you. You have the number." Click, whirr. "Erin, this is Nick Ward. I need to talk to you right away."

Cold ran through his body as he listened to Nick recite his phone number. His euphoria vanished. He looked around the room, the bed still in disarray, yesterday's breakfast dishes still on the table. His stomach clenched like a fist. He shouldn't have left her alone. He didn't want Nick to talk to her. Nothing Nick might say could possibly be to Connor's advantage. All Nick would do was create confusion.

He pulled out the cell phone and dialed the Riggs house. It was busy. He tried again once he got back out to the car. Still busy. Prickles crawled up his back. He dialed Sean, who picked up on the first ring.

"Something weird is going on," Connor said. "I'll say." Sean's voice was tense, devoid of its usual ironic tone. "Miles and I are about a mile from Billy's house, and—"

"What the hell are you doing at Billy's house?"

"Davy's had X-Ray Specs running on his computer since the last time we were hunting Novak, Con. He just keyed in the beacon he planted in Billy's cigarettes last night. The house is in Bellevue."

"You knew damn well I wanted to be there when we—"

"You're too late, Con." Sean's voice was strangely heavy. "Nobody's going to be questioning Billy."

Unease prickled over Connor's skin. "What do you mean?"

"He's dead," Sean said bluntly. "I talked to a lady who lives down the block. She heard the screaming around six a.m. The place is seething with cops. Guess what else? Surprise, surprise. Nick's there."

"Oh, Christ," Connor muttered.

"Yeah. I saw him talking to that scrawny blond chick. Tasha."

"Did he see you?" Connor asked.

"I don't think so," Sean said wearily. "We got the hell out of there, lickety-split. I didn't know Billy rated the attention of the Feds. I thought he was a strictly small-time rodent."

They both pondered for a moment.

"This sucks," Sean said forcefully. "I was having fun until now."

"They're going to be knocking on our door," Connor said. "Tasha's fingered us for sure. And Nick's already called Erin."

Sean made a frustrated sound. "Probably this has nothing to do with Novak. Billy's lovely manners just earned him some enemies and last night one of them caught up with him. I can see it. It's credible."

"Sure, maybe," Connor said. "And maybe someone didn't want us or anybody else to talk to Billy. Maybe someone wants us distracted by finding out that we're suspects in a homicide investigation."

"Stop it, Con," Sean said sourly. "You're trying to make me into a conspiracy theorist, and I don't want to go there. It's not my scene."

"You think I'm doing this for fun?" Connor snarled. "Get out of here, Sean. Take Miles, and go back to Endicott Falls."

"Yeah, like I'd leave my big brother alone with all this weirdness."

"Goddammit, Sean—"

"Talk to you later. I'm calling Davy." The connection broke.

He tried to call Erin again, but the line was still busy.

The cold weight of dread built inside him, swelling into panic.

Erin was dismayed by the messages on her machine. She paced back and forth next to the phone table, trying to sort out her thoughts. She didn't want to talk to Nick, that was for sure. She didn't want to talk to Lydia, either. And she really didn't want to confront the whole Mueller issue with Connor as nervous and overprotective as he currently was. The timing was just awful.

But this was the day. She had to have it out with him and be strong, no matter how upset he got. Her professional future depended on it. Anyone could see it. Connor was just going to have to see it, too.

She picked up the phone to dial Connor's cell number. It rang in her hand, and she was so startled, she almost dropped the thing.

She clicked the line open. "Hello?" she said cautiously.

"Hey, this is Erin, right? It's Nick. I'm glad I caught you. Is Connor there?"

"No," she said. "Call his cell phone if you want to talk to—"

"No, Erin. I don't want to talk to Connor. I want to talk to you."

Her knees wobbled in trepidation, and she sat down hard on the stairs, jolting her tailbone. "What about?"

"You were with him last night at the Alley Cat, right? When he and his brother pounded Billy Vega to a pulp?"

"No, Nick, I was there when he and his brother were surrounded by nine big guys who all proceeded to attack them at once, and who got exactly what they deserved. Why do you ask?"

"I'm not interested in the nine guys, Erin. I'm interested in Connor's interest in Billy Vega."

"That guy hurt my little sister, Nick. He hit her, and terrorized her, and God only knows what else. So don't ask me to feel sorry for—"

"Billy Vega is dead, Erin."

She froze, mouth agape. "Dead?"

"According to Tasha Needham, it happened a little before six a.m. Tasha took Billy to the emergency room, where they set his wrist. Then Tasha and Billy took a cab to his rental house, where they proceeded to get very stoned. Sometime in the early morning, the assailant entered the house and beat Billy to death with a blunt object. Tasha was vomiting in the bathroom at the time, which probably saved her life. But she told us all about the ninja monsters who kidnapped Cindy Riggs and beat up Billy earlier that evening. It wasn't much of a leap."

"My God," she whispered. "That's… that's so awful."

Nick waited a moment. "Was Connor with you last night?"

"Yes," she said, still dazed.

Then, like a splash of ice water, the implications of Nick's question hit her. "Nick, for God's sake. You can't be suggesting that—"

"For the whole night?"

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, and burst out, "Yes! Yes, of course he was!"

But her hesitation had betrayed her. Nick cursed softly into the phone. "This is getting ugly, Erin. I don't want you mixed up in it."

"But Connor would never—"

"You saw what he did to Georg Luksch," Nick said. "Connor is my friend, but he's wound up too tight, and he's finally snapped. This fantasy he's got, about Novak and Luksch gunning for you—"

"What do you mean, fantasy?" she demanded. "Are you saying that it's not true that they broke out of prison? He's just trying to protect me! He feels responsible because Dad's not around to do it."

Nick hesitated for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Erin. There's no one to protect you from. Novak's dead."

She struggled to comprehend. The information didn't fit.

It rattled senselessly around in her mind, making noise. "When?" she whispered.

"Yesterday, in France. A mafiya hit. Territory war, they think. Rival crime lords. A building got blown up. Novak was inside. Dental records confirm it. The charred skeleton was missing three fingers on its right hand. They're working on the DNA, but they're sure."

Her mind whirled. "So Connor doesn't know?"

"I haven't told him yet, no, but he knew that Novak was back in France. Luksch, too. The police have been moving in on them for days. I told Connor, but he didn't share those details with you, did he?"

She started shivering.

"No," Nick said. "Of course not. It didn't fit his fantasy. He wanted to rescue you, so he created a bad guy to save you from. He sucked you in. I know this hurts, and I know you care about him, but you've got to be strong. You've got to drag yourself out of this dream world of his. You've got enough to cope with already. I'm really sorry, Erin."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered.

Not the man who was so in love with her that he blushed and stammered when she teased him at the breakfast table. Who had rescued her sister, and woken her mother from the ugly dream she'd been trapped in. Not the man who had made such sweet, passionate love to her all night long. Not her Connor. It was not possible.

The vortex was sucking at her, and this time there was no one to grab onto. No hero to rescue her.

"Erin? Erin!" Nick sounded as if he had repeated her name several times. "Are you there? Erin, I need to find him. If you know—"

"No." The word flew out of her mouth, flat and absolute. "I have no idea where he is, Nick. Not the faintest clue."

"It's for his own protection, Erin. We've got to stop this thing before it spins out of control. I swear, I'm on his side—"

"No. I won't do it."

"Goddamn it, Erin! If you really cared about him—"

"Fuck you. No," she hissed. She slammed the phone down. It started ringing seconds later. She wrenched the phone jack out of the wall and doubled over, gasping. Everything was spinning, going black.

Connor had made her feel so whole, so strong. Like she could bless the whole world with her happiness, just touch it and turn it to gold. For the first time, she had lost her fear of the vortex. Of chaos.

And Nick was telling her that her joy was rotten at the core.

"Erin? Honey? Are you OK?"

She looked up at her mother, who was gazing at her with anxious eyes, and pasted on the best smile she could. "Sure, Mom."

"Who was that on the phone?"

She hid the hand that was clutching the phone jack against her leg. "I was just talking to, ah, Lydia," she said.

"Lydia?" Barbara frowned. "From the museum? That cast-iron bitch who fired you?"

She nodded. "Mueller offered the museum a huge donation, but one of the conditions is that they take me back," she explained. She tried to sound excited about it, but her mother wasn't stupid.

Barbara sniffed. "Well, I think you should spit in their faces," she said. "The nerve! When it suits them, they snap their fingers and expect you to trot right back? I think not!"

"You have a point," Erin said. "But I think I'll go to that meeting today anyway, and see what it's all about. I can always spit in their faces after I see the terms they offer me."

"That's my smart, careful, thoughtful girl," her mother said. "Always hedging her bets, trying to do the right thing."

"Not always," she burst out. "Not always."

"I take it you're referring to Connor," Barbara said. "I must say, he's growing on me. He can be extremely rude, and his background leaves something to be desired, but I did like those brothers of his. Even if all three of those McClouds strike me as, well… kind of out there. But they got Cindy back. That won them lots of points. And it's plain to see that Connor's crazy about you, sweetheart."

She flinched at her mother's choice of words. "I know."

"And any man with the nerve to sneak into my house and seduce my daughter under my nose after what he saw me do to Billy Vega's car… well. All I can say is, he must be made of very stern stuff."

Erin's face flamed. "He didn't seduce me last night," she said. "I seduced him."

Her mother's lips flattened to a thin line. "That was more information than I needed, sweetheart."

"Sorry, Mom," she murmured.

Barbara's expression softened. "There's something you should know before you go to that lunch meeting, hon. I'm going to start looking for a job. And Cindy's going to learn how to pull her weight, too. You don't have to carry us. We'll be strong for ourselves, and for you, too. Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

Erin's lip began to tremble. "I think so," she said.

"You'll make it just fine without that trash at the museum. So if you want to spit in their faces, go right ahead. Don't think twice."

"Thanks, Mom. I'll keep that in mind."

"Follow your heart, honey. Don't compromise yourself."

"I'm trying." Her lips started trembling. "I swear, I'm trying, but I'd better get going now. I've got an incredibly busy day. I need to run home and feed Edna, and then dress for lunch with the museum heads. And I have to schedule a meeting with Mueller after that."

Barbara frowned. "You promised Connor you'd stay right here with us, where you're safe. And I agree one hundred percent that lying low is an excellent idea. At least until things calm down."

Erin kissed her mother's cheek. "I'll call him and explain. He's a sweetheart to be so protective, but I can't cower in a hole forever. I promise I'll take cabs everywhere, Mom. I'll be just fine."

Her mother still looked anxious, and Erin gave her another coaxing kiss. "We're going to be fine now. We got Cindy back, and now this big opportunity just falls into my lap. Things are looking up."

It took all the strength she had to keep the cheerful facade in place until the taxi arrived.

The traffic was a nightmare. Connor leaped out of his car when he finally arrived, bolted for the house, and beat on the door.

Barbara pulled the door open. "Connor, what on earth?"

"Is Erin here?"

She frowned. "Didn't she call you?"

"The phone's been busy for a half an hour," he snarled.

"She told me she would call you and…" Barbara's voice trailed off. "Oh, dear."

"What?" His voice cracked with fury. "She left? Alone? You're kidding me. Where the fuck did she go?"

Barbara bristled. "Don't you dare use that language—"

"Just tell me, Barbara. Tell me now."

The desperate urgency in his voice made the color drain from her face. "She got a call," she said faintly. "From the museum where she used to work, for a lunch meeting, and then—"

"And then?" he prompted.

"Then she has to meet with that Mueller fellow. She told me she was going to call you. She took a cab to her apartment so she could change. She left almost a half hour ago. She's probably home already."

He bolted for his car. The screen door burst open and Barbara scurried after him. "Connor, I insist that you tell me what's going on!"

He wrenched his car door open. "Billy Vega was murdered this morning, before I ever had a chance to find him or talk to him. Strange, huh?"

Barbara's face went gray beneath her makeup. "Go," she said. "Hurry."

He ran lights, swerved in and out of lanes, screamed obscenities at slow motorists, but his most aggressive driving was nothing pitted against weekday Seattle traffic. He called her apartment while trapped at an interminable red light, and the machine picked up. "Erin, it's Connor. Pick up if you're there, please."

He waited, crossing his fingers. Nothing.

"Look, I just found out that Billy Vega's been killed," he went on. "I'm really wishing you hadn't broken your promise and left your mom's house. What were you thinking? Please pick up, Erin." The light went green. He dropped the phone and accelerated through it.

He double-parked, and took the stairs at the Kinsdale three at a time. No response to his knock. He used his ATM card again.

Erin was gone. The Mueller report was gone. Her perfume scented the air. She'd taken the time to make her bed, do her dishes, pick up her scattered clothes, feed her cat, and he'd still missed her. By so little that the animal was still crouched over its bowl, tail twitching for joy.

She had taken none of the items he had tagged with beacons, not even the goddamn organizer. He wanted to howl like a wolf, to break things, punch walls, smash furniture. He'd thought that she trusted him. He was bewildered, after the perfection of last night, that she would turn on him and disappear, with no warning, no explanation.

A sucker punch, right to the solar plexus.

He fished the phone number out of his freak memory, and dialed.

"Hello, you have reached the mobile number of the administrative offices of the Quicksilver Foundation," said Tamara Julian's melodious recorded voice. "Please leave us the date, time, and purpose of your call, and we will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a lovely day."

He grabbed the phone book and looked up the Huppert, wading through the voice mail menu until he heard the name Lydia.

"Lydia's out of the office right now," the secretary told him.

"I urgently need to get in touch with her," he said. "I know she has a lunch meeting. Do you know what restaurant? I could call her there."

"I'm sorry, I can't," the woman said. "I didn't make that reservation. She made it herself last night. I have no idea where they are.'"

He muttered an ungracious thanks, and slammed the phone down.

He ran down the stairs to let off steam, even though he had no place to run to. He tried throwing out the net for a pattern, a clue, any sort of jumping-off place, but his mind had to be soft and relaxed for that trick to work. This hurt was too sharp. It sank into his mind like claws, stabbing and rending, making him wild-eyed and stupid.

A door swung on the ground floor as he passed. An elderly lady with a shriveled apple-doll face and a lavender-tinted helmet of white curls peered out at him. "You're the fellow who's keeping company with that nice young lady on the sixth floor, eh?"

He stopped in his tracks. "Did you see her leave?"

"I see everything," the old lady said triumphantly. "She took a cab. Came in a cab, went away in a cab. Must've come into some money, because ever since her car got repossessed, she's been taking the bus."

"Was it a yellow cab? Or a private car service?"

The old lady cackled at his desperation. "Oh, it was a yellow cab. No telling where she's gone, no telling at all." Her voice was a sing-song taunt. "You're just going to have to sit that fine tight tush of yours down and wait for her. Young folks these days don't know the meaning of patience. The more she makes you wait, the better off you'll both be."

"This is a special case," he told her.

Her fearsome dentures gleamed. "Oh, they all think they're special."

The vindictive satisfaction in the lady's voice made him grit his teeth. "Thank you for the information, ma'am."

Her rheumy eyes blinked suspiciously. "Hmph. Pretty manners."

"I try," he said. "Sometimes. Have a nice day."

The old lady retracted her head like a turtle and slammed her door.

One last door to bang on. He groped for the phone and dialed Nick's number as he loped toward the car.

"Where are you?" Nick demanded.

"What the fuck did you say to Erin, Nick?"

"I told her the truth. It's time somebody did. You know about Billy Vega, right?" Nick waited. "Yeah," he said softly. "Of course you do."

Connor knew where this was going. "Nick—"

"I couldn't help but notice that the guy looked a whole lot like Georg Luksch looked after you were done working him over with your cane," Nick said. "Only difference was, Billy was dead. You're slipping."

Black spots danced in front of Connor's eyes. He leaned against his car. "You can't believe that. Come on, Nick. You know me."

"I thought I did," Nick said. "Novak is dead, Con. Blown up. Burned to a crisp. It's all over. All. Over. Am I getting through to you?"

Connor's head spun. The phone call. Georg, on the freeway. Billy Vega. "But that's not possible. I talked to him. And I saw Georg—"

"Don't bother," Nick said. "Georg's in France. Like I told you before. Novak's death is confirmed. Not that this changes anything for you, of course. You need a focus for your anger, and if you can't find one, you'll create one. Sure, Billy Vega was no big loss to the world, but I—"

"Don't be stupid, Nick," Connor said grimly.

"I deduced from my conversation with Erin that you don't have a real alibi for the hours of five a.m. to six A.M. this morning. I also deduced that she will lie to protect you. Is that what you want?"

"Fuck you, Nick," Connor said. "This is bullshit."

"We'll see. Get yourself a good lawyer. Because I'm all out of patience. I want this thing to end."

"You and me both." He hung up. His leg and head were both pounding now, a nauseous throbbing pain. He wrenched the door of the Cadillac open. He had to sit down. Quick, before he fell down.

Nick had been one of his best friends, once.

He dropped the phone into his pocket. If it weren't for Erin, he would throw the thing into the Dumpster right now.

Erin. Panic dug in its claws at the thought of her. His fight with Georg at Crystal Mountain began to play in his mind. The cane, rising and falling. Blood streaming from Georg's shattered nose, his broken teeth. The cane, smashing down onto the windshield of the Jag. Fault lines, running in every direction.

The cane. Something about the cane was tugging him. He checked the backseat, and then recalled prying the thing out of Barbara's fingers and throwing it into the trunk. He fished his keys out of his jacket pocket and walked around the car.

The back of his neck was prickling so much he already knew what he would find, even before the trunk light flooded into the dark interior.

The trunk was empty. The cane was gone.

Chapter Twenty-One

"Try a bite of my mousse, Erin. It's even better than the crème brûlée," Lydia urged.

Erin dabbed her mouth with a napkin and forced herself to smile. "Thanks, but no. I'm full."

"Of what?" Rachel complained. "You barely picked at your salad. You don't have to diet with that cute, curvy figure of yours, Erin. You've trimmed down some since you were at the Huppert. Good for you."

Erin coughed, and hid her mouth behind her napkin.

"Come on, Erin. You're as tight as a clam about how you landed Mueller. 'Fess up, now. We've been courting him for years, and all of a sudden we find him eating out of your hand!" Rachel gushed.

"I'm so excited. This donation puts us ahead by fifteen years," Lydia said. "You are just the one to spearhead our efforts, Erin. We need your innovative spirit to carry the Huppert into the new millennium!"

Erin didn't have the energy to hide her disgust, but it didn't matter, since none of them appeared to notice it.

"With a budget like this, Erin, you can name your own salary," Fred boomed. "You're the belle of the ball! How does it feel?"

She got to her feet. "I'm afraid I have to go."

"Oh, really?" Lydia exchanged meaningful glances with the other three. "A hot date? Is that why you're saving your appetite?"

"Not at all. Just business," Erin said. "I'm meeting with Mr. Mueller to discuss some of his new acquisitions."

Lydia and Rachel waggled their eyebrows at each other. "I imagine you're having dinner with him this evening, too?" Rachel cooed.

Erin shrugged wearily. She could care less whether or with whom she ate dinner tonight. As queasy as she felt right now, it would be all she could do to get through the day without throwing up on anyone.

Wilhelm whistled. "So that's the way the wind blows."

"Hardly," she said sharply. "I have never even met Claude Mueller, Wilhelm, and I don't appreciate your insinuations."

"Oh, don't be so sensitive, Erin," Rachel purred. "We're all adults."

Lydia's smile was calculated and cold. "Have a lovely time this evening, Erin. Ah, youth is wasted on the young. Just wasted."

Erin fled the table and hurried out of the restaurant, gasping for fresh air. These people were awful. How could she ever have tolerated their falseness, their manipulative games? What had changed in her? She wanted to take a bath after lunch with those four.

She hailed a cab, gave the driver directions, and stared miserably out the window, pressing her hand against the sharp ache in her belly. It ate at her like acid, how bad Connor must feel: his anger and confusion and hurt. And his fear. His fear for her was very real to him. How well grounded it might be in outside reality she could not say, but that didn't make it any less painful for him. Or for her.

It felt so cruel, so incredibly wrong, to turn away from him. But she had to break out of his hold on her. She needed some air, some distance, so she could figure out where she stood. What was real.

Connor's charisma was so powerful, he warped her reality into any shape he pleased. He was so intelligent and intense, his force of will so overwhelming. She couldn't think straight when he was near her. He swept her away every time, no matter how hard she tried to resist.

Her heart and her body and her love would always betray her.

The taxi pulled up at the curbside of a beautiful turn-of-the-century mansion on Heydon Terrace. The wrought iron gates yawned opened for her unbidden as she paid the cabbie. It was time to get jerked around by Mueller and his piles of money. Oh, goodie. She would have laughed, but she didn't dare shake up her unsteady stomach.

Tamara Julian was waiting for her in the palatial foyer. Erin greeted her with wary politeness after that odd episode at Silver Fork, but Tamara was warm and friendly.

"I'm so glad we got in touch with you in time," Tamara said. "Mr. Mueller is so anxious to meet you. Come with me, please. I have to show you something before I present you."

Present her, indeed. Good grief. As if she were being taken before royalty. She muffled silent, half-hysterical laughter behind her hand as she followed Tamara through the big, lavish rooms, up a sweeping flight of stairs, and down a corridor into a plush bedroom full of freshly cut flowers. Their odor was heavy and sickeningly sweet.

Tamara opened up a safe in the wall, and pulled out a flat black velvet case. She handed it to Erin. "Take a look at this," she said.

Erin opened the box, and let out a sigh of awe.

It was a golden torque, La Tene period, but far more sumptuous than any she had seen. And it was the same style as the jewelry excavated from the ancient burial mounds that she had studied in Wrothburn.

There were dragons with garnet eyes where the ends of the torque met, their claws raised in challenge. Their serpentine tails formed a lavish, swirling pattern that extended down over the wearer's chest. The piece was exquisite. It shimmered and glowed like trapped sunlight against the black velvet.

"This is Mr. Mueller's latest acquisition," Tamara said. "He's been negotiating for it for months. This is the reason he had to rush off to Hong Kong the other day."

"It's incredible," she breathed. "Perfect. Would you show me the provenance information?"

Tamara smiled. "I could, but I won't. Not tonight, Erin. This is not for you to study. Put it on."

"God, no!" She held out the box, appalled. "That's ridiculous!"

Tamara gently pushed it back. "Why do you think I brought you up here? Mr. Mueller has a very special request of you today. He wants you to wear the dragon torque when you meet with him."

She looked down at her simple navy suit, her high-necked white silk blouse. "But I… I can't. I—I—"

"I understand perfectly," Tamara said briskly. "You need something different as a backdrop. Mr. Mueller and I anticipated this problem. We've arranged for several different gowns to be delivered this afternoon. Size eight, right?" Erin nodded. "Thought so," Tamara went on. "They're all stunning, and believe me, I'm fussy. We'll find something you'll like."

"Oh, no. It's not that," she protested. "But it's not—"

"Proper?" Tamara's laugh rang out, full and rich and beautiful. She kissed Erin's cheek. "That's priceless. I love it. You are a work in progress, Erin Riggs, but you'll be a masterpiece before you're through."

Erin shook her head. "I can't."

"Why?" Tamara demanded.

Erin closed her eyes against Tamara's probing gaze and tried to breathe deeply. She was too stressed and confused to come up with the cutting retort that she needed to fend the woman off. All she could think of was Connor's certain reaction to Mueller's request. His outraged pride.

"Don't you like playing dress-up, Erin?" Tamara's tone was lightly teasing. "It's just a harmless game. Mr. McCloud is nowhere in sight, and we're certainly not going to tell on you."

The taunt stung. "I do not need permission from anyone," Erin snapped. "I'm just uncomfortable with the idea. That's all."

Tamara's face fell. "I see. I was hoping you might indulge him. Mr. Mueller's health has been very fragile lately, and he's been reclusive and quite lonely. He's allowing himself to be fanciful, and that's rare for him. It gave him such a lift, to plan this surprise for you. He sees it as a gift, you see. To honor you. A way of thanking you for all your hard work."

Erin held the velvet box out to Tamara, almost desperately. "But I… it's so inappropriate. I don't even know—"

"Mr. Mueller just wants to share his delight in the torque with someone who appreciates it as much as he does," Tamara coaxed. "He's fascinated with you. He has been for months. And you should learn to make the most of your looks anyway. I can help you with that. You have such incredible potential. That hair, that skin, those eyes."

"Thanks, but I don't need a fashion consultant," Erin said tightly.

"No, you don't," Tamara agreed. "You look perfectly fine. You're a very pretty girl. But if you wanted, you could cause car accidents when you walked down the sidewalk."

Erin recoiled. "Good Lord! Why on earth would I want to do that?"

Tamara laughed at her. "Power, Erin. It's useful. Believe me."

Erin shook her head. "I don't need that kind of power," she said quietly. "I don't want it. It's not my style."

"We all need it." Tamara's voice was hard. "What a shame. McCloud has you under his thumb. Now you don't even have the nerve to try on a five-thousand-dollar evening gown, just for fun. Some lessons in female power might do you good."

Erin bristled. "Don't you dare try to manipulate me."

Tamara tilted her head to the side and contemplated her next tactic. "I just want to play," she wheedled. "Try on the gowns, Erin. They're beautiful, and so are you. Let me show you how exciting it is to be truly glamorous. It's a kind of magic. And it's fun. Just look at this beautiful thing. I don't even want to tell you how much money he spent for it. And it's perfect for your looks. As if it were made just for you."

Erin stared down at the inherent tension and violence in the torque's stunning design. The two dragons were locked in a state of mortal challenge. Their garnet eyes glowed red with rage. The design tricked the eye into the illusion that the twisting serpentine tails were flipping and writhing. The thing practically hummed in her hands.

She'd always privately considered this style of jewelry to be the most beautiful and evocative that existed. Sensual and savage, the designs echoed with the blood and dust and noise of ancient history. She loved Celtic artifacts exactly because they were a tangible point of contact with that mysterious culture. They made her dream, set her imagination on fire. They called to her across the ages.

A high-ranking Celtic noblewoman had worn this torque around her neck well over two thousand years ago. She had lived her everyday life in it, waking and eating and breathing and loving. If Erin put on that torque, history would fold over on itself. She could reach back in time and almost touch that woman. The torque had made her real.

It was utterly seductive. She was so tempted, her hands shook.

"Mr. Mueller did this to please and flatter you, Erin," Tamara said softly. "Humor him. And indulge yourself. McCloud will never know, because it's all… between… us."

Erin broke eye contact. She was on the brink of tears again, for God's sake. What a wreck. Tamara was right. The very thought of Connor's anger made her weepy and unsure of herself.

This indulgence would be her own secret. And maybe it would serve as a liberation. She was her own woman, who made her own choices. Her passion for ancient history was all hers. It had nothing to do with Connor. He would never understand it.

But Claude Mueller might. "All right," she said.

She was instantly sorry. She knew the moment the words left her mouth that she had made a big mistake, but it was too late. Tamara was thrilled, smiling, leading her by the hand into another bedroom, the bed of which was covered with boxes and bags. "I'll show you the lingerie and the shoes, first," Tamara said.

"Lingerie?" she echoed faintly.

"Of course." Tamara rolled her eyes. "You can't show panty lines under these gowns. And I ordered stockings to match, of course."

A half hour later, Tamara closed the cold weight of the golden dragon torque around Erin's neck and turned her around to face the mirror. "Look at yourself. If Connor McCloud could see you now, he would kneel and beg for mercy."

Guilt and pain stabbed through her. "Please, don't."

"Trouble in paradise?" Tamara asked. She laughed and held up her hand at the look in Erin's eyes. "Sorry. Forgive me for asking. Curiosity is one of my little vices. Don't hate me for it. I don't mean any harm."

"You don't know me well enough to speak to me like that."

"No, but I would like to." Tamara flashed her a quirky, disarming smile. "I find you very interesting, Erin Riggs. Now take a look at yourself. Are you a knockout, or are you a knockout?"

Erin turned to the mirror, and stopped breathing for a moment.

It wasn't that she looked all that different. She was still herself, but a glowing golden haze hovered around her. Her eyes seemed bigger, more deeply colored, more shadowy. Her lips were fuller and redder, her skin glowed with earthy golden tints. Even her hair seemed glossier.

The dress that Tamara had helped her choose was a simple gown of gleaming bronze bias-cut silk with a sheer chiffon overdress. It was tight in the bodice, fluttering out in a deep, voluptuously flared skirt. The plunging neckline was designed to show off both the torque and her cleavage. The dress was off the shoulder, so no bra could be worn, but the bodice was reinforced, and snug enough to hike up her full bosom, offering it up to the eye like a gift.

The dragon torque was cold against her skin, but she felt its strange, ancient energy pulsating against her skin. Her hair flowed around her, unbound. Tamara had brushed out her French twist and run her fingers through Erin's waist-length hair with a murmur of approval. "This doesn't need any help. You're done."

Erin stared at herself in the mirror. She felt vulnerable and exposed, with her femininity, her sexuality, showcased for an unknown man's enjoyment. The heavy, sensual gold torque seemed to exaggerate her looks. Maybe it was enchanted, and she was under a glamorous spell. Certainly she'd never looked like this in her entire life.

She'd been a fool to fall for this, but she'd agreed. It would be silly to be difficult about it now. Now that she thought about it, that had been her exact reasoning when she'd gone to bed with her first lover. She'd forced herself to endure what had happened out of politeness, out of fear of looking silly, of being rude and childish and undignified. She had to learn to accept the consequences of her decisions without whining—that was what it meant to be grown-up, but oh, God, sometimes she felt like she'd been grown-up since the day she was born.

"Are you all right, Erin?" Tamara asked gently.

Erin started to say that she was fine. The impulse petered away into silence. She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, they were swimming with tears.

Tamara was ready with a tissue. She carefully blotted Erin's tears without smearing her makeup, and rested a cool hand on Erin's shoulder. "At least you look fabulous," she offered. "That's a powerful weapon to carry into battle, no matter what problems you might have."

Erin let out a soggy laugh. They smiled at each other. Tamara embraced her briefly. "Are you ready to go? Do you need a minute?"

Erin straightened her shoulders. "I'm ready."

She wobbled on the spike heels until she found her stride. Five different sizes of designer shoes had been delivered along with the dresses. A staggering extravagance for a rich man's whim.

Tamara led her down the corridor, past the stairs and into another wing. She flung open the door into a huge, airy salon with floor to ceiling windows, many of them open. Diaphanous white curtains billowed in the breeze. The room was lit up with slanting golden beams of sunset light. Erin was dazzled by the sensation of light and vaulted space as she followed Tamara in.

And of cold. The room was oddly chilly. As if it were refrigerated.

A slender man of medium height stood with his back to (hem, gazing out the window. He turned slowly as they entered. The gesture looked staged, like an ad for European luxury cars. She brushed the thought away as silly and unworthy.

Claude Mueller smiled. He was an attractive olive-skinned man, his dark hair cut severely short, and receding over his temples. His smile was dimpled and charming, and his eyes were electric blue, striking against his tanned skin. He wore a casually elegant dove gray linen suit.

"Mr. Mueller. At last, the elusive Ms. Riggs," Tamara announced.

He glided toward her, took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it. For a dreadful moment she was afraid he was going to kiss it, but he stopped short, his eyes flicking up as if he sensed her alarm.

"Ms. Riggs," he said. "Thank you for humoring me in the matter of the torque, and the dress. I know it was a great deal to ask of you, but the result is breathtaking. Nigel and Tamara told me you were beautiful, but words are insufficient. You put the torque to shame."

He gazed into her eyes, lifted her hand, and pressed it deliberately against his smiling lips. The contact gave her a sharp, buzzing shock. For a split second, it was as if a veil before her eyes became transparent, and the luxurious room seemed as cold and hard as an ice sculpture, leached of color and life. She tugged at her trembling hand.

He did not release it. "Thank you, Tamara," he said, still holding Erin's gaze. "You may leave us now."

Erin felt abandoned as the door shut behind Tamara. The woman was her last link to the warm world of the living, and now she was all alone, in a cold, beautiful tomb. What a ridiculous notion, she told herself. Absurd. She had to get a grip, but her heart raced with sickening panic. She had that falling away feeling, as if she were about to faint. God forbid. She would never recover from the embarrassment.

She forced herself to smile, and thought about Connor.

Thinking about him hurt, but the pain grounded her. The part of her that was bonded with him was earthy and elemental, rooted in her deepest feelings. She clung to it, and the rising swirl of panic subsided.

"I'm glad to meet you at last," she said. "Thank you for the privilege of wearing such a beautiful thing. I'll treasure the memory."

"The dragon torque will remember you, too. Since I began collecting artifacts, I've begun to think that they, too, have memories of where they once were. Of the people who used them. The torque is eager to lie against the bosom of a beautiful woman again. To warm itself with her vital heat, after millennia of isolation in a tomb."

She had absolutely nothing to say to that. Her mind had gone blank. She stared stupidly into his hypnotic eyes, her mouth working.

She finally managed to break eye contact, and groped randomly for something, anything, to say. "Um, I'm really sorry, but I haven't had time to complete my report on the pieces I examined in Silver Fork," she said. "I've had some pressing personal difficulties, so I—"

"It's just as well," he cut in smoothly. "I have another three items for you to assess anyway. You may as well include them in the report."

Her mind seized gratefully onto the thought of a job to do. "Do you want me to look at them now? I don't have my tape recorder, or my—"

"No, thank you. The pieces will not be delivered until tomorrow afternoon. I'm afraid you must return, my dear. Tomorrow at five o'clock, if that is convenient for you."

Her head jerked, like a puppet on a string. "That's fine," she said. "But… then why did you invite me here tonight?"

He lifted his shoulders, smiling. "Tonight is not for work," he said. "Tonight is for the pleasure of getting acquainted, exploring our common ground. May I get you a drink? A glass of champagne?"

The hypnotized marionette who had taken over her body jerked her head up and down in assent. She didn't even like champagne.

Mueller poured the bubbling liquid into a crystal flute and handed it to her. "I wished to secure as much of your time as possible before I go back to Paris. I leave day after tomorrow. Managing a fund the size of the Quicksilver is a tyrannical undertaking. One becomes a slave to it."

She sipped her champagne and thought of her own devastated bank account. "I wouldn't know about that," she muttered.

His eyes flashed at the hint of irony in her voice. "Did that strike you as a tactless comment, Ms. Riggs?"

"Not at all. And please call me Erin," she said politely.

"Then you must call me Claude. I speak freely of money because I have reason to believe that your financial difficulties are at an end."

"Oh." She had never met anyone who made her feel so empty-headed. She'd been tongue-tied with Connor, but there had always been millions of things she wanted to say to him. A lifetime of things.

With Mueller, her mind felt wiped clean. As if a voracious computer virus were eating everything on the hard drive of her brain.

"Have you given any thought to my offer regarding the Huppert?"

That, at least, was something she was clear about. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have," she said. "I'm afraid I have to decline."

She watched the bubbles rise as she waited for his reaction, until curiosity compelled her to look up at him again.

He was half-smiling, as if she amused him. "May I ask how you came to this decision?" he inquired.

She set her champagne glass down. She was shivering in the chilly room, and all too aware of the effect that had upon her nipples, covered only by a fragile layer of silk and chiffon. "I can't bear the falseness," she admitted. "I know I'm being childish. I'll find it everywhere I turn, in every work environment. But I can't go back there and pretend everything's fine when it's rotten inside. I won't do it. Not for anyone. Not for any sum of money."

He chuckled, and poured himself a glass of champagne. He lifted it to her in a silent, smiling toast, and took a sip.

She was bewildered. "What? Did I say something funny?"

"Not at all," he said. "You said exactly what I hoped you would say. This was a test, Erin. A test that you have passed."

She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

"So you've just been playing with me? Is this all a game to you?"

He sipped his champagne, regarding her keenly over the rim of his glass. "No. The offer was a real one. But I was wondering if you would refuse it on principle. I wanted to see what you were made of. Only if you passed this test would you know what lay beyond the initial offer."

She reached for her glass, and took a gulp, coughing as the bubbles burned down her throat. The torque felt as heavy around her neck as a hangman's noose. "And what does lie beyond it?" she asked.

His lips curved. "An infinity of other possibilities. If you have the courage to embrace them."

"Please be more clear and direct." She'd grown accustomed to Connor's blunt honesty. She had no patience for talking in circles.

"Very well," he said. "Come to Paris with me."

She almost dropped her glass. His hand flashed out and steadied it, his fingers closing over hers. The delicate stem wobbled. Bright drops of liquid splashed out onto his hand, glittering like gems.

He lifted his hand to his lips and licked the drops away.

The calculated sensuality of the gesture repelled her. The room felt glacial, the billowing curtains were ghosts that fluttered around her, wringing their hands in frantic warning. She could almost hear their voices, whispering in her head.

"Paris?" she whispered.

He nodded. "Yes. I did not plan this. I am not an impulsive man by nature. But now that I have seen you, I have never been so serious in my life. Come to Paris with me, Erin."

Erin took a cautious step back. "Ah… and do what?"

This panic was so silly. Men flirted with her on a regular basis. Not as extravagantly as this, perhaps, but it was not an unknown occurrence in her life. And yet she wanted to turn and run. She wanted to cover up that plunging neckline that exposed her chest, her breasts, her heart to his gaze. She wanted a woolen greatcoat, a suit of chain mail. A six-foot reinforced concrete wall. Claude Mueller scared her. There was no earthly reason for it, but he scared her to death.

"And do what?" he repeated softly. "Ah, we'll discover that as we go. Some things can't be planned. They must be lived, in the ever-changing flow of the moment. But we have so much in common, Erin. I, too, have been wounded by falseness. I am repelled by what is venal and rotten. I am intrigued by your refusal to compromise. I am moved by authenticity. I sense it in you. I know how rare it is. I crave it. Like a drug."

She forced her mouth to close, forced herself to swallow. "You don't know me," she said stiffly. "You don't know anything about me."

He reached out his hand, and traced the sensual outline of the dragon torque. His forefinger was very cold against her skin. "I know all I need to know," he said.

She forced herself not to recoil, not to be abrupt and rude, but Connor's face blazed in her mind as she stared down at Mueller's hand against her body. The love in Connor's eyes the night before, when he had kissed her hands and offered her his heart.

Her perception shifted, and she saw herself, a tiny, lonely figure standing on a wind-whipped arctic ice floe that bobbed in dark, icy cold sea water. She was dressed only in the fragile golden gown. The icy white sky above was reflected in Claude Mueller's hungry eyes.

She thought of Novak.

No. Enough of that. Novak was dead, far away in Europe. Nick had said so. It was confirmed. Besides, this man did not look anything like the pictures she'd seen of Kurt Novak. This man was dark-haired, blue-eyed, with two normal hands, a different face. She would not be sucked into a paranoid fantasy. She refused to be controlled by irrational fear.

Follow your heart, her mother had said. In this frozen, arctic landscape, her heart was all she had to follow. Everything else was hidden by cold, blinding light. She thought of her heart. Her warm, red, beating heart, which could not be commanded or fooled. Her heart, which had made its immutable choice years ago: Connor.

She put her glass down and gave in to the impulse to raise her hands to her bosom, shielding her vulnerable heart from his gaze. "I'm, ah, very flattered by your interest, but I'm not free."

His face hardened. "You refer to the gentleman who accompanied you to Silver Fork? Tamara and Nigel described the scene to me. I was sorry to have missed it. McCloud is his name, no?"

She nodded.

"My timing is wretched." He turned and set his glass down sharply on the table behind him. "You were not yet involved with him when you came to Santa Fe, correct? Or San Diego?"

"No," she admitted.

"No. Of course not." He dug his hands into his trouser pockets, his back still turned to her. "From what Nigel and Tamara said, it does not sound as if you were made for each other. Mr. McCloud mistrusts the quality in you that I would treasure the most. You are tragically wasted on a man like him."

She drifted slowly, imperceptibly away from him on her bobbing ice floe. "You are entitled to your opinion," she said.

He gave her a small, self-deprecating smile. "Forgive me. I take it back. I had no right."

"It's all right," she murmured.

He stepped forward impulsively and seized her hand. "Forget it. And forget my offer, if it makes you uneasy. Dine with me, Erin. We will talk of beauty and authenticity in a squalid world. A meeting of minds on a higher plane. It will be our secret, my dear. Your nervous, jealous gentleman friend need never know."

His words pulled it all into focus. Mueller was driving a wedge between the two of them, widening the gap that was already there. She could feel Connor's fear and longing, reaching out across space, tugging at her. The tug unraveled her unnatural calm. Black dots danced in her eyes. Her heart raced wildly.

She had to find Connor. Right now. This minute. She jerked her hand out of Mueller's grip. She didn't give a damn if she seemed abrupt, or rude or childish. She had to get the hell out of here and find Connor.

"I'm sorry." She backed away. "I can't I have to go. Right now."

His eyes narrowed to cold blue slits. "So soon?"

"I have to go," she repeated. "Sorry. Really. I don't mean to be rude. I'll come back tomorrow to look at your new pieces if you like—"

"How kind." His voice was heavy with irony. "It would seem to be the least that you can do."

She rushed out of the room and down the corridor, running on the balls of her feet so that the heels would not trip her. Tamara looked up from the foot of the stairs, alarmed. "Erin? Are you all right?"

"I need my purse. I need my clothes. I need a cab. Please, Tamara. Help me. I have to get out of here," she said desperately. "This minute."

Tamara lifted a device strapped to her wrist, and pressed a button. "Silvio? A car for Ms. Riggs out front immediately, please."

She looked back up at Erin, frowning in concern. "Silvio will take you anywhere you wish to go. I'll get your things. Wait just a moment."

They were, in fact, only moments, but they felt like hours. Erin seized her clothes, shoes, and purse from Tamara and backed toward the entrance. "I'm sorry, but I can't take the time to change," she babbled. "I'll bring the dress back tomorrow when I come to assess the other—"

"The dress is yours, Erin."

"Heavens, no. I can't possibly accept it. I have to—oh, dear God. I almost forgot. Please, take this thing away." She pried the torque off her neck and handed the thing to Tamara. Immediately she could breathe more easily. "I'm sorry, Tamara. I don't know what's come over me. I feel like—like I'm out of my mind."

Tamara's eyes were somber. "Go, then. The car is waiting."

Erin got in and gasped out her address to the driver. She could not wait to get out of this hellish dress. She could not wait to call Connor, to hear his voice, assure herself that he was all right.

She needed it with a frantic desperation that felt almost crazy. If he was crazy, too, then fine and good. It meant they were a matched pair.

Tamara watched the taillights disappear into the dusk, and then continued to stare, her eyes straining in the gloom, but for what she was not sure. Something about that girl moved her. She would like to help Erin Riggs, if she could, but she was no longer sure if she could even help herself. If there ever had been a chance to change her mind and run, it was long past. She was alone in a boat with no oar, a wild current pulling her toward a huge waterfall. She could almost hear its thundering roar, almost feel the cold, white, foaming water, the blinding force. The sharp rocks that awaited her at its foot like teeth.

The quality of the air changed, chilly currents swirling around her as her employer joined her on the steps. He pulled his maimed hand out of his pocket and touched her face. He had taken off the prosthetic, as he always did when they were alone together and he wanted to touch her. He moved his hand until the thumb and the one entire middle finger that remained encircled her throat, pushing aside the high Chinese collar of the satin dress she'd chosen to hide the bruises on her throat. The tip of his finger found her pulse, felt it quicken. Danger had always been her most potent aphrodisiac, but this quickening no longer resembled sexual excitement. This had passed far beyond. Deep into the toxic, barren wasteland of pure fear.

"Everything is in place, of course." It was not a question. If the answer had been no, her life would already be forfeit.

She nodded. "The transponder on McCloud's car shows it parked in a garage near her apartment building. He's waiting for her there."

"And she left wearing the gown. Costumed for high drama. A special bonus. Delicious. This episode should be even more piquant than I had imagined. Do you care to watch the show with me?"

She heard the implacable command beneath the polite phrasing. "Of course," she murmured. "How could I resist?"

How indeed. Voices inside the barricaded part of her howled with bitter amusement. She'd been asking herself that question all week.

"Come," he said. He removed his hand from her throat, and gestured for her to precede him down the corridor to the viewing room.

He never turned his back on her, never. It was uncanny. He must sense that she wanted to kill him, and yet he had confided all his most perilous secrets to her. She wondered why he hadn't killed her yet.

Maybe he was saving her for something special.

They entered the viewing room, with its huge wall screen. Novak sat on the couch before it, on the side with the mouse pad, and clicked on the icons until the dim, silent interior of Erin Riggs's tiny apartment filled the screen. "It's almost a waste," he mused.

"What's a waste?" She was quick to give him openings to hold forth. He loved the sound of his own voice.

"She's rare. So genuinely innocent. I'm surprised that a worthless specimen such as Edward Riggs ever managed to spawn such an unusual daughter. More beautiful than I had expected, too, though I expect that is partly the result of your genius, my dear."

"I try to be useful," she said.

"Do you?" he said. "Come here, Tamara. Be useful."

She sat next to him. "She's very intelligent. She senses a trap."

"But she doesn't recognize the source of her panic," her employee said. "She doesn't trust her instincts. She is ruled by her own code of conduct. She persists in thinking that the world follows rules that she can understand, and therefore, she'll be back tomorrow, right on time, like the conscientious professional that she is. If she were free of the prison in her mind, she would change her name and run."

"But it wouldn't do any good," Tamara said, to flatter him.

He smiled as he touched her face with his ruined index finger. His teeth seemed incredibly sharp. "I'm tempted to take her to Paris for real," he said. His hand trailed lower, touching her throat, her breasts. "I would like to have sex with her. It would be stimulating, I think, to plunder all that radiant, sensual innocence."

He seized her hand, placed it on the bulge in his trousers. She forced herself to smile. She was in for it now. Erin had aroused his most sadistic instincts. She hastened to divert him.

"She never would have gone with you willingly," she said. "She's already bonded with McCloud. You would've had to lure her before their affair caught fire. And once she saw your hand…" Her voice trailed off. Sometimes her employee appreciated honesty. In other moods, it could be a deadly miscalculation.

"You are right," he said. "We're committed to this course of action. It would be a shame to waste all this planning, anyway. Every detail is falling into place. Even the ones I did not anticipate. The sacrifice is acceptable in the eyes of the gods."

"I don't believe in gods," Tamara said boldly. "Any gods."

His eyes pinned her, like a snake mesmerizing its prey. Their luminous glow probed ceaselessly for weaknesses, secrets.

"No? What a treasure you are. A woman who is not afraid of anything. Not even fear." He pulled out a pocketknife from his trousers. The blade whicked out. He lifted the gleaming point to her larynx, and pressed. If she swallowed, it would break the skin.

The blade moved down, feather light. The dark, lapis-colored satin of her dress silently gave way to the preternatural sharpness of the blade. Her body was naked beneath it, only a pair of high, lace-topped black stockings. She wore no panties. She never did. On principle.

She closed her eyes and held herself still as the blade skimmed over her skin, tracing patterns like letters, but an unspeakably alien script. An evil enchantment, to pull her deeper into his thrall.

The blade grazed over her chest, pausing over her racing heart as if drawn to its frantic energy. It trailed lower, over the vulnerable hollow of her belly. He dug the tip into her navel, but she dared not gasp from the pain. One breath, and it would sink into her vitals.

He drew the knife lower, tickling it over her hipbone. The point dug into the skin over the femoral artery in her groin. It brushed tenderly over her mound. "Open your legs, Tamara." His voice was silky soft.

She couldn't move. She was transfixed with terror. She'd gone too far, missed her chance, overshot, fallen short. What an ignominious end. She, who had always hoped for a bold, glorious death.

The level of light in the room suddenly augmented. The video screen flickered into motion. Erin was home. The show had begun.

She gestured toward the screen. "Don't you want to watch?"

He snapped the blade shut, slipped it into his pocket A reprieve.

"We watch, Tamara," he said. "And then we play."

She barely saw what was happening on the screen, she was so conscious of his mangled hand, burning against her naked thigh.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Erin burst through the doors of the Kinsdale and bolted for the stairwell. As soon as she'd torn off that hellish dress and showered off the soiled feeling that Mueller's touch had given her, she would call Connor and apologize for running away. She had to start following her heart. It was that, or watch it break into a million pieces.

Connor was sitting on the staircase, waiting for her.

She reeled back at the foot of the stairs. Her purse, her shoes, her clothes, thudded to the floor. She teetered on the heels and braced herself against the wall, horribly aware of her bosom practically falling out of the bodice, and her eyes, smudged from the tears she'd been blotting away in the car. "Connor?" she whispered.

His hard gaze raked her from head to foot. "My, my," he said softly. "Don't… you… look… special."

"Connor, I—"

"Check you out, babe." He rose to his feet, looming over her. "No bra. And I've never seen you wear makeup before, at least not like that. It changes your whole look. Wow. What a wild woman."

She shrank back against the wall at his soft, deadly tone.

She'd seen him angry, but never like this. "Connor, I was on my way to—"

"What does it say to me, this new look?" His voice was a mocking parody of playfulness. "It says, the party's over and I've had too much champagne, so take me home and fuck me hard."

Anger jolted her upright. "Don't you dare speak to me like that!"

He advanced upon her. She stumbled away until her bare back was pressed against the tiles. "Did you have fun today, Erin?" he asked.

She lifted her chin. "No, I did not, as a matter of fact," she said. "Connor, don't do this."

He seized her shoulders and pinned her against the wall. "Where the fuck did that dress come from?"

The fury in his voice snapped like a whip against her raw nerves. She struggled wildly in his grip, but he just pressed her harder against the wall with his lower body and cupped her breasts in his hands. "This thing shows your tits off to a really great advantage. Did Mueller like the view? Is this what you meant when you said you were a bad girl now?"

She slapped his hands away from her breasts. "Don't speak to me like that! I did absolutely nothing wrong."

"You lied to me, and you broke your promise. And you're dressed up like a high-priced whore to kiss some rich man's ass. Did you fuck him, too?"

Her hand flashed out. He caught it, lightning quick. "None of that, Erin," he snarled. "It's a valid question. Just look at yourself."

"I would never do a thing like that, and you damn well know it. You owe me an apology."

He let out a crack of bitter laughter. "Don't hold your breath. I've had a really shitty day. I don't feel very apologetic right now."

"Erin? Is that you, dear?"

Their heads jerked around in tandem. Mrs. Hathaway, her nosy ground-floor neighbor, was hunched over her cane in the doorway of the stairwell. Her curls glowed in the fluorescent light like a violet halo, and her face was a fierce snarl of wrinkles. She brandished her gold-tipped cane. "Is this fellow giving you trouble? Because if he is, I'll just call the police this minute! Terrorizing a young lady on her stairs. The nerve!"

Connor's eyes were fierce with challenge. "So, Erin? Am I too scary for you? You want to call the guys in the white coats to come haul me away?"

"Stop it," she hissed.

"Better yet, take this." He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. He pressed it into her trembling hand. "Call Nick. It's faster than nine-one-one, and he's hot to arrest me anyway. Go on, call him. Put a stop to this whole fucking mess once and for all."

Her mouth hung open, aghast. He jerked his chin at the phone and took a step back. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Do it," he said savagely. "Just push the green button and make it end."

The bleak, tight mask of hurt on his face made her heart twist and burn. She snapped the phone shut. "Go to hell," she said.

"You tell him, missy," Mrs. Hathaway said. "I say call the cops." .

Erin tried to smile at her. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hathaway. We're just having a disagreement, and we had the bad taste to have it in public instead of in private."

"He's trouble," Mrs. Hathaway warned. "I can tell."

"I have the situation under control," Erin soothed. "But I really appreciate your concern. You're a good neighbor."

Mrs. Hathaway looked disappointed. She rounded on Connor. "I don't like your kind." She punctuated every word with a vicious stab of her cane in Connor's direction. "That long hair and those dangerous eyes, and that filthy dirty mouth on you. Swearing like a stevedore in front of a nice young lady. Men like you are pure trouble and nothing but."

"Yes, ma'am," Connor said patiently. "That's what they tell me."

"Think you're so smart, hmm?"

Connor rolled his eyes. "Hardly," he muttered.

She jabbed her cane toward Erin. "You watch yourself, missy. He mouths off to you again, you let me know. Don't you ever let a man swear at you. They just think it's a license to take liberties. Every time."

"Don't worry," Erin said again. "Really. Have a nice evening."

Mrs. Hathaway stumped back toward her open apartment door, muttering. They waited until the door had shut on the flickering blue TV light and the canned laughter before they dared to look at each other. She held out the phone to him. He shook his head.

"Keep it," he said. "I don't want to talk to anybody."

She dropped it into her purse, for lack of anything better to do with it. They stared at each other warily, both afraid to breathe.

"Want to take this fight upstairs and have it in the privacy of your apartment?" His voice was still hard, but the terrifying edge of his fury was blunted.

She nodded, and knelt down to gather her things up against her chest. Her clumsy fingers kept dropping things. Six flights were a long journey with Connor seething behind her. She felt his gaze burning into her back. Staring up at her body in that insubstantial dress.

She fished her keys out of her purse. As usual, he took them from her and pulled out his gun. She waited patiently through the whole familiar ritual until he waved her in, and locked and bolted the door.

She flipped her floor lamp on as he shrugged off his coat, flung it over a chair. He planted his feet wide and folded his arms over his chest. "So?" His voice was flat. "Let's hear it, Erin."

She dropped her things on the floor. Covered her breasts with her arms, and dropped them again, in an agony of embarrassment. She gathered up handfuls of her skirt and searched for a starting place.

"When I got to Mueller's place, Tamara met me at the door," she began. "She showed me a Celtic gold torque, in the shape of two fighting dragons. A new acquisition. Extremely beautiful."

He nodded for her to continue. "OK. And?"

"Mueller had requested that I model it for him. I tried to excuse my way out of it, told her I was dressed wrong. She said they had already ordered several gowns to set off the torque for me to choose from. She pressured me and… and so I—"

"And so you did it. You took off your clothes in that man's house and put on a dress that he bought for you." Fiercely controlled anger vibrated through his words. "Jesus, Erin, What were you thinking?"

She squeezed her eyes shut against his gaze. "I wasn't," she admitted. "I wish I hadn't done it. It was embarrassing and awful, and I will never, ever do anything so stupid again in my life, I promise. Please don't make such a big thing of it, Connor. It's just… a dress."

He seized her upper arms, so suddenly that she gasped in alarm, and pulled her over to the standing mirror, the only antique piece that she had allowed herself in the tiny apartment. The rosy light from the basket lampshade painted her body with garish reddish streaks of light and shadow. His arm beneath her breasts pulled the décolletage lower, so that the aureoles of her nipples peeped over it. Her lips were stained red with Tamara's cosmetics. Her eyes looked huge and frightened.

Connor stared at her in the mirror. His eyes were dilated with dark fascination. "Look at yourself," he said. "Maybe this is just a dress on some other woman, but not on your body. On you, it's something straight out of a hard-core wet dream." He pressed his erection against her bottom. "Last night you said you were my woman." His low voice took on a soft, hypnotic quality. "This morning you said it again. Did you mean it? Or were you lying to me?"

"I meant it." Her voice was very small.

He slid his hands down and gripped her waist. "Then I'm going to keep this real simple. We'll just forget our many other complicated issues, and concentrate on basic ground rules. Things that I thought should be obvious."

"Connor, you don't have to—"

"It is not OK with me that my woman should go to a strange man's private home unaccompanied," he said. "It is not OK with me that she should model priceless ancient jewelry for his enjoyment. And it is really, really not OK with me that she should strip naked in his house, paint her face, and put on sexy clothes that this other man bought for her. A man makes that kind of move when he means to fuck you, Erin. A woman agrees to it when she's willing."

She shook her head. "It wasn't like that. I'd never even met the man, Connor, and I—"

"Bullshit it wasn't. Are you telling me that he didn't come onto you? In that dress? The way you look? Because I'll never believe it."

She hesitated, and licked her dry, trembling lips. "He didn't force himself on me," she said cautiously.

That wild, scary look began to burn in his eyes again. His fingers dug painfully into her waist. "Ah. Now there's a nice distinction for me to chew on," he said. "What did he offer for your favors, sweetheart? Ropes of pearls? Paris by moonlight?"

She gulped at the fiendish, pinpoint accuracy of his guess. He felt it, and yanked her back against him, hard and possessive. "Shit," he hissed. "He did. Didn't he? That fucking bastard. He actually did!"

"Don't," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter anyway, since I refused."

"Ah. That's comforting. Must have confused the hell out of the poor guy. Talk about mixed signals."

She shoved against his implacable grip. "Be reasonable," she snapped. "That's enough of this macho power trip, please."

"Oh, I have not even begun the macho power trip yet, babe," he said. "This is all just the buildup." He cupped her breasts, tugging the fabric down until her taut brown nipples peeked out.

His skillful fingers caressed her breasts, and his unexpected gentleness made her vibrate with startled pleasure. She flung her head back, shivering. Completely unprepared for him to seize the neckline of the dress and tear it straight down the front with one vicious wrench.

She cried out. He held her struggling body fast, and ripped it again, baring her breasts. Another rending rip, and her belly was bare. She twisted against him, frantic. "Good God, Connor! What are you doing?"

He wrenched until the dress gave way around her waist. "This is called nonverbal communication. I want you to understand how strongly I feel about this. I want you to take me very, very seriously."

"I get the message, for heaven's sake! There's no need to—"

"I also want to make absolutely sure that you will never wear this goddamn thing. Ever again. I want"—he tore the skirt wide open—"to be dead certain." He let the ruined thing drop to the ground around her feet and stared at the black lace thong, the thigh-high sheer black stockings. The spike-heeled black shoes.

He plucked at the sheer lace of the panties. "You don't have lingerie like that in your underwear drawer, Erin," he said. "'You haven't been a bad girl for long enough. This is Mueller's stuff. Right?"

She pressed her quivering lips together. "I was wearing regular old cotton briefs when I went. Parity lines. A huge fashion don't. Tamara had ordered these for me, along with the dresses, and the stockings. And… the shoes." She braced herself for another explosion.

It didn't come. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her body.

"Take them off," he said He let go of her, and stepped back.

She slid her fingers beneath the strip of lace, tugged it slowly down over her hips, and let it drop to join the discarded heap of golden fabric.

"Just look at you," he said hoarsely. "I want to fuck you right now. With the stockings and the shoes and the slutty makeup. Turn around, Erin. Slowly. Give me the full treatment."

Her heart quickened, her breath along with it, with primal female caution. Her body responded to his hunger, no matter how volatile the brew of passion was tonight: a wild alchemy of lust and possessive fury. She wanted to drink deep of that dangerous potion. No matter the cost.

She straightened her spine, and turned around for him.

She lifted up her hair over her head, arched her back so that her breasts jutted out. She spun on the balls of her feet in the fragile, sexy shoes, undulating for him. She flung her hair back so that the ends of it tickled her bottom. The air she moved through felt as thick as honey.

Connor unbuckled his belt. He wrenched the buttons of his jeans open and pulled his stiff, flushed penis loose of the constricting fabric. "Come here," he said.

Challenge followed escalating challenge. The feverish glow in his eyes sharpened the liquid ache of yearning that started between her thighs, rippling down her legs, up into her belly, her chest. Taking him in her mouth had always made her feel powerful. She started to sink to her knees, but he grabbed her shoulders.

"Wait." He shifted back so that his thick boots were planted squarely in the middle of the heap of torn golden fabric, and pulled her toward him. "Kneel on top of this dress. And suck on my cock."

Startled alarm jolted her out of her sensual dream. "Good Lord, Connor. What are you trying to prove by—"

"You know damn well. Me and my macho power trips." He shoved her down in front of him. The fabric was slippery and insubstantial between her knees and the cold, scarred linoleum. His penis jutted in her face, his hands dug into her hair. Protests formed and dissolved in her mind as she looked up into his ruthless face.

She'd never taken him into her mouth in this position, him on his feet, her on her knees. She'd never imagined doing this when he was angry with her. This was going too far, beyond the realm of games. This threatened the shining tenderness and trust that they had forged together. He could push her past passion, into fear and shame.

She was scared of it. It was up to her to put her foot down, to make him stop, but this was too big to stop. Too strong.

"This is what I want, Erin," His soft voice challenged her. "Prove to me that you're my woman. Show me that you know that I'm your man."

"But you're angry," she said unsteadily. "You're—you're—"

"Furious," he agreed. "I'm so angry I think my dick is about to explode. Suck on me, Erin."

He pushed himself against her lips, made her taste his salty heat.

She was too aroused to resist him. She clutched his hips and drew his hot, smooth member deep into her mouth. She bathed him with hot, wet, suckling tenderness, with the swirl and flutter of her tongue.

She forgot the dress, forgot Mueller, forgot everything except this raw, elemental dance of lust and longing, and amazingly, she found her power over him again in his harsh, sobbing breaths, in the desperate way he thrust himself against her. She gripped him in her hands, exulted when she felt his climax gather, tighten, about to burst. He flung his head back, gasping, and pulled her head away from his penis. The pulsations of the orgasm that he had denied himself throbbed heavily against her gripping, sliding hands.

She looked up at him. "Connor? Why—"

"No," he said. "I don't want to come yet. I want to fuck you first."

He jerked her up to her feet and dragged her close to him, sliding his hand beneath the curve of her bottom and into her cleft, seeking out the liquid excitement hidden there. "I won't force you if you don't want me," he said. "But I don't scare you, do I, Erin? You're sopping wet. I want to bend you over and fuck you hard. Do you want it?"

She had no words, no strength to resist this dark tide of passion. Her thighs clenched around his hand, silently begging for more.

"Oh, yeah." He set his teeth delicately against her throat and licked away the sheen of sweat on her skin. "I take that as a yes. Tell me if I'm wrong. Tell me quick, because in a few seconds it's going to be too late."

Her voice was locked in her throat She craved his strength and passion, she craved the savage, conquering warrior behind his mask. She moved against his hand, seized his penis, and gave it a long, slow, swirling caress. A sensual demand he could not misunderstand.

That was all the answer he needed.

He exploded into movement. She spun through the dim room, dazzled by hot red streaks of light and darkness. Always before, her rustic basket lamp had struck her as homey and cozy. Now the effect was as voluptuous as an erotic dream set in a Victorian bordello.

He bent her over, shoving her face down onto the table. The teapot and the vase of dried flowers toppled, rolled, and shattered on the floor. The sugar bowl tipped and spilled sugar across the table. Scattered granules glinted in the reddish light like snow at sunset. Connor shoved her hair out of her face. She saw his shirt fly off behind him out of the corner of her eye. He thrust his legs between hers, kicked them open.

She was desperate for intimacy with him, but this incoherent, furious sexual energy separated them as much as it aroused them. The room was silent but for their harsh breathing. He pressed against her and thrust inside, too hard. It hurt, deep inside. She let out a sharp cry.

He stopped moving instantly. She hadn't softened enough yet for such a total invasion. Tension gripped her. An awful, shrinking fear that this could turn really bad. That he might punish her with his body.

He did not He curved himself over her in mute, trembling apology and petted her, soothing her with his hands. His fingers silently begged her forgiveness as they slid around her hips and into her damp thatch, seeking her clitoris. They coaxed and sought her pleasure with tireless, tender persistence. When she relaxed and moved herself against him, he finally began to rock inside her, gliding in tender, careful thrusts.

He pressed his face against her throat, an animal gesture, nuzzling its mate. "You are so goddamn beautiful, Erin," he said roughly.

Her throat began to shake. His thrusts deepened. Tears wet her face, pressed hard against the spilled sugar on the table. Salt and sweet against her open, panting mouth. No matter how angry he was, he could not bear to hurt her.

Connor sucked in a deep breath, concentrating until the drum roll of impending ejaculation had receded. He didn't want this to finish quickly. He wanted it to be extremely memorable for her. He wanted to lay his claim, put his stamp on her, no matter how futile the effort.

He stared down at their joined bodies. His cock gleamed as it emerged from the slick, clinging recesses of her body. Her delicious scent was a humid, intoxicating cloud. Her flushed face was turned to the side, eyes squeezed shut, hair a dark tangle against the table. Her rosy buttocks quivered, and the tight folds of her cunt clasped around him. She was beautiful and red-hot, and she was his.

Goddamn it, she was his.

He'd started out with every intention of being hard and selfish with her, but it happened again, like it always did. She surrounded him with her heat and her scent and her softness, and bam, he'd already coalesced into one writhing entity, totally fused with her. Tuning into her feelings so he could find just the angle, just that perfect pressure that would stoke the hot glow deep inside her that he sensed, like a burning coal in his mind. The table rocked on its wobbly legs with every slap of flesh against flesh, with every gasping pant. She was dripping, whimpering, her sheath so softened that he could finally dare to let go, and fuck her as deep and hard as he longed to without hurting her.

She convulsed around him, wailing. The clutching pulses of her climax almost pulled him over the top with her, but he dragged himself back. Just barely. The table was about to collapse. He pulled her, stumbling, to the bed, and tumbled her facedown onto the quilt.

She rolled over to face him before he could pin her down from behind. Not good. He wanted to lose himself in pounding oblivion. What he absolutely did not want was for her to stare up into his face with those big dark eyes that saw so much, that stripped him bare.

Then he saw her hair tangled over the pillow, her plump breasts heaving, legs splayed open, cunt glistening. A sheen of sweat made her body gleam like a pearl in the red whorehouse light.

He trembled as he stared down at her. He'd never seen the point of kinky sex props and accoutrements before, but those black stockings, those fuck-me shoes, that smeared mascara, drove him out of his skull, like whips snapping at him, stinging him into a blind red chaos of lust and fury. The goddamn bed was too narrow to push her legs wide. He wrenched it away from the wall. He wrenched off his boots, his jeans.

He had no secrets, no masks with her anyway. He would take her from the front, and to hell with what she saw in his face.

Connor's expression did not soften as he mounted her. She flinched and braced herself, grasping his shoulders. It was so different like this. None of the warmth and tenderness of last night. None of the joy. Just hunger and need and hard anger. It made her feel alone and desolate, even while he overwhelmed her with his big body.

She pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the muscles shift and move beneath the hot softness of his skin as his hips pumped heavily against her. "I don't want it like this between us," she said.

He bore her down under his weight, pinning her to the bed. "This is the way it has to be," he said. "I couldn't pretend to feel anything else tonight, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. What would be the point?"

"I'm not asking you to pretend," she said. "I'm asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to remember. Last night, you said that we—"

"Last night you hadn't lied to me and jerked me around. Last night you hadn't driven me out of my skull with jealousy. The world was real different last night, sweetheart." He folded her legs up high and thrust, hard enough to make her gasp. "And you were the one who changed things. Not me. So take responsibility."

His words kindled a spark of anger that glowed and flared brighter every second that passed. "I always take responsibility," she shot back. "Always. All my life. For every single goddamn thing. But this time, I won't do it." She slapped at his chest, and struggled beneath him. "This time, it's not my fault, Connor! This thing is not… my…fault!"

He grabbed her flailing wrists and gazed down at her with narrowed eyes. "So are you saying that it's my fault, then?"

"I don't know! I don't understand what's happening to us. It's like we're under an evil spell. But I do know that I love you, Connor! I love you!" She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down against her.

"Damn it. No. I don't want to—damn it, Erin!" He swore viciously and fought her, but she hung on to him with all her strength. He would have to hurt her to make her let go, and she knew he couldn't bear to.

She persisted, pulling on him until he collapsed on top of her with a harsh sob. He hid his face in the pillow and pumped himself against her, painfully hard. He let out a muffled shout. The paroxysm that wrenched through him seemed almost more like pain than pleasure.

His heart thundered against her bosom. She cradled his trembling, sweaty body and tried to pull his face to hers so she could kiss him.

He utterly refused to turn. He just shook his head and kept his face stubbornly buried in the pillow. She petted his damp hair, searching for words, but there were no words that could make the wall between them disappear. It felt as thick and cold and implacable as stone.

Connor finally pushed himself up and off her body, letting his hair veil his face. She knew that trick. She'd been using it all her life.

She reached to push his hair back. His hand flashed out and clamped over her wrist, blocking it. He shook his head, and let go.

He turned his back on her and started to pull on his jeans.

She stood up on unsteady legs, and realized that they hadn't used a condom. Scalding liquid trickled down her thigh.

She unbuckled the fragile, ridiculous shoes. Stripped off the ruined stockings. Her mind couldn't encompass it all. She could only handle little bits at a time. Connor's back to her, rigid with unspoken pain and fury. Mueller's icy attempt at seduction. Nick's revelations. Novak's death by fire. The golden dress, rent in two. Connor's seed, trickling down her thigh. The seams of her life had all burst.

She stumbled into her bathroom, and closed and locked the door.

Connor got dressed and waited, his head in his hands, for her to come out. It was a long wait. At one point, Erin's cat poked its head out cautiously from under one of the chairs. It picked its way daintily out into the middle of the ravaged room, sat down on its haunches, and regarded him. There was a cool, judgmental gleam in its golden eyes.

"Who the hell do you think you're looking at?" he asked it wearily.

The bathroom door finally opened. Erin walked out, still naked, but damp and smelling of her shower gel. Her face was severely innocent of makeup, her hair smoothed back into a tight, gleaming wet braid.

She headed to the chest of drawers next to the bed, pretending he wasn't right there, at arm's length, staring at her. She pulled out white cotton briefs that looked like they came three in a pack from Kmart. She pulled on a pair of baggy sweatpants. An oversized T-shirt. A fleece pullover. She tugged thick white athletic socks onto her feet.

She was trying to look sexless. What a joke. He would have laughed, but if he let himself laugh he might start to cry again, and he couldn't risk it. He waited until he could trust his voice to be steady.

"Nick called you this morning. That's why you broke your promise." He tried to make his tone neutral, but it came out accusatory anyway.

She nodded, and padded across the room to the kitchen nook. She rummaged in a drawer until she came up with a garbage bag.

"What did he tell you? That I'm crazy? Delusional?"

She struggled with the bag until it opened, and went to the table, still ignoring him. She scooped spilled sugar off the tabletop and into the bag with her hand. She gathered up the crushed dried flowers.

Tension built inside him. "Answer me, Erin. What did he tell you?"

She let out a long, shaky sigh, sank down onto her knees, and began to gather up the shards of the ceramic teapot and the vase. "He told me Novak was dead. That you knew that he'd been spotted in France. That the police there have been moving in on him for days."

"Sure, he told me, but I didn't believe it. Novak is—"

"Was. Novak was. He is dead, Connor. Blown up. They're sure it's him, based on dental records, the missing fingers. The DNA tests will follow, but they're just to confirm it. He's dead. It's over."

He shook his head. "No way. Too many things don't fit."

"That's what Nick told me you would say," Erin said.

He forced himself to say it, and the words came out rough and halting. "Did he tell you that I'm a murderer, too?"

"He said you were a suspect," she corrected. "Not a murderer."

"And do you think I did it?"

She shook her head, unhesitating. "Not in a million years."

She tossed all the broken crockery into the bag, and reached under the sink for a dustpan and whisk broom. Every gesture was brisk and efficient. Trying as always to make order out of chaos.

But this time, he was the chaos.

"What else did he tell you, Erin?" he demanded.

Erin dragged the plastic bag over to the ruined dress and stuffed it inside. "He told me I should keep my distance from you. So that I wouldn't get hurt. But surprise, surprise. I couldn't."

"I would never hurt you," he said.

"You already have." She dragged the clinking garbage bag behind her, and knelt in front of him, flinging the balled up stockings into it. She flung the shoes in after them, jerked the neck of the bag up, knotted it. "In any case, it's over. This whole bodyguard trip of yours, I mean. Try to see it from my point of view, Connor. I truly do believe that your intentions were good, but—"

"Do… not… pity… me." He bit the words out.

She threw her head back and dashed away angry tears with the back of her hand. "OK, fine. No pity, no mercy, no masks. I'm going back to Mueller's tomorrow to appraise some new acquisitions for him. Since we're being so pitiless and all, I thought you should know."

He was on his feet and clutching her shoulders in an instant. "No. Erin. You can't! You can't go back there!"

"Why not?" she yelled. "He's just a guy who likes Celtic relics! He also happens to be attracted to me. Big deal, Connor! This may come as a shock to you, but he's not the first man who has ever shown an interest in me. I've said no to quite a few men in my lifetime. Who cares? Get over it!" She wrenched herself out of his grip.

There was no reasoning with this breathless, clawing panic. This went beyond jealousy. This was flat-out nuts. "But I've seen things that I can't explain any other way," he pleaded. "Someone is stalking your family, Erin. I'm convinced of it, and if you would just—"

"No! I have had enough!" She backed away, holding up her hands. "I can't stand this anymore. I do not need your protection. I love you, and I appreciate what you did for Cindy, but I do not need you to save me! If you keep insisting on this, you're going to drive me crazy, too!"

Her words reverberated in the sudden silence. He saw from her face that she regretted them the instant they left her mouth. "Oh, God, Connor. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that you… I don't think you're—"

"Crazy," he said heavily. "Too late. You said it. I heard it. You can't take it back. If that's really what you think of me, then… then there's nothing more to say."

Tears slid down her face. She covered her mouth with her hands. Her shoulders shook. "Oh, God. This is awful."

"Yeah," he agreed. He grabbed his coat and tried to move towards the door. His feet were made of lead. "Uh, Erin."

"What?" Her voice was a wary thread of sound.

"If you ever have cared about me at all, do me one favor. Please."

She nodded.

"Take someone you trust with you when you go to Mueller's house. Don't go there alone. Please."

"Connor, please. I—"

"I know that you won't let me go with you, but take someone. Do this one thing for me, and that's it. That's all I'll ever ask of you."

She opened her mouth to argue, and closed it. She nodded.

"Swear it," he said. "On something important."

"I swear it on my honor," she said quietly.

He knew that was his cue, but he was still rooted to the floor.

She picked up her phone and dialed. "Hello, Tonia? It's Erin… yeah, I'm fine. It's been a very strange time… can't talk right now, though… no, just tired. Look, I have a favor to ask. Tomorrow's your day off, right? I was wondering if you would go along with me on a job tomorrow afternoon. To Mueller's… it's a long story. I promised Connor I wouldn't go alone… yes, I know, but I promised… Really? Oh, great. It shouldn't take long. I'll buy you dinner after, if you're free… See you tomorrow afternoon. You're an angel, Ton. Thanks. 'Bye, then."

She lay the phone down. "Done," she said. "As promised."

The silence after her words had a horrible, echoing finality to it.

She'd cut him loose. There was nothing left to say, nothing more that he could do. Maybe she was right, and he really had gone crazy.

He hardly cared. Ghosts, monsters, bring them on. He would welcome them, if they would only agree to put him out of his misery. In any case, he'd better get the hell out of there, to someplace where no one could see his face, because total meltdown was only seconds away.

"OK," he said. "I'll, uh, just get the fuck out of your way, then."

Chapter Twenty-Three

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this," Barbara said into the phone. "I'll be there first thing Monday. This is exactly what I needed."

"I'm sorry it's only a temporary position, Mrs. Riggs, while the office manager is out on maternity leave," Ann Marie said. "But you know the organization so well after all those years of volunteering. We'll all put our heads together and come up with something else when she comes back. Everyone will be so happy to see you. We've missed you."

"I've missed you all, too. See you next week, then. 'Bye, now!"

She hung up the phone, floating with relief. Things were moving again. Her girls were safe, that horrible Novak was burned to a crisp, and Billy Vega was dead too, thank goodness. She was shedding no tears for him. She wasn't having those awful spells, and Erin's life was shaping up nicely. All was looking orderly and positive.

The doorbell buzzed, and she peered out the peephole. Erin's pretty little nurse friend, Tonia. At this hour, on a weekday. How odd. She opened the door. "Hello there, Tonia."

"Hi, Mrs. Riggs. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," Barbara said. "Come on in. Let's make some tea. You're just in time to help me celebrate. I just got a job! I'm so excited."

"That's so fabulous," Tonia said. "Where?"

"The literacy center where I used to volunteer. It's just temporary, but it's perfect to start with. Their office manager is about to have a baby. It's been a while since I've done much typing, but I can practice on their computers after closing time. I'll catch on."

"That'll be so great for you." Tonia followed her into the kitchen. "Look, Mrs. Riggs, I can't stay long, but there was something I wanted to talk to you about. I'm meeting Erin later on this afternoon."

"Oh, really?" She filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

"Yes. Connor made her promise not to go to Mueller's home unaccompanied." Tonia rolled her eyes. "Silly, if you think of it. Not that I mind. But for heaven's sake. She is a grown-up, after all."

"Yes, Connor is very protective," Barbara said. And that suited her just fine, she thought privately. Protection looked very good to her right now. Particularly for her precious girls. She was all for it.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Riggs. Connor's protectiveness. If you can call it that."

The edge in Tonia's voice made Barbara uneasy. She finished rinsing the teapot and set it down. "Yes, dear? What about it?"

Tonia hesitated. "Connor makes me nervous," she blurted. "He's so jealous and possessive. He's even hostile and suspicious of me."

"Ah, I see," Barbara said cautiously.

Tonia's blood-red fingernails flashed as she gesticulated. "I've seen women get involved with men like that. That's always the first sign of trouble, when a guy cuts a woman off from her girlfriends. It's a classic technique of abusive, controlling men."

Barbara opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Family's the next step," Tonia went on. "Snip, snip, and voila, she's totally isolated and in his thrall. Then he gets to work breaking down her self-esteem. Making her think she's nothing without him."

"Oh, my goodness. Really, Tonia, I don't think that Connor—"

"The problem is, she's smitten with him, and I can see why. He's a very attractive man. Handsome, charismatic, compelling. And I mean that literally. Compelling, Mrs. Riggs. He thinks she belongs to him."

Barbara's spine stiffened. "Ah. I see. Well. If he thinks that, he is very, very wrong."

"And it makes me nervous, to think of how angry he must be at your husband," Tonia said. "Sorry to bring up a painful topic, but I'm sure you don't want Erin to pay the price for that."

"Oh, but Connor would never take that out on Erin," Barbara said faintly. "He seems to really care about her. That's the impression I got."

The teapot was whistling. Tonia smoothly shouldered her out of the way and seized the kettle. "Here, let me. Sure he cares about her." She poured boiling water into the teapot. "He's obsessed with her. Did you know that he practically kidnapped her at the airport last weekend?"

Barbara sank down into a chair and frowned, bewildered. "Erin told me he went with her, but she didn't say anything about—"

"She didn't tell you all of it, and I'm not surprised," Tonia said. "He just showed up at the Portland airport, where she was supposed to meet Mueller's limo driver. She never got the chance. Connor dragged her to his car, drove her to a motel, and… well, you see the results, hmm? He got exactly what he wanted, didn't he?"

Barbara stared at her, horrified. "Erin's such a sweetheart," she whispered. "She can't bear to disappoint anyone. I hate to imagine, if she were all alone, and pressured by someone forceful and…"

"Compelling," Tonia supplied.

"Compelling." Barbara shuddered. "Oh, God. I hate to think of it."

"Exactly," Tonia said. "I see we're on the same wavelength, Mrs. Riggs. Maybe you should call around to other family members and friends, and Connor's former colleagues. Make everybody aware of the situation. Discreetly. Did you know that Connor has a family history of mental illness? His father. A sad, awful story. Paranoia, delusions, social alienation. He raised his sons up in the hills, in total isolation. No one knows for sure what happened to the mother."

"Dear God."

"Heaven only knows what that crazy man did to those poor boys," Tonia went on. "Or maybe it's better not to imagine."

"I was always nervous about his background, but I had no idea—oh, God. I have to talk to Erin. I have to call her. Right away."

"Be careful." Tonia poured Barbara a cup of tea. "She's under his spell. Don't be direct, or you'll just create resistance. We need to act quietly. Activate a support network for Erin. Soon. Like, right now."

"Yes, you are so right," Barbara said. "I'll get right on it. This instant Thank goodness you told me this. I had no idea."

Tonia smiled broadly and raised her cup. She clinked it against the one Barbara held in her trembling hand. Barbara's cup wobbled, and tea splashed out onto the tablecloth. "Go, Mom," Tonia said. "Erin's lucky to have a mother like you."

Barbara thought of the last few months. Her mouth tightened. "Hardly," she said. "But I'll do my very best for her from now on."

The doorbell rang again. Her cup clattered into the saucer, sloshing yet another brown wave of tea onto the table. "Who on earth?"

"I'll get it," Tonia offered. "You stay comfortable."

"No, that's all right."

Tonia followed right on Barbara's heels as she went to the door. Curious as a cat, that girl. Barbara had noticed that the first time she'd met her. She peered out the peephole. It was Connor's brother, Sean, and Cindy's strange-looking friend Miles, burdened with shopping bags.

She opened the door. Sean's grin coaxed an instant smile out of her. "Hi, Mrs. Riggs. I'm a taxi service for Miles, here," Sean said. "He was hoping to visit with Cindy. She doing OK?"

"Oh yes, she's much better, thank you," Barbara said. "She's upstairs. I'll call her. Come on in."

Miles's face was purpled with bruises, and he had a white bandage over the bridge of his nose. He was carrying a paper shopping bag full of videos, a saxophone case, and a big, dripping bunch of freshly picked wildflowers, mud dripping copiously from their roots. "I, uh, brought Cindy some stuff," he said. "X-Files videos, and flowers. And her sax. If she wants to, you know, like, practice." He held out the flowers to her.

Barbara smiled at him. "That's sweet, Miles. I'll call Cindy" She turned up the stairs. "Cindy? Hon? Come downstairs. You have guests!"

She turned back to Tonia. "Tonia, this is Connor's brother, Sean McCloud, and Cindy's friend, Miles.' Sean, this young lady is Erin's friend, Tonia… I don't remember your last name, dear."

"Vasquez," Tonia said, sticking out her hand to Miles, and then Sean in turn. "I'm glad to meet you."

Sean held her hand for a moment, and his face went thoughtful. "Wait a minute. I know you."

Tonia dimpled. "Oh, no. I'm sure I would remember."

"No, really. I never forget a face. Particularly not a cute one. None of us McCloud guys can. It's a weird family trait. One of the many. Hold on… it's coming to me." He scowled up at the ceiling, snapping his fingers. "Bingo!" he exclaimed. "You're a nurse! At the clinic. Right?"

Tonia blinked at him, her mouth dangling open. It was the first time Barbara had ever seen her at a total loss.

"What clinic?" Barbara asked.

Sean shot her a wry glance. "The clinic where my brother spent two months in a coma, remember? That clinic."

Cindy saved her the embarrassment of a reply by appearing at the top of the stairs in a baggy sweatsuit, rubbing her fist in her reddened eyes like a little girl. She stumbled down the stairs, shy and hesitant.

"Miles brought you flowers," Barbara said. "Isn't that sweet?"

Cindy gave Miles a wan smile. "Thanks. They're really pretty."

Miles gazed up adoringly. "I, uh, brought you some, uh, other stuff, too," he stammered. "Some vids. Your sax. You know. Stuff."

"That's cool," Cindy said. "You want to come up to my room?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." He looked around at the rest of them. " 'Scuse me," he mumbled. He bolted up the stairs after Cindy.

Sean turned back to Tonia. "I know I saw you at the clinic a couple of times. That uniform actually looked good on you."

Tonia's laugh sounded forced. "Thanks. You have to forgive me for not remembering you. It was a long time ago."

"A year and two months," Sean said. "To be precise."

"I thought Erin said you worked at Highpoint," Barbara said.

"I do," Tonia said. "I'm sort of a butterfly. I flit from job to job. Well, ran… I'd better be on my way. And that matter we discussed, Mrs. Riggs? Really, it's urgent. Get right on it, please."

"Oh, I will," Barbara said fervently. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Lovely to meet you," she called back over her shoulder. " 'Bye."

There was a long silence after Tonia left. Sean's green eyes were so much like his brother's. Bright, direct… compelling. Dark, fluttering panic threatened to unravel her. She steadied herself against the wall.

"Hey, Mrs. Riggs. Are you OK?"

How ironic, an offer of help from one of the few people on earth she could not share her problem with. "I'm fine, thanks."

"You sure? Can I help you out with anything? Anything at all."

The concern in his face made her feel ashamed for lying to him. She forced herself to smile. "Just dandy, and thanks for asking."

"OK, then. I'd better be on my way, too. Things to do. Glad that Cindy's doing better. You take care, now."

"Thank you, I will," she said.

Sean bounded down the walk and got into his mud-splattered Jeep. Barbara reset the alarm and stumbled back into the kitchen. She grabbed the cordless phone, sat down, and stared at it.

Both of her girls had been threatened by violent men. Erin six months ago by Novak and Luksch. Cindy by Billy Vega. And now her innocent, eager-to-please Erin had been swept off her feet by an unbalanced, controlling man with 3 family history of mental illness.

Her sweet girl who tried so hard, who deserved the very best.

It was unendurable. She was done with sitting around and doing nothing. It was up to her to protect her children, in any way she could think of. And Tonia's suggestion was a damn good place to start.

She dialed a number she had thought she would never dial again.

"Would you please beep Nick Ward for me?" she asked the switchboard operator. "It's urgent."

The slam of a car door jerked Connor out of his stupor. He twitched open the kitchen curtain to make sure it was one of his brothers. Not many people knew how to find the ramshackle, hand-built house out in the hills that Eamon had left to his sons, and the McCloud brothers liked it that way. It was a sure refuge from the weirdness of the world. Only their closest friends knew where it was.

It was Sean. This was going to be exhausting. He looked down at the bottle of Scotch on the table. His attempt to drown his sorrows in alcohol was as much of a failure as the rest of his life currently was. Instead of blunting emotions, like liquor was supposed to do, it had just blurred his capacity to mink clearly. The emotions had parried right on.

He didn't need Sean to scold him for sulking. He was already scolding himself, but there wasn't enough oomph behind it to break his paralysis. The kitchen door creaked open. He didn't bother to turn.

Sean's distinctive smell wafted into the room. Expensive citrus aftershave and well-tended leather. God, his brother was vain. But he loved him, even when Sean drove him nuts. The whiskey was making him maudlin. He buried his face in his hands and braced himself.

"I've been looking for you all morning." Sean's tone was accusing.

"You found me," he replied.

Sean was silent for an unnaturally long time. "I went by your house. Did you know that you left it unlocked? It's not a bad neighborhood, but you did get robbed a few months ago, remember?"

He gestured carelessly with his scarred hand. "If somebody wants my stuff, they're welcome to it."

Sean made a sharp sound under his breath. "Oh, Christ, not again. What bug has crawled up your ass this time?"

"Leave me alone, Sean."

"I tried Erin's place, but no one was home. And I tried to call you, but the phone's off, of course. Why should today be any different."

"I gave the phone to Erin."

Sean sighed in frustration. "I don't know why you keep getting rid of them. You know we're just going to get you a new one."

Connor shrugged. "Where's your faithful sidekick?"

"Miles? I left him down in the city. He wanted to worship at Cindy's shrine. He's fried. It hurts my heart to see it." Sean circled the table, studying his brother. "Miles is a good guy," he went on. "I'm thinking of hiring him. He could deal with the techno-nerd side of my business, and leave me free for the fun stuff."

"Good idea." Connor tried to sound enthusiastic.

"I think so, too. Only condition is, I have to teach him how to fight."

Connor made a neutral sound.

"I know," Sean said. "It's going to be a job. His muscle tone is about on par with Puffy the Marshmallow Man." He pulled out a chair, sat down and waited. "Out with it."

Connor rubbed his stinging eyes. "Novak is dead, they say. Blown up yesterday. Someplace near Marseilles."

Sean tapped his fingers, waiting. "Am I missing something?" he asked. "Is that not what we were praying for? It that any reason to sit alone in the dark with a bottle of scotch?"

"It's great news for Erin and the rest of the world," he said wearily. "It's only bad news for me."

"Why?"

Connor winced at his brother's sharp tone. A headache was gathering like storm clouds in the back of his skull. "Because it means I'm seeing and hearing shit that's not there," he said. "I saw Georg on that highway. I heard Novak's voice on the telephone. Now Billy Vega gets beaten to death, my cane disappears out of the trunk of my car, and you know what? I've got this really scary feeling that it's going to turn up somewhere with Billy Vega's blood all over it. I am up shit creek without even a fucking boat, let alone a paddle. And they tell me Novak's dead. What do you say, Sean? What's wrong with this picture?"

Sean's face was rigid. "They can't pin Billy Vega on you. No way."

"Sure they can. If Novak's dead, I'm looking at several unpleasant possibilities. Brain damage from the head injury that they didn't notice before they cut me loose, that's the most appetizing of the lot. Worst case scenario? I've snapped. I really am going nuts. Like Dad."

"Don't say that." Sean's voice shook. "Don't even say the words. You are nothing like Dad. Nothing."

"Who knows? Maybe I did kill Billy and I don't remember doing it," Connor said wearily. "Anything's possible."

"You didn't even know his address, asshole!" Sean yelled. "We never told you! You were too busy dealing with your girlfriend's family!"

Connor shook his head. "Maybe if I'm lucky, I can plead insanity and end up in a padded cell instead of—oof!"

Sean grabbed him by his shirtfront, hauled him up off his chair and slammed him hard against the kitchen wall. Kevin's drawing of a waterfall fell to the floor. The glass in the frame shattered.

"That's not going to happen," Sean said.

Connor blinked into his younger brother's eyes, shocked out of his own despair by the stark fear he sensed behind Sean's fury. He tried to put his arms around his brother. "Hey. Sean. Chill. It's not—"

"Don't you dare say that to me! Not after two months of hell when you were in the coma. I almost lost you, Con. I can't go through it again. Not after losing Kevin."

"OK, Sean," he soothed. "Let me loose. Relax."

"You are not crazy!" Sean's fist pressed painfully hard against Connor's windpipe. "You are just a depressed, melodramatic dickhead!"

"OK!" Connor yelled. "Whatever you say. I'm a dickhead. Stop strangling me. I don't want to have to hit you."

"Yeah, like you could get in a punch at me, in the state you're in. Listen, Con. Get this straight. Nobody's going to lock you up. Because if anybody tries to hurt you, I will kill them."

The bone-deep sincerity in Sean's voice chilled him. Connor dug his hands into his brother's spiky blond hair and cradled his head.

"No, Sean. You're not going to kill anybody, so don't talk like that. Calm down." He used the same mellow, hypnotic tone he and Davy had used to talk Sean down from his freak-outs back when Sean had been a hyper little kid bouncing off the walls. "You're flying off the handle, buddy. You can't do this anymore. You're a grown-up now."

Sean let Connor drop from his tiptoes down onto his feet. His shoulders slumped. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he warned.

Connor rubbed his sore neck. "Too bad. I forgive you anyway. Snot-nosed punk."

"You provoked me. Talking like you don't care if they lock you up. Fuck you, Con. Maybe you don't care, but I do."

"I won't say it again," Connor said quietly. He retrieved the waterfall drawing, and picked shards of glass out of the frame. "I promise."

"I'm not just acting out to get attention, like the old days. I'm dead serious. You, in a cage? Not an option. No way. You get my drift?"

"Sean, you can't talk like that. This isn't the Wild West—"

"Davy's going to feel the same way," Sean said. "Davy makes like he's Mr. Cool, but he'd slit the throat of anybody who hurt you. Without even blinking. So would Seth, for that matter."

Connor laid the picture down. "You're scaring me, Sean."

"I'm just telling you how it is. It's not just you alone on your white horse riding into the sunset, asshole. You get hurt, we get hurt. Got it?"

Connor nodded obediently and dropped into the chair. His knees were trembling. "Uh, you want a shot of whiskey? It'll mellow you out."

Sean frowned. "Things are too weird right now," he said. "We need to sharpen up, not chill out. I want coffee. You could use some, too, from the looks of you. And a shower, and a fresh shirt. You have a girlfriend now. You've got to make more of an effort."

The look on Connor's face made Sean freeze as he reached up for the coffeepot. His face tightened. "Oh, no. What's up with Erin?"

"Nothing," Connor muttered.

"What kind of nothing?" Sean persisted.

The memory of last night replayed in his mind in one cold, hard, sickening whoosh, like a punch to the gut.

"The bad kind," he admitted. "The worst kind."

Sean grabbed the coffeepot. "That sucks," he said grimly. "We're in for it now. What happened?"

Connor suppressed a sharp retort. Sean was on edge today, and he didn't have the energy to cope with another outburst. "Nick told her I was nuts. He told her I was a murder suspect. And she doesn't appreciate getting dragged into what she sees as a wacko paranoid fantasy. Christ, who could blame her. She's got enough problems."

Sean measured coffee into the espresso pot. He flipped on the gas and turned his hard gaze onto his brother. "So? That's it? End of story?"

Talking about it left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. "She told me to get lost, Sean. She thinks I'm mentally unbalanced."

"And that means you're going to give up? Just like that?"

Connor looked at him, and threw up his hands in silent eloquence.

Sean paced restlessly around the kitchen. "You know what, Con? I remember the night you first met that girl."

Connor knew his brother too well not to mistrust that light, casual tone. "Do you, now?" he said warily.

"I sure do. It wasn't long after you got recruited into the undercover unit. Back when you were still starry-eyed and heavy into the mystique of your new job. A year or so after Kevin was killed. Davy was just about to ship out for Desert Storm."

"Your memory is freaky," Connor commented.

"Yeah, just like yours, except that yours is selective. Let me finish my story. So you come back from dinner at Ed's house one night, all bug-eyed and quiet. And when I ragged you to find out what was up, you said, hey, leave me alone. It's a big day. I just met my future bride."

Connor went cold. "I said that?"

"Yeah, you said that," Sean said. "It knocked me on my ass. You said, Ed Riggs's daughter is so pretty, I can't even believe the stupid shit I said. Probably Riggs's wife thinks I'm a retard. Only problem is, she's seventeen years old."

"You're making this up," Connor said.

"Cross my heart," Sean said. "This scene is engraved in stone in my memory. So I say to you, You filthy perv. That's going to go over real good at your new job, lusting after your colleague's teenage daughter. And you know what you said to me?"

Connor braced himself. "What did I say?"

"You said, No problem, man. I'll wait for her." Sean glared at him.

"I said that?" Connor said numbly.

"Yeah! You said that! And I thought you were joking! But you weren't! You fucking weren't joking!"

The coffeepot began to gurgle and hiss, but Sean was locked in his indignant pose. Connor reached past him and shut off the gas. "Don't blow this all out of proportion," he muttered. "It's not like I kept myself pure for ten years, for God's sake."

"Oh, yes, you did." Sean put a sharp, vicious emphasis on every word. "Sure, you fucked some other women now and then, but that's as far as it went. Am I right? Answer me, goddamn it!"

Connor thought about all the times he'd gently broken things off whenever the woman he was seeing started talking about the future.

Ouch. Not much point in denying it. "Calm down, Sean," he said. "I don't have the energy for another big scene right now."

"Don't tell me to calm down! Don't tell me that you've dreamed about this girl for a decade, you save her from a fate worse than death, you survive her conniving asshole of a father, you rescue her sister from the Fuckhead, you win over the homicidal mother-in-law, you finagle your way into her bed, and you're giving up now?"

"She thinks I'm nuts, Sean!" Connor yelled.

"So convince her that you're not!" Sean bellowed back. "You are never going to be happy if you let this go, and I hate it! I can't stand to watch you waste away again!"

Their furious gazes locked. Connor was the first to look away. "I've got to make sure I'm not crazy for real before I get near her again," he said heavily. "I've created enough chaos in her life. I don't want to pile something like that on her shoulders, too. That would be cruel."

Sean's mouth tightened. He poured the coffee and handed Connor a cup. "Weren't you with Erin when Vega got whacked?"

"No. I was with her until around five a.m. Then I sneaked outside."

"Why the hell did you do that?" Sean demanded.

"I was afraid of her mother," Connor admitted. "You saw that Jag. Can you blame me? I came back in around eight for breakfast."

Sean stared out the window, scowling. "Can't she just say you were with her? What does it matter, if you're innocent anyway?"

"I'm sure she would, if I asked her to," Connor said softly. "But it wouldn't be right. I don't want anything with her that's built on lies."

Sean slammed his cup down onto the counter. Scalding coffee splashed over his hand. He lunged for the sink and ran cold water over it. "Built on lies, my ass! Brainless, self-righteous idiot!"

Connor winced and covered his ears. "Please don't break anything else," he pleaded. "My head hurts. I can't stand the noise."

"You've got to shake this thing off of you, goddammit! And you've got to get that girl, too. And do you know why?"

Connor sank back into his chair, resigned. Evidently today's histrionics weren't over yet. "OK. Tell me why, Sean."

"Because you deserve it. You're a righteous dude. You're like… noble or something. With your code of honor. Your marching orders. That's why Davy and I tease you about the hero complex. It's a soft spot that can't be shielded. It leaves you wide open."

Connor sighed. "That is such a crock—"

"You're a good guy, Con," Sean trampled over his protests. "More so than Davy or me. More than anyone I know, except for maybe Jesse, and look what happened to him. You can't bend, you can't cut bait and run. You can't compromise. It's like, you don't even know how."

Connor stared down into his coffee and tried not to think about Jesse. He felt bad enough already. "Dad was like that," he pointed out. "He didn't know how to bend. So he broke."

Silence fell. The dour ghost of Eamon's memory weighed upon them. Eamon had been a good and honorable man, but he had been profoundly disillusioned by the violent insults that life had dealt him. Grief and anger had chipped away at his sanity until it was totally gone.

"You're not like Dad, Con." Sean's voice vibrated with suppressed emotion. "You're stronger than Dad was. And you're kinder, too."

Connor took a gulp of his coffee and groped around for a change of subject. The coffee itself was always a handy culprit. "Christ, Sean, how did you make this stuff so strong? It's corroding my gut."

"That's the scotch, bozo, not my coffee. Let's coat it with some food," Sean said. "Go shower while I make you some lunch."

"Don't coddle me," Connor snapped. "I can take care of my—"

"Take a shower, and put on one of my shirts. None of your limp, faded crap. You want the world to think you're sane and well-balanced? Start by shaving and combing your hair."

When Connor came back down to the kitchen, he was freshly shaven and dressed in a crisp denim shirt he'd found in Sean's closet. His brother ran a critical eye over him, and nodded. "You'll do."

Connor grunted and sat down. They honored a tacit agreement not to tear open any more raw, unspeakable topics, and since there was nothing to talk about except madness, murder, love, heartbreak, and God only knew what else, they concentrated on chewing and swallowing Sean's grilled ham and cheese sandwiches in silence.

Sean shrugged on his leather jacket afterwards. "I cooked, so you do the dishes," he announced. "I'm going to go track down Davy. We have to start turning over some rocks about that murder rap."

"Stay out of it," Connor snapped, as he followed him out to the car.

Sean dug for his keys. "Yeah, sure. As if. You should find Erin, now that you've shaved. Talk to her. Lay on that old McCloud charm."

"Charm, my ass. I sprout hair on the back of my hands whenever I get near her. Besides, she's busy with the filthy rich art fiend who wants to drape her in jewels and take her to Paris."

Sean's jaw sagged in dismay. "What? And you just let her go? Where do you keep your brains, Con? In a box under your bed?"

"She wouldn't let me go with her," Connor snarled. "Get it through your thick skull! She doesn't want me, so I can't follow her around. It's against the rules. It's called stalking. Crazy guys stalk women. I'm making a big effort not to act crazy right now. Do you follow me?"

Sean looked pained. "Yeah, but letting her go see a guy who's waving tickets to Paris? Jesus, Con. That calls for desperate measures."

"Don't get me started," he growled. "I've been going over it all night. At least she's not alone, for all the good that does. Tonia would probably cheer Mueller on. Hell, she'd probably propose a threesome."

"Tonia Vasquez, you mean? Erin's bodacious nurse friend?"

Connor stared at him, startled. "How do you know about Tonia the bodacious nurse? I never told you about her."

"I met her this morning when I dropped off Miles. She was talking to Erin's mom. Beautiful tits. I recognized her, you know."

"From where?"

"From the clinic." Sean gave him a funny look, as if it should be obvious. "She was a nurse there when you were in your coma. You know I never forget a face. Or a chest, for that matter."

"The clinic? Tonia worked at the clinic?" The net started to widen in Connor's mind, scooping up shifting, darting thoughts. Sifting and sorting, searching for patterns.

Sean's eyes narrowed as he recognized the look on his brother's face. "Hold everything. What's going on? What's with that look, bro?"

"Erin met her about a year ago," Connor said slowly. "What a coincidence, huh?"

"Uh… wait a sec. Are we still freaked out about Novak? Didn't you tell me Luksch is in Europe, and Novak got blown sky-high yesterday? Have we turned that page, or what?"

"Don't start with me, Sean."

"I'm not!" Sean protested. "Just help me out here! I need to know where we stand before I can figure out what to do."

"I know that, goddamn it!" Connor exploded. "That's been my problem from the start! I don't know where I stand! I don't know what's real anymore! I can't trust my eyes, my ears, my instincts, nothing!"

"OK. I had my tantrum, and you're entitled to yours," Sean soothed. "I'm going to talk to Davy and Seth. You just sit tight. Try not to think. You always fuck up when you think too much. If you see any apparitions from beyond the grave, call me. And stay out of trouble."

Connor tried to laugh. "That's my line. To you."

Sean got into his Jeep and rolled down the window. "Yeah. It's weird to be the one to say it to you for a change. Later, bro."

He watched the Jeep leap down the rutted driveway. The bit of data that Sean had dropped so casually echoed through his head.

Hell of a coincidence, that a nurse who worked at the clinic while he was in his coma should strike up a bosom friendship with Erin. There was no connection that made sense. No one had any reason to know a year ago how interested he was in Erin Riggs. Her mother had guessed it, his brothers had known it. No one else.

His skin prickled. He felt it happening. Marching orders taking form inside his mind from an authority he couldn't gainsay. He was going back to the clinic, to find out more about this Tonia. Now.

He was Crazy Eamon's boy, flesh and blood and bone. If this meant he was nuts, so be it. It would drive him even more crazy to resist that inner force. He couldn't go against his own nature.

He ran into the house. He was trembling with wild energy. He strapped on his ankle holster with the .22, stuck the SIG-Sauer into his pants. He threw on his coat and bolted for the car.

He was going to catch hell for not washing the lunch dishes. It was a cardinal rule to leave the kitchen clean, but this was a special case. The Cadillac wallowed and fishtailed in the gravel. It finally leaped into action, bouncing heavily over the ruts.

He was diving headfirst straight back into his paranoid fantasy, and anybody who didn't like it could go fuck himself.

Chapter Twenty-Four

"I cannot believe it," Tonia scolded. "I simply cannot believe you are dressed like that to go to Mueller's house. You're as white as a ghost, and even if you weren't, that washed-out gray is all wrong for you. And your hair. Save me. The scraped-back peeled-onion look is too severe for your face. What is wrong with you?"

Erin stared down at her lap, too tired to react. "Don't bug me, Tonia. I had a really bad night. I don't want to look pretty. I was shooting for respectable when I got dressed. That's all I ask of myself."

"You should have called me! I would have come over and done an emergency salvage job," Tonia fussed. "Nothing raises the spirits better than a quickie makeover, chica. Some magic eye gel, some cover-up, some foundation, a little blush—"

"I'm not interested in Mueller. I don't want him to be interested in me. There is no reason for me to make a fuss over my looks today."

Tonia shot her a cold glance. "Well! Excuse me."

"Sorry," Erin said miserably. "I didn't mean to snap."

"What's happening with your boyfriend?" Tonia demanded. "Is he the reason you're so pissy?"

Erin's jaw began to shake. "I think it's over."

"Who dumped who?"

Tonia's harsh choice of words made Erin flinch. "I think… I think that I dumped him."

"You think?" Tonia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You're not sure?"

Erin pressed her mouth against her hand. "I can't talk about it."

"Oh. That bad, huh? Frankly, I'm relieved. The guy was way, way too intense for my tastes. I mean, the first time I met him he was holding a gun on me, for God's sake."

"Maybe so." She dashed away stray tears and thanked heaven she'd done without mascara. "But let's have this conversation some other time. Like, six months to a year from now might be better."

Tonia sniffed. "God, you're sensitive. So what's wrong with Mueller? Is he repulsive or something?"

Erin held her eyes wide open, hoping they would dry out. "Not at all," she said dully. "He's pleasant. Nice looking, intelligent, cultured. There's nothing wrong with him. Nothing that I can put my finger on."

"He's just not Connor McCloud. That's his only flaw, right?"

Erin closed her eyes. "Tonia. Please. Could you just this once give me a break? I'm begging you. On my knees."

"I'm not saying this to bug you!" Tonia protested. "I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this! Mueller is such a big break for you, Erin. It drives me crazy that you're not taking advantage of—"

"I don't care about Mueller!" Erin yelled. "I don't give a damn about his collection, or his donation, or the museum! I could give a shit! About any of it! It's all just a stupid, meaningless game!"

"Ah. Well. Excuse me for caring," Tonia said. Her voice was clipped and chilly. "If you feel this way, why are we going to Mueller's house at all? I do have other things to do with my time, you know."

Erin dragged a Kleenex out of her purse and blew her nose. "Because I said I would." Her voice was flat and colorless. "And no other reason. I've got nothing else left to steer by. Everything's breaking down, falling apart… All I've got left is my word. So I'll by God keep it."

Tonia snorted. "Oh, spare me the melodrama, please."

Tonia's derisive tone was the final blow. Erin's face crumpled.

Tonia swerved into a gas station parking lot to the angry blare of several horns, and killed the engine. She pulled Erin into her arms. "Oh, come down off your high horse for a minute," she soothed.

"I feel so bad. I can't stand much more of this, Tonia."

"I know you can't." Tonia's voice was soft and hypnotic. "Of course you can't. And you won't. You'll see."

Erin didn't want her goopy nose to leak over Tonia's white linen suit, but when she tried to pull away, Tonia just pulled her back down.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Tonia said. "This means I get to fix your face. No matter what you think of Mueller, you've got to go in there with your head high. You've got to show some attitude."

"Whatever," Erin said wearily. "Fix my face. Do your worst."

Tonia started pulling hairpins out of Erin's bun. "We'll start with the hairdo," she said briskly. "It's hateful, and it must go."

Erin sniffled and tried to laugh. "Thanks, Tonia."

Tonia pulled her into an embrace so tight, the back of one of Erin's stud earrings stabbed into her neck. She gasped at the sharp pain, and tried to extricate herself from Tonia's grip.

Tonia hung on. "It'll be over soon, Erin," she crooned. "I promise."

Connor shoved the glass doors open and strode over to the clinic's front desk. He had to struggle to control the trapped feeling that came over him. There had been times when he would've gladly chewed off a limb to get out of this place. Not that the staff wasn't great. They'd all done their best for him. And oh, good, there was Brenda, one of his favorites. A heavyset lady in her fifties was behind the reception desk, peering at a computer through gold-rimmed half-glasses.

"Hi, Brenda," he said.

She looked up at him blankly, and then her eyes lit up. "Connor McCloud! Why, look at you!" She scurried out from behind the desk and gave his face a maternal pat. "You're looking good, honey! What brings you in here? Just come by to say hello? I'll have to call your PTs. JoAnn and Pat worked with you, right?" She reached for the phone. "I'll just buzz them and—"

"Actually, I'm not here to visit. I'm in a hurry." He was sorry to cut her off, but he was too edgy to shoot the breeze with the clinic staff. "I came for some information. You'll have to tell JoAnn and Pat hi for me. I'll drop by to see them sometime. I'm doing pretty good. Those months of torture paid off."

"They sure did, you handsome devil. What did you need to know?"

"I'm looking for information on a nurse who worked here during the period I was in the coma," he said. "Her name is Tonia Vasquez."

"Hmm. Doesn't ring a bell, but this is a big place. Tell you what. I'll buzz Annette. She does admissions up there. Maybe she'll recognize the name." Brenda dialed. "Hi, Annette, it's Brenda. Guess who I have standing in front of me? Remember Sleeping Beauty?… Yep, in the flesh. Cute as can be. He's got a question for you. Could you pop down, or should I send him up?… OK… Yeah, tell me about it, honey. I'll send him on up, then. Thanks a bunch."

She hung up and waved Connor toward the elevator banks. "Third floor, left out of the elevator, then take the first left again, and you'll find her in the glassed-in internal office."

"Thanks, Brenda," he said fervently.

Annette's office wasn't hard to find. He knocked at the open door. A tall, smiling black woman in her forties hurried over to greet him. "Well, hey! Connor McCloud! Looking good!"

He shook her hand, smiled, and did as much of the chitchat routine as his nerves could handle before he blurted out his question.

Annette's brow furrowed. "I don't remember anybody of that name, but I'll beep Geoffrey. He's in staffing. He knows everybody in the clinic, and their great-aunt's birthday, too." She punched the number into the phone. "If anybody will know, it's Geoffrey."

Conversation lagged while they waited for Geoffrey to respond. Annette gave him a cheery smile." And how's your lovely girlfriend doing?"

He was frozen into total immobility. "Excuse me? My what?"

Annette hesitated, wide-eyed and wary of a gaffe. "I was just asking about your, ah… girlfriend."

"I don't have a girlfriend. I sure as hell didn't have one then."

Annette blinked. "She came so often, I just assumed—"

"Who came to see me?" he barked. "What was her name?"

Annette's face stiffened. "I don't recall her name. And I don't appreciate being spoken to in that manner."

He let out a long, slow breath through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry, Annette," he said carefully. "Forgive me for snapping at you. I shouldn't have. Could you describe this girl to me, please?"

Annette was mollified, but still suspicious. "She had long brown hair and a lovely smile. She was always dressed in a suit. She came on her lunch hour and read books to you. She signed in every day. I suppose I could look for some old registers, if you're so curious—"

"Please," he said. "Please, Annette."

She went into an adjoining room and rustled around for a minute. She came back out burdened with two thick three-ring binders and dumped them on the desk in front of him. "There you go. Be my guest."

He opened the book at random. The name practically leaped out into his face. Erin Riggs.

He turned the page. There she was again. He flipped over another page. Every time, his eye fell right onto her graceful cursive script, as if pulled by a magnet. Erin Riggs, Erin Riggs, Erin Riggs. His heart was galloping. He riffled through the pages rapidly.

Every goddamned day.

"Did you find what you're looking for?" Annette asked.

He looked up at her. Something naked and desperate in his eyes made the frosty hauteur fade out of her face, to be replaced by cautious concern. "Yes," he said. "More than I was looking for."

A chubby young man with a receding hairline swept into the room in a cloud of flowery aftershave. "Hello, beautiful! I saw your number on my pager, but since I was headed here anyway, I thought I'd just—"

"Do you remember Tonia Vasquez?" Connor demanded.

Geoffrey gave him a blank look. "Who are you?"

"Connor was one of our patients a while back," Annette explained. "He's looking for a nurse who worked here sixteen months ago. I thought you might remember her. That's why I beeped you."

Geoffrey exchanged quick glances and nods with Annette. "Tonia Vasquez? Yes, of course I remember Tonia. You said sixteen months, though? Wait a second." He leaned over the computer. "Can I close out of this document and access the database, Annette, o light of my life?"

"Mi computer es tu computer, cupcake," she responded.

Geoffrey typed with blinding speed, tapping and scrolling. "Here we go. Very strange. Her employee status is still current, but it shouldn't be, because Tonia moved down to San Jose over three years ago. She wanted to be closer to her daughter and her grandchildren."

"Grandchildren? No way! This woman is in her twenties!"

Geoffrey shook his head. "The only Tonia Vasquez who ever worked for us was pushing sixty. Lovely woman. Odd about the employee status. Must be a glitch in the system. I wonder if she's still getting paychecks. Wouldn't that be a howl? I'll have to call payroll and check it out right away."

"Uh, yeah," Connor said.

Somehow he managed to shake hands and thank them for their help. He sprinted down the hall, knees wobbling. He'd thrown out his net, and instead of darting fish, a writhing sea monster had boiled up out of the depths. And Erin had chosen Tonia to accompany her to Mueller's lair. No, Novak's lair. He was convinced. There was no time for the luxury of self-doubt. Erin's life was on the line.

He ran past the slow elevator. He would take his chances with the stairs. He groped for his phone, but there was nothing in his pocket.

Of course. He'd given the phone to Erin, she'd turned it off, and he didn't know where she was. Again. God. It was like a bad joke.

There was a pay phone in the stairwell. He dug for change, and plugged it in with shaking fingers. He tried Erin, for the hell of it. In vain. He was the last person on earth she wanted to talk to.

But she'd come to see him during the coma. Every goddamn day.

He pushed it away. Later for that. No time to process mind-boggling revelations right now. He dialed Seth.

"Who the hell is this?" Seth snapped.

"It's me. Look, Seth, I've got an emergency—"

"Why is your phone turned off? And why are you calling me from a land line? I can't scramble you on a land line!"

"I don't have time for this, Seth. Listen to me. Novak's not dead."

Seth was silent for a moment. "Uh… I heard it was confirmed," he said cautiously. "How do you figure?"

"Erin's best buddy Tonia posed as a nurse at the clinic when I was in the coma. She must've used the employee ID of a real nurse who retired three years ago. I'm at the clinic now. I just found out."

Seth grunted. "OK. Whatever. I'll buy it. I'd rather hunt Novak with you again than have you be crazy. You got a plan?"

"No," Connor said desperately. "I don't know where she is. She went to the millionaire art collector's house today. Mueller is Novak. I would bet my life on it. And I never got the chance to tag her stuff."

"Huh. Well, I've got some info for you, too. Remember when you told me to check out your girlfriend's apartment?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Connor said harshly.

There was a delicate pause. "Uh…that sucks. But anyhow, I just left the place, and I found something really weirdo—"

"I don't have time for this, Seth!"

"Bear with me. It's relevant." Seth's tone was hard. "There was a vidcam mounted behind the wall paneling. Rigged with a short-range remote transmitter. Probably the receiver and recorder are in the same building. The setup is crude. Looks homemade."

Connor swallowed, hard. "Holy shit. That is weird."

"Oh, I haven't even gotten to the weird part yet," Seth said. "About that vidcam, uh… you don't know anything about it, do you, Con?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Why would I? What is it about the goddamn vidcam? Spit it out, Seth!"

"It's yours," Seth said bluntly. "I sold it to Davy, and he passed it on to you. It's the one that got stolen in that burglary at your house a few months ago. I know it's yours. Because I marked it."

Connor tried to find space in his mind for that piece of info. His brain refused to accommodate it. "Huh?"

"Is there something you're not telling me, Con?"

Seth's voice had a cold, suspicious edge to it that Connor had never heard, at least not directed toward him. Panic jolted through him, at the thought that even Seth might abandon him.

"Fuck, no!" he burst out. "I didn't plant that thing. Not me!"

"Good." Seth's relief was palpable. "That's sort of what I figured. A hidden vidcam in a girl's bedroom isn't your style. It's more like something I would do. You're too much of a tight-ass Dudley Do-Right for a dirty trick like that."

"Thanks for your touching faith in me," Connor said.

"Anytime, man, anytime. The first thing you need to do is to turn on your phone so I can scramble you. It makes me nervous to talk—"

"I don't have the phone," Connor said. "I gave it to Erin."

"You gave the phone to Erin?" Seth repeated slowly.

"Yes! I did!" he yelled. "Will you guys please stop giving me shit about the rucking phone?"

"And she has it on her now?" Seth persisted.

"How the hell should I know? She put it in her purse last night. I assume she has it. Why shouldn't she?"

Seth started to laugh.

"What is so goddamn funny?"

"You just solved all our problems in one blow," Seth said. "We'll use the phone to find her."

Connor's hand tightened on the phone. "Come again?"

"There's a beacon in your phone. It feeds off the battery, so if it's been charged recently, it should be transmitting."

"You planted a beacon on me? Why?" he demanded.

"You never know when you might need to find your friends in a hurry." Seth's voice was defensive. "I put 'em in Davy's and Sean's phones, too, so don't take it personally. Besides, you get your ass in a sling on a regular basis. I felt more than justified."

Connor started to grin. "I'm gonna pound you when this is all over for planting shit on me," he warned.

"Yeah, but right now, when I'm useful, you love me and I'm golden. I've heard that tune before. I'll head home and key the code into my computer. Get over here, and we'll mobilize."

"Call Sean and Davy for me," Connor said.

"Watch yourself," Seth said.

Connor bounded down the remaining two flights like his feet were on springs. It was beautiful, it was amazing, it was awesome, that his pathologically sneaky gearhead friend had actually had the brilliant good sense to plant a bug in his phone. He dodged and spun around gurneys and wheelchairs, leaving shouts of furious protest behind him. He sped toward the parking garage and dug out his keys.

The door of the gray SUV with tinted windows parked next to his car swung opened, and discharged a tall, black-clad bald man.

Connor reeled back with a gasp. The guy was a hideous apparition: pallid and hairless, blue eyes burning out of dark pits, a scarred, grotesque face. A gap-toothed leer.

Georg Luksch.

Georg's arm flashed up, took aim. Connor heard a popping sound, felt a stab of pain, an explosion of helpless fury. A dart was poking out of his chest. He fought it, but he was already sagging onto the asphalt.

Shadows overtook him. The world melted into formless darkness.

"Punctual, as always," Tamara murmured, when she met them at the door. "And who is this?"

"This is my friend Tonia Vasquez," Erin said. "Tonia, this is Tamara Julian. I told you about her."

"How do you do? What a fabulous outfit," Tonia gushed.

Tamara gave her a lofty smile. "How kind of you to say so."

Tamara was dressed in black, a severe high-necked jacket paired with a billowing black taffeta skirt. The heels of her shiny, pointy-toed boots clicked over the dizzying swirls of antique tile on the mosaic floor. She glanced back over her shoulder. "I'm relieved that you made it. Mr. Mueller was distressed when you ran away last night. He was afraid he'd offended you. We weren't sure you'd be back."

Tonia slanted her an odd glance. "Ran away? What's this?"

"It's a long story," Erin said stiffly. "It had nothing to do with Mr. Mueller, though. He needn't have worried."

"I see." Tamara's face looked pale and drawn beneath her flawless makeup. Her emerald eyes looked haunted and shadowy.

Or maybe it was just Erin's own bleak perceptions, reading ominous portents into every innocuous thing. The dread in her belly got heavier. Flutters of the panic that had mastered her the day before stirred inside her, and she clamped down on them ruthlessly. She would get through this job, close this chapter gracefully, and that was all she would ask of herself. Professional suicide or not, once she delivered that report, she would be politely unavailable to Claude Mueller forevermore. She would refer him to other experts who would all fall over their feet in their eagerness to consult for him. In the meantime, she would be taking typing tests, filling out W-4 forms for temp secretary and paralegal jobs. And she would be cheerful about it if it killed her. Yippee. What a joy. You shape your own reality, she reminded herself.

Unless you allow other people to shape it for you. The thought flitted through her mind like a bat's shadow, almost too quick to catch.

God, how she hated this house. It seemed to give her a constant, low-level electrical charge, just enough to feel nauseous and dizzy, and determination alone wasn't enough to manage it. She'd bolted out of the place in a full-blown panic attack last night, like Cinderella fleeing the ball as the clock tolled midnight. But here she was again, putting one foot in front of the other, cold sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. Trying to act like a grown-up.

Tamara stopped in front of the door to the salon. The heavy, ornate door was like the mouth of some monstrous creature, gaping wide to swallow her whole. Erin stomped down on the childish, queasy surge of panic, and tightened her belly into tempered steel.

Mueller was staring out the window, as he'd been the day before, the deep-in-thought-aristocrat pose. He turned, and smiled as he came forward to greet her. "Ah, excellent. I wasn't sure I would see you again," he said. "I am sorry if I upset you yesterday. You look pale."

"I'm fine, thanks." See? Polite, pleasant, nothing wrong with this picture. Novak is dead, on the other side of the planet. Everything here is perfectly normal. I will not let someone else's fear control me. It raced through her mind in the blink of an eye. "I'm so sorry about that. I don't know what came over me."

His teeth looked so sharp when he smiled. "And who is your lovely companion?"

"Tonia Vasquez. Glad to meet you," Tonia said, when Erin took too long to reply. "I'm Erin's shadow today. I hope I'm not in the way."

"Not at all. Any friend of Ms. Riggs is welcome. One can never have too many beautiful women in one place."

"That depends," Tonia purred, "on the circumstances."

So Tonia was going to flirt with him. Fine. It made her flesh creep, but if it diverted his attention from her own unhappy self, she could weep for gratitude. Soon this would be over, and she could retreat to her dingy mouse hole at the Kinsdale and lick her wounds in the dark.

And maybe she was being unfair, but it was going to be a very long time before she called Tonia again. If ever.

"Can I get started?" Her voice came out so sharp that Tonia and Mueller stopped their bantering and stared at her, startled.

"Of course." Mueller indicated a table at the far end of the room.

The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get out of this hellish place. Her mind repeated the thought like a mantra.

Three items lay on the gleaming dark wood table. The folders of provenance papers lay beside them. She dug out her recorder, and grimly disposed her mind to concentrate. Grown-up. Professional.

The first item was a bronze dagger and sheath. The provenance papers placed it as La Tene, 200 B.C.E., dredged out of a river in Wales in the 1890s, but the blade seemed much older to her. The guard, grip, and pommel had been made of some organic material that had rotted away, but the wasp-waisted, leaf-shaped sweep of the blade was still beautiful. It had the reinforcing ridges, grooves, and finger notching that she had seen on many bronze Celtic swords from 1000 B.C.E.

The next piece was a stone statuette, eighteen inches high, of a hideous beast holding out its arms. Huge, thick claws sank into the forehead of two severed heads. An arm dangled out of its fanged, gaping jaws. La Tarasque, very like the Gallo-Roman limestone statue she had studied in Avignon on her junior year abroad in France and Scotland.

She flinched away from it. It was a rare and beautiful piece, but she felt too wretched to cope with bloodthirsty man-eating monsters, unprofessional or not. Later for that one.

The third item was a bronze flagon, decorated in the vegetal swirls and spirals of late La Tene style. It was embossed with several mythical creatures, but the ones that caught her eye first were the two dragons.

Fiery red garnet eyes glared at each other. They were symmetrical, a perfectly balanced pose of eternal mortal challenge. Like the torque. Serpentine tails coiled beneath them, blending into the intricate, flowering tendril design that decorated the whole piece.

The realization crept up on her so slowly, the way a headache gathered force until it had to be acknowledged by the conscious mind. A puzzle she hadn't known she was trying to solve slipped into place. The provenance papers cited the flagon as discovered near Salzburg in 1867 by a gentleman explorer and tomb raider from the nineteenth century, and subsequently sold in the 1950s to a rich Austrian industrialist.

But this flagon was not from Salzburg. It was from the Wrothburn cemetery. As was the dragon torque. And the Silver Fork torques, too.

She felt it in her skin. Her instincts were never wrong. Every hair on her body was on end. The wrongness deepened, widened.

She forced the words out. "Mr. Mueller. I'm sorry to tell you this, but I believe that the provenance papers for this flagon are falsified."

The murmur of conversation from the other side of the room stopped. "I beg your pardon?" Mueller's voice was gentle, puzzled.

"The distinctive designs show it to be almost certainly from the grave mounds in Wrothburn, which were only discovered three years ago. I suspect that the dragon torques, and at least two of the torques I saw in Silver Fork, are from Wrothburn, too. These pieces were looted. They belong to the people of Scotland."

She didn't have the courage to face him. Dread held her body in a paralyzing grip. She heard a dry, whispery chuckle, like a snake sliding through dead leaves. She knew. She turned, slowly.

Mueller's eyes were no longer electric blue. They were a luminous white-green, a cold, dead color. He lifted his hand and waggled his index and middle fingers. The blue discs of his colored contacts clung to the ends of them. "Congratulations, Erin."

"It's you," she whispered. "You're Novak. Connor was right."

His smile widened. "Yes. He was. Poor, mad Connor."

She wondered how anything so alien could have masked itself as human for so long. Then she thought of Tonia, with a shock of guilt and horror. She had dragged poor, unsuspecting Tonia into a world of hurt.

Her anguished eyes met Tonia's—and her heart skipped a beat.

Tonia was smiling. She reached into her white Prada bag, and leveled a small silver revolver at Erin with casual skill. "I'm sorry about this, Erin. I genuinely did like you. You seemed like such a priss when I met you at the clinic, but you're actually smarter than I thought." She shook her head. "But not quite smart enough."

Outrage held the creeping horror temporarily at bay. "You vicious, lying, heinous bitch!" Erin hissed.

"I am impressed with you, my dear," Novak said. "You exceeded my wildest hopes. Not only did you come to the right conclusion in record time, but your first impulse was to uphold the rules. You win the grand prize, Erin. Tamara, show her what she's won."

There was no taunting glitter in Tamara's eyes this time, no smile on her pale lips. She opened the library door. A tall, pale, hairless man stepped inside, grinning. Erin cried out before she could stop herself.

Georg. She knew him, even shaven bald, with the missing teeth. His eye was distorted by the drooping lid. One side of his mouth was thickened and twisted. Crimson weals marred his pallid cheeks.

He leered, his eyes dragging hungrily over her body. "Hello, Erin," he said. "I am happy to see you. You look very pretty."

She backed away. The table bumped painfully hard into her hip. "It really was you in that SUV last Sunday, wasn't it?"

His grin widened, became triumphant. "Yes."

"Georg's usefulness to me was much reduced by your lover's beating," Novak said. "He was once so beautiful, remember? And prison was very hard for Georg. He is very angry. Are you angry, Georg?"

"Yes." Georg's good eye was bright with venomous hatred. "Very."

"He suffered permanent nerve damage to his face, you know," Novak said. "In thanks for all of his pain and sacrifice, Georg shall be the one to execute my plans for you. He lives for this promise."

"No," Erin said. She sidled along the table. "No."

Tonia clucked her tongue in warning. "Don't move, please."

"It is a beautiful plan," Novak said. "Prison gives one time for a great deal of reflection, you see. I'm sure your father finds it to be so."

"So this is all just to get back at Dad?" She hardly cared what he answered. Her words were just a desperate bid for time.

He laughed. "No, Erin. I'm getting back at everyone. Tonia, did you do as you were told this morning?"

"Yes, Mr. Mueller." Her smile was smug. "Barbara Riggs is in a tizzy. Phones are buzzing about McCloud's family history of mental illness, his delusions, his persecution complex. His obsessive pursuit and seduction, and let me add rape, of Erin Riggs—"

"That's ridiculous! No one will ever believe that! My mother saw me with him! She saw how he—"

"When the video footage of last night's tryst is found in his house, she may well take a different view," Novak said. "McCloud couldn't have behaved more perfectly for my purposes if I had given him orders. I loved it when he tore your dress and bent you over the table."

She covered her shaking mouth with her hand. "Video footage?"

"Indeed. You both surprised me last night, my dear. I had no idea that McCloud could be so… raw."

"I had a conversation with your neighbor Mrs. Hathaway today." Tonia was enjoying herself. "She can't wait to tell what she saw last night in the stairwell. It's common knowledge that McCloud killed Billy Vega. A massive manhunt is already underway."

"And they will find him," Novak said. "They will find you, too, but alas, it will be too late. Let me explain the sad sequence of events for you, my dear. After McCloud killed Billy Vega, his mental imbalance escalated, faster than anyone could have anticipated. Brought on by mad jealousy, no doubt. Ah, love is a dangerous thing."

"But that's ridiculous! No one would believe that Connor would kill Billy Vega. He had no reason to—"

"Georg left no trace of himself at Billy's house," Novak said smugly. "But the forensics team have found the hairs from McCloud's comb. The bloody cane is in McCloud's basement. A clear sign that he wanted to be stopped. A subconscious cry for help, if you will. We mounted McCloud's camera in your wall, we used tapes that were covered with his fingerprints. The camera was reported stolen months ago, so it will be obvious that he has been stalking you for some time. I'm sure the police will enjoy the spicy episodes from your affair. Maybe they will even turn up on the Internet. Like father, like daughter."

"Oh, God," she whispered.

"It was about time something happened in that wretched apartment of yours," he said. "The people who monitored you almost expired from boredom. Georg, turn on the video monitor, if you please."

She hadn't even noticed the wide-screen flat monitor mounted on the wall. The image that appeared on it made her knees turn to water.

Connor was tied spread-eagled on the bed, blindfolded.

"He will wake up shortly." Novak's tone was gleeful. "Then the real entertainment begins. He will watch while Georg performs the dreadful acts for which he will bear the blame. Then he will apparently come to his senses, realize what he has done, and commit suicide with his own gun, in an agony of guilt and horror."

She stared into the monitor. Connor looked so still and vulnerable. "It will never work," she said desperately. "Forensics—"

"No, I promise, I have thought of everything. Is he awake, Tamara?"

She peered into the monitor. "Could be. Hard to say."

"Tamara will see to it that the bodily fluids upon your ravaged body are the genetically correct ones. Tamara could extract bodily fluids from a stone statue, couldn't you, my seductive beauty?"

Tamara gave him a wide, empty smile. "Oh, yes, boss."

Novak clapped his hands together. For the first time, she noticed the prosthetic fingers. He followed her gaze and held them up, waggling them playfully. "You never checked, Erin. You were so convinced that the world behaves like you do. Now we shall watch Tamara and McCloud on the video monitor. Would you enjoy that?" He gave her an encouraging smile, as if offering a special treat to a child.

"No," Erin said.

"What a poor sport," he chided. "Making Riggs women watch their men with other women is something of a hobby of mine."

"Mom's TV" she whispered. "It was you."

"Oh, yes. I was sorry when McCloud put a stop to it. He spoiled my plans for Cindy, too. I had planned for your mother to commit suicide, you see, and for Cindy to begin the long slide into addiction. Those Riggs women just cannot choose good men. But no matter. Your death will finish them off nicely. Tamara, it's time. See to it," he ordered.

Tamara left the room. There was a heavy silence. Everyone was looking at her, as if waiting for something.

"It won't work," she said flatly. "Connor is a noble, honorable person. Too many people know this. But you couldn't be expected to understand that. You're just a squirming thing that feeds on death."

Georg pulled a pair of thick rubber gloves out of a box on the table, and put them on. He glanced at Novak. Novak nodded.

Georg seized her by the hair and struck her in the face.

Erin spun around, crashed against the wall, and slid down to the floor. There was blood in her mouth. No one had ever hit her in her entire life. Her mind reeled with pain and shock, fought to orient itself.

"Georg must cover himself with plastic, of course, before he touches you," Novak said, as if nothing had happened. He took a step closer, and chuckled as she shrank away. "Oh, I have no intention of hurting you," he assured her. "I will only watch this time. Nothing must threaten my new identity. Only Connor's blood and hair and semen will be found upon your ravaged body. His skin, beneath your fingernails."

"No one would believe that Connor could ever do such a thing. No one who knows him." Her voice shook with furious conviction.

"No? Picture it. He will be found dead, his pistol in his mouth, not far from your body. Half naked, scratched to ribbons. Once the sex tapes are found, the case will be closed, my dear. Everyone already thinks he has lost his grip. Everyone. Even you thought so, remember?"

She pushed away the guilt and shame his words provoked, and struggled up onto her knees. "They will come looking for you." She threw the words at him. "My mother knew that I was coming—"

"But you never made it, Erin. I called your mother right before I buzzed you." Tonia's voice took on a taunting, singsong quality. "Mrs. Riggs, is Erin with you, by any chance? I had an appointment with her to go to Mueller's, but she's not home! How odd! It's so unlike her!"

Erin stared at her, stunned. "You are so incredibly cruel."

"Yes. And now that I am dead, no one will bottler me," Novak said smugly. "I should have arranged my own death years ago, but I was too attached to my raffish identity. Ego, you know. Gets you every time."

"How did you turn yourself into Mueller?" Erin demanded.

"Tempting my ego? It's difficult not to boast I stole Claude's life fourteen years ago, which is not so great a crime as you might think, since he wasn't really living it anyway. I needed his live DNA to exchange for my own in the databanks, so I kept him in a drug induced coma. One last stint with the plastic surgeons and I can show myself to the world without a care. Perhaps I will give that donation to the Huppert after all, on the condition that they name the new wing after you. In memoriam. Wouldn't that be touching?"

"You are a demon," she said.

He looked hurt. "Not at all. I have a very tender heart. I used to visit Claude from time to time, back when my life was less complicated. I would hold his hand, tell him of my various doings. They say comatose people understand on some deep level. But you know that already."

She struggled up into a sitting position. "You've been watching me ever since Connor was in the clinic. All this time."

"Your devotion gave me the idea," Novak said. "McCloud gave me another when he brutalized Georg. The two of you were destined to destroy each other. Your mother—pah, too easy. Cindy, too. Like your father. But you, Erin. You are the key to that whole family. All that moral fiber and self-control. All that rigorous effort."

She had slipped into a state of surreal calm. "So this is to punish Dad, for failing you, and the McClouds for catching you? That's all?

"Ah, yes, the McCloud brothers. Connor's death and disgrace will set them on the road to ruin, and I will pick them off at my leisure. There are Seth Mackey and his bride to think of, too, but no hurry. Everyone who has dared to affront me will be punished. And not a trace will lead back to me, because I no longer exist. I am transfigured."

"So you have nothing against me personally," she persisted.

"No," he said. "You couldn't cross me. It's not in your nature."

"My nature is changing." Erin struggled up onto wobbling legs, supporting herself against the wall. "I've loosened up quite a bit. I've been leaving my bed unmade, the dishes unwashed. Losing my temper. Using swear words. My tolerance for chaos has risen sharply lately."

Novak laughed at her. "Bravado in the face of doom. It almost moves me to pity." His eyes flicked to Georg. "Almost."

Erin's mind was strangely lucid. Novak was the embodiment of her nightmares, the goad behind her ceaseless efforts to control her world and keep chaos at bay. And all her struggles had led her straight here, into this monster's grasp.

The fear of chaos had controlled her all her life. She may have just a few minutes left to live, but she would be free in them. She would create her own reality for as long as she had the power. She drew herself up as tall as possible. "Your plan is inherently flawed," she said.

Novak looked slightly startled, as if a doll had come to life and criticized him. He gestured politely for her to explain herself.

"You studied everyone's strengths and weaknesses, but you forgot one thing," she said. "Real people grow. They change. But for you, everything is already dead. Inanimate objects for you to move around. Because you're dead inside, Novak. You can't grow. That's why you hate us all so much. If I were a saint, maybe I would pity you, but I'm not. You miserable, twisted, dead thing."

Novak blinked. He looked at Georg. "Hit her again."

Georg lifted his arm. Erin cringed against the table and braced herself.

The lamps flicked off. The image of Connor on the video screen collapsed into a pinpoint of light and vanished into a flat gray void.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Someone was slapping him. Saying something urgent. Yelling. He wanted to tell them to stop, but his tongue and lips and teeth couldn't figure out the choreography of speech. A haze of black and red and white swam in his vision. It coalesced into a white oval. A face. Emerald eyes. Lips, teeth, moving soundlessly.

Slap, slap. The green-eyed bitch wouldn't leave him alone.

Icy water splashed his face. He gasped into wakefulness. "What?"

"Wake up, you idiot! We don't have much time. Once they get the power back on, they'll be on to me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. "What the fuck—"

"It's Tamara. You're Connor McCloud. Novak's got you tied to a bed, and Erin at gunpoint. Does that ring a bell?"

"Erin? Novak?" He surged up, and was jerked back by the duct tape that held him to the bed. "Where is Erin?"

"Excellent. Much better," Tamara said. "Now listen carefully. We don't have much time. I'm going to untie you, and give you a weapon. Then you are going to help me kill Kurt Novak. Are you up for it?"

He nodded, bemused, as she pulled a knife out of a seam in her skirt and set to work on the tape that bound him. One arm came loose, then the other, numb from being pulled so tightly. Her full skirt rustled as she hurried around the bed and started on his feet.

He straggled into a sitting position. "Are you an undercover cop?"

She laughed abruptly. "Hah. Far from it. It's a personal thing."

"What did Novak do to you?" A foot sprang loose, swathed in gray tape. He still couldn't feel it.

"He murdered my favorite lover." Tamara's voice was matter-of-fact. She slashed his other foot free. "Nobody touches my stuff."

"Oh." His brain was so squishy and soft from the drug they'd pumped into him that the pattern just leaped out of the net and broadsided him. "Tamara… Mara! From Stone Island! You were Victor Lazar's mistress. I remember now. I saw you on the vid clips. But you were a brunette. You've changed your nose. And your eyes were…"

"Topaz, smart boy," she said. "Yellow cat eyes. Lucky for both of us you weren't smart enough to figure that out at Silver Fork. You would have gotten your throat slit. Maybe mine, too. Come on, now. On your feet. Move. Get that blood pumping."

He staggered around the bed, catching himself on the bedpost when his knees buckled. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. He fought back the humiliating urge to vomit It reminded him of his days in physical therapy. "Why are you helping me?"

"Actually, I'm not. It's you that's helping me," she said crisply. "Rescuing you wasn't part of my agenda. I've been trolling for a chance to kill that bastard all week, but he's too smart, and too suspicious, and I'm in over my head, and I think he's about to kill me."

"Oh," he said inanely. "Uh… why didn't you just turn him in?"

"Oh, yeah. Like that worked so well the last time," she mocked. "Besides, I have my own reasons to avoid the law. I wasn't expecting things to move so fast with you two, but it's just as well. I'm tired of being that monster's concubine. It's stressful. And the rape and murder plans for you and your girlfriend, well… yuck. I have a very strong stomach, but everybody's got to draw the line somewhere."

"Thanks," he said. "That's awfully nice of you."

"You're welcome." His irony was completely lost on her, "I'm glad for some backup. I would like to live through this. Can you walk? The drug should be wearing off by now. I loaded that dart myself."

He stumbled down onto his knees with a gasp. Tamara yanked him back up, her long, vicious nails digging into his arm. "I cut the power, so he won't see us on the surveillance screens for a few more minutes," she said. "He'll send Nigel to check on it any minute now. He'll be livid if he thinks he won't get to see the sex show."

"Sex show?" He gave her a wary glance. "What sex show?"

"Don't ask. Oh, but speaking of sex shows—goddamn it, move your ass, McCloud! The one bright spot in my week has been watching you and your girlfriend get it on. Very entertaining. And that's a high compliment, from me. I hate to be bored."

"Oh, Christ." He stumbled onto his knees again. "Don't tell me."

She yanked him back up. "You're good, big boy," she taunted. "Keep treating her right, or the next time we meet I won't be so friendly."

She was trying to piss him off, to help him throw off the effects of the drug. It was a nice effort, and he appreciated the thought, but it was all he could do not to pass out or barf. He didn't have the strength for anger. Tamara yanked the door open. He wiped cold sweat off his brow. His sleeve came away dark with dried blood. He swayed, and caught himself on the doorjamb. "In James Bond flicks, there are always at least two beautiful girls," he panted. "A good one and a bad one."

She gave him a catlike smile. "I'm the bad one."

"Don't confuse me. It's hard to take this in when I'm stoned."

"Flexibility is the true measure of intelligence. Novak told me you were relatively intelligent. Don't disappoint me now. OK, listen. This is the story. You got free somehow, clobbered me, took my gun, and forced me to show you where Erin is. We burst in, you using me as a shield—"

"Forget it." Connor splayed his hand against the corridor wall and stumbled doggedly after her. "He doesn't care if I kill you. We know it, he knows we know it. He might shoot you just to prove a point."

Tamara's perfect eyebrows snapped together. "Got a better idea?"

"How about you tell me where they are, and then run like hell and get help?" he suggested. "I'll just go in and do what I can."

She sniffed derisively. "Oh, please. You and Erin are dead meat if you go in alone, and so am I when he comes after me later. If I go in with you, it's two to three. Sort of. Tonia's stupid and slow, but Novak and Georg each count for two apiece."

"Three to three," he said.

"You're counting Erin?" She sounded amused.

"Hell, yes," he said. "Erin is an Amazon."

"An unarmed Amazon," Tamara said wryly.

"Three to three," he insisted.

"Whatever. We're getting close. Shut up, and think fast."

He struggled behind her for a second, and tapped her shoulder. "One thing," he asked. "Why are you avenging Lazar? He was a—"

"Criminal? Corrupt? Greedy? Ruthless? Sure. He was complicated. I like complicated men. I'm a greedy, ruthless criminal myself. And Victor was the only man who ever gave me what I needed."

He tried not to ask, with all his strength, but she'd set him up, and now he had to know. "Uh… so what do you need, anyway?"

She yanked up her skirt and pulled his SIG Sauer out of a pouch beneath it. She flung it at him, nodding her cool approval as he caught it one-handed.

"None of your fucking business, little boy," she said. "Let's move."

"Stop," Novak said.

Georg's raised arm froze in mid-air. He and Novak exchanged looks. Erin reached out behind herself. Her stiff, cold fingers slid along the surface of the table, groping. They brushed the sharp tip of an object that spun around at her touch.

The bronze dagger.

They were all still looking away from her. She slid the tip of the dagger into her sleeve, trembling at her own daring. She scooped it up and wrapped that arm across her chest. She pressed her other arm over it in a shrinking, defensive pose. It didn't take much acting.

Novak barked out something in a language she didn't recognize. Georg made a brief, sullen reply. Novak pressed a button on his watch and snarled into it in the same language. He held a conversation with the person who replied. A long, heavy silence followed.

Novak paced back and forth across the room. He scowled at Erin as if the power outage were her fault. "I do not like surprises at this stage of the game." He spoke into his watch. "Tamara?" He waited. No reply. He turned to Tonia. "Check on her. I will leave nothing to chance. If I cannot watch them on video, I will watch them in this room."

Georg leered at her. "We watch them, and then he watches us."

She recoiled. The dagger slid up into her sleeve, all the way to her elbow. It was very cold against the skin of her arm.

Tonia opened the door. She leaped back with a shriek and leveled her gun. Guns appeared in the hands of Novak and Georg.

"Relax, everyone," said Tamara's light, amused voice. "I have the situation under control."

She walked into the room. Connor staggered in beside her, his arms fastened behind his back, his head bent over at an awkward angle. Tamara clutched a handful of his hair. Her pistol was shoved under his chin. "When I saw the power outage, I assumed you'd want a change of plans, boss," she said. "I know how much this means to you."

Novak's eyes narrowed. "You should not take initiatives of this kind without consulting me. He might have overpowered you."

Tamara looked contrite. "I'm so sorry. I was overly eager to please you," she said. "Forgive me. As you can see, I managed him easily."

Connor's eyes sought hers across the room. He was so beautiful, and so pale. His chiseled face was bruised and streaked with blood. The blaze of love in his eyes was like a blow against her heart.

Tamara jerked her chin at Georg. "He has to be restrained for this. Help me cuff him to the radiator."

Georg shot Novak a questioning look.

"Get on with it," Novak said curtly. "It's getting late, and we're already behind schedule."

Tamara let go of Connor's hair and eased away from him, her gun still trained on his face. "Down on the floor," she said. "Sit. Right there."

Connor crouched down, and slowly did as she asked.

Georg advanced, flexing his plastic-covered hands. "I want to beat you with your cane," he hissed. "But it will be beautiful to have her"—he jerked his chin at Erin—"in front of you. And then you will die."

He leaped onto Connor with an animal snarl and bore him to the ground. Connor twisted under him. A gun went off. Georg arched back, gurgling. Tonia screamed. Tamara whirled, kicked her in the face.

The gun in Novak's arm rose, taking aim at Connor. Erin exploded out of her shocked paralysis. She flung herself against Novak and let the dagger slip from her sleeve into her hand. She jarred him, and stumbled back. His shot went wide. A window shattered.

Novak let out a shriek of inhuman fury and leaped at her.

Erin brought the bronze dagger up, clutched tight in both hands. It met his own furious momentum. The blade bit deep into his throat.

His pale eyes went wide. Black-red arterial blood gushed out over spotless white linen. The gun dropped from his hand. His arms encircled her as he fell forward. His blood had a meaty, metallic smell.

He was taking her down with him, into the steaming pits of hell.

She heard another gun blast, then another, but they came from very far away. The table caught the back of her head as she fell, but it was some other person who suffered that awful pain. She was falling into the vortex that had always waited for her. Fading into the dark.

"Erin? Goddamn it, Erin, wake up! Talk to me!"

Connor's voice sounded terrified. She wanted to comfort him, but she'd lost contact with the part of herself that knew speech. Everything was so far away. She was so small. Lost in a huge, echoing void.

"She's covered with blood." Connor's voice shook. Rough hands wrenched her blouse open. "I can't tell if—"

"Not hers," said Tamara's voice. "It's his. Relax."

Erin's eyes fluttered open. Staggering pain rilled her head. She struggled to focus. "Connor?"

"Erin? Are you OK?"

"Don't know. Am I?"

His hands slid over her body, searching for injuries. He let out a long, unsteady sigh of relief when he found none. He slipped his arm behind her shoulder and pulled her up. "God, you scared me."

"My head." Erin tried to lift her hand up to her head, but her arm was made of lead. Connor's long, gentle fingers slid into her hair and explored. She hissed in pain.

"You've got a bump, but it didn't break the skin," he said. "We'll have it checked out."

"Novak?" she asked.

He jerked his chin to the left of them. She glanced, and looked quickly away from the still, blood-drenched thing next to them. Her gorge rose. She squeezed her eyes shut. "He's really dead this time?"

"Very dead," Tamara said. "Thanks to you."

She looked up, startled. Tamara was crouched next to her. "Me?"

"You took him out with the neck wound." Her approval was clear. "It would have taken a minute, but it was a sure thing. You hit an artery, girl. Blood's all over the wall. Looks like a slaughterhouse in here."

Erin closed her eyes before she could see the gore-spattered walls. "I heard all those gunshots," she said.

"We were just making dead sure," Tamara said. "Connor said you were an Amazon. He was right. I'm impressed." Tamara was pressing hard on her upper arm, her fingers wet with blood.

"You're wounded," Connor said to her. "Let me see."

"Tonia grazed me," she said. "The bitch always did have lousy aim. No big deal. I've taken worse than this and then gone out dancing."

The world widened into vast, echoing emptiness again. Erin heard their voices, but she could not take in what they were saying. Connor's hand was warm against her face. "Erin? Babe? Anybody home?"

"I'm not dead," was all that came out. What she wanted to say was too complicated, a million desperate things all struggling for precedence. "I'm not dead," she repeated stupidly.

"No, you're not, sweetheart. Thank God."

Connor's head dropped onto her blood-soaked shoulder. She smelled his warm, tangled hair against her face. He loved her, but he couldn't follow her to that frozen wasteland. No one could. She didn't know the way back to where he waited, warm and gentle, and needing something from her that she was too destroyed to give.

"It's all chaos," she whispered. "That's it. That's all there ever was. Anything else is just a lie. Just a mask."

Connor smoothed her hair back, frowning. "I think you've got a concussion, baby."

"I think she's telling you something important," Tamara said. She tilted Erin's chin up gently with a blood-streaked hand. "You know what? You've got the makings of an excellent professional bad girl."

That was so bizarre, it actually penetrated the haze and pulled her back to the room. She focused on Tamara, blinking. "Really?"

Tamara smiled. "Sure. You've got all the prerequisites. The looks, the brains, the nerve, the flexible attitude. You need a little help with the style, but that's no biggie."

Connor pulled her back against the warmth of his chest. "That's very kind of you, but it's not her scene."

"Let Erin speak for herself," Tamara mocked. "Today's a big day. Her first kill. It's all chaos, right? I've known that all along, you see. It's made me what I am today."

Connor's body was rigid. "Hey. Forget it. Erin isn't a—"

"I owe you one, beautiful," Tamara told her. "If you ever need help with something scary, leave me a message at the Honey Pot sex toy shop down in Pioneer Square. Scary things are my specialty."

"Scary like this?" Connor asked harshly. "Jesus. That's kinky."

"This situation was pretty much my outer limit," she admitted. "I plan to be very mellow for a while. Unless Erin needs me, of course."

Connor's arms tightened jealously. "Thanks, but I can help her with anything scary that comes up."

Tamara stroked Erin's cheek with a long red fingernail. There was a guttering silver lightning bolt appliquéd onto it. "Men may come and men may go, but sisters look out for each other," she murmured.

Erin let out a bitter laugh. "Like Tonia?"

Tamara dismissed Tonia with a flick of her bloodstained hand. "Tonia is trash," she said. "What you lost in her, you gained in me… and then some." She leaned forward and kissed Erin's mouth. Her lips were soft and lingering. "Keep that in mind, girlfriend."

Connor made a rumbling sound in his chest. "Hey. I appreciate your help, and this eternal sisterhood stuff is touching, but it's been a tough day. You can stop fucking with my head anytime now. Anytime."

Tamara laughed in his face and poked him with her lightning bolt fingernail. "Toughen up, McCloud," she said. "You're such an easy mark." She rose and hiked up her skirt to holster her gun. "This place is going to be full of cops in a while, so I'll just be on my way. Cops make me itch. Except for you, of course, big boy."

"I'm not a cop anymore," he said.

Tamara's eyebrows lifted. "Once a cop, always a cop. I'm out of here." She smiled at Erin. "Ciao, beautiful. It's been intense."

"Any other goons to worry about?" Connor demanded.

She shook her head. "He was keeping a very low profile. The only ones in the house were Silvio and Nigel. They probably bolted when they heard the gunshots. The rest are scattered around the city. They'll evaporate soon." She dug her toe into Tonia's buttock as she passed. "Stop sniveling, you stupid cow. You won't bleed to death. Apply direct pressure with the heel of your hand and shut up."

"Tamara?" Erin called.

Tamara turned at the door.

"Thank you," Erin said. "I owe you one, too. You know how to find me if you need me."

Tamara's brilliant smile flashed. "Till later, then."

She vanished into the dark. The two of them huddled together in the dim room between two blood-soaked corpses. Tonia's miserable whimpering grated on her raw nerves. Connor was saying something. Repeating it. She wrenched her mind into focus.

"… still got that cell phone on you someplace, sweetheart?"

"In my purse." Her teeth chattered. "Around here somewhere."

"I'll find it," he said.

She started to shiver uncontrollably when he took his warmth away to search for it. She heard his voice, getting further and further away. "Hey. Nick. It's me… yeah. Shut up and let me talk. I need an ambulance. I've got Novak and Luksch… come see for yourself. They're dead. You can ID them at your leisure, and then you can arrest me, if you still want to. There's a woman down with a gunshot wound to the thigh, one of Novak's… hell, I don't know. I was unconscious when they brought me here. Hold on." He crouched down in front of Erin, and patted her face. "Baby, what's the address of this place?"

She gasped it out through chattering teeth. Connor repeated it to Nick. "Hurry," he said into the phone. "Erin's going into shock."

He tossed the phone aside and peeled off her blood-drenched blouse. He took off his own shirt, wrapped her in it, and pulled her onto his lap, hunching his warm body around hers.

She felt the fear in his fierce, tight embrace. Part of her longed to comfort him, to tell him how sorry she was for not believing him. How grateful that he'd come to save her anyway, against all hope. He was heroic and beautiful, and she loved him.