Dead After Dark

For my family,

both those of blood and choice,

with all my love.

1

Claire Stroughton palmed her travel mug without looking up from the will she'd drafted and was reviewing. "I hate when you do that."

Claire glanced across her office at her executive assis­tant. "Do what?"

"That heat-seeking missile routine with your coffee."

"My mug and I have a very close relationship."

Martha pushed her sleek glasses up on her nose. "Then good thing it's got a lid. You're going to be late for your five o'clock if you don't leave now."

Claire stood and pulled on her suit jacket. "How bad's the time?"

"Two twenty-nine. Drive to Caldwell is a minimum of two hours plus in this traffic and your car is waiting for you down in front. Your conference call with London is sched­uled for sixteen. . . fifteen minutes from now. What kind of cleanup do you need me to do before the long weekend?"

"I've reviewed the revised merger documents for Techni-tron and I'm not impressed." Claire passed over a stack of paper big enough to be used as a doorstop. "Courier them down to 50 Wall now. I need a meeting with opposing counsel seven a.m. Tuesday morning. They come to us. Do I owe you anything before I go?"

"No, but you can tell me something. What kind of sadis­tic bore schedules a meeting with their lawyer for five o'clock on the Friday of Labor Day weekend?"

"Client's always right. And sadistic is in the eye of the beholder." Claire packed up the will in a document case then grabbed her Birkin bag. As she looked around her spacious office, she tried to think of the work she planned to do over the weekend. "What am I forgetting?"

"Pill."

"Right, right." Claire used what was left in her mug to polish off the prescription she'd been working her way through for the last ten days. As she pitched the orange bot­tle in the wastepaper basket, she realized she hadn't sneezed or coughed since Sunday. Stuff had worked evidently.

Damn airplanes. Germ pools with wings.

"Walk with me." Claire gave a couple more marching orders on the way to the elevator, all the while waving to some of the two hundred-odd attorneys and support staff that worked at Williams, Nance & Stroughton. Martha kept pace with her in spite of the load of paper in her arms, but then that was what was great about the woman. No matter what, she was always there.

At the bank of elevators, Claire punched the down button. "Okay, I think that's it. Hope you have a good weekend."

"You, too. Try and take a break, would you?"

Claire stepped into the mahogany-paneled lift. "Can't. We have Technitron on Tuesday. I'm going to spend most of my weekend here."

Four minutes later she was in her Mercedes inching forward in the Manhattan traffic, trying to get out of the city. Eleven minutes after that she was being patched into London.

The conference call lasted fifty-three minutes and it was a good thing she was basically in a parking lot because the virtual meeting didn't go well. Which was pretty common. Mergers and acquisitions of billion-dollar companies were never easy and not for the faint of heart. Her father had taught her that.

Still, it was a relief to hang up and just focus on driving. Caldwell, New York, was probably only a hundred miles from downtown, but Martha was right. Traffic was a bitch. Apparently everyone and their uncle was trying to peel out of the Big Apple and they were all using the same route as Claire.

Normally, she wouldn't be taking the time to drive to see a client in a private home, but Miss Leeds was a special case for a lot of reasons and it wasn't like the woman could come down to the office easily. She was what? Ninety-one now?

Christ, maybe she was even older. Claire's father had been the woman's lawyer forever and after he'd died two years ago, Claire had inherited Miss Leeds along with his equity in the family firm. When she'd taken his seat at the partners' table, she became the first female in the history of Williams, Nance & Stroughton to park it in the boardroom, but she'd earned that right, in spite of what Walter Strough-ton's will said. She was a fantastic M&A lawyer. Second to very, very few.

Miss Leeds was her only trusts and estates client, which had been the same for Claire's father. The elderly woman was worth close to two hundred million dollars, thanks to her family's interests in a variety of companies, all of which were represented by WN&S. These holdings were the heart of the relationship. Miss Leeds believed in sticking with what she knew and her family had been with the firm since its inception in 1911. So there you had it. An M&A rock star doing T&E for an NHC.

Or in human speak: a mergers and acquisitions specialist doing trusts and estates work for a nursing home candidate.

Believe it or not, the interaction algebra added up. The will and the trusts in it were fairly straightforward once you got familiar with them and Miss Leeds was easygoing com­pared to most of Claire's corporate clients. The woman was also good for business when it came to that will of hers. She approached revisions of it the way some people got into gar­dening, and at $650 an hour for Claire's time, the billable hours added up. Miss Leeds was constantly reworking the charitable portion of her estate, tilling that section, trimming and replanting the philanthropies as she changed her mind. The last two alterations Claire had handled over the phone, so when Miss Leeds had asked for a personal meeting this time, there was every reason to go up for a quick visit.

Hopefully it would be quick.

Claire had only been out to the Leeds estate once before, to introduce herself after her father's death. The meeting had gone well. Miss Leeds evidently had seen pictures of Claire through her father and had approved of Claire's "ladylike deportment."

Which was a joke. Although it was true that clothes could make both the man and the woman, and Claire's wardrobe was full of conservative suits with below-the-knee skirts, that was surface gloss. She had her father's head for business and his aggressive streak, too. She might look like a lady from her chignon to her sensible pumps, but on the inside she was a killer.

Most people picked up on her true nature about two min­utes after meeting her and not just because she was a bru­nette. But it was a good thing Miss Leeds was fooled. She was from the old school and then some—part of a genera­tion where proper women didn't work at all, much less as high-powered attorneys in Manhattan. Frankly, Claire had been surprised Miss Leeds hadn't gone with one of the other partners, but the two of them did get along for the most part. So far, the only hiccup in the relationship had occurred dur­ing that first face-to-face when the woman had asked whether Claire was married.

Claire was most definitely not married. Never had been, not interested, no thank you. Last thing she needed was some man with opinions about how late she stayed at the firm or how hard she worked or where they would live or what they would have for dinner. Eliza Leeds, however, was clearly of the you're-defined-by-what-was-sitting-next-to-you-in-pants set. So Claire had braced herself as she'd explained that, no, she had no husband.

Miss Leeds had seemed daunted, but then she'd rallied, moving swiftly on to the boyfriend question. The answer was the same. Claire did not have and didn't want one of those and no, no pets, either. There had been a long silence. Then the woman had smiled, made a brief comment along the lines of "my, how things have changed," and that was where they'd left things. At least for the moment.

Every time Miss Leeds called the office, she asked whether Claire had found a nice man. Which was fine. Whatever. Different generation. And the woman took the no's with grace—maybe because she herself had never been married. Evidently she had an unfulfilled romantic streak or something.

If Claire was honest, the whole relationship thing bored her. No, she didn't hate men. No, her parents' marriage hadn't been dysfunctional. No, in fact her father had been a very supportive male figure. There was no bad fallout from a rela­tionship, no self-esteem issues, no pathology, no history of abuse. She was smart and she loved her work and she was grateful for the life she had. The home and hearth stuff was just made for other people. Bottom line? She totally respected women who became wives and mothers but didn't envy them their burden of caretaking. And she didn't have a hole in her heart on Christmas morning because she was alone. And she didn't need soccer games or drawings on her refrigerator or homemade gifts to feel fulfilled. And Valentine's Day and Mother's Day were just two more pages on the calendar.

What she loved was the battle in the boardroom. The ne­gotiation. The tricky ins and outs of the law. The energizing responsibility of representing the interests of a ten-billion-dollar corporation—whether it was buying someone else or divesting assets or firing a CEO for having illicit eight-digit personal expenses.

All of that was what juiced her and, as she was at the top of her field and in her early thirties, she was in a damn good place in life. The only trouble she had was with people who didn't understand a woman like her. It was such a double standard. Men could spend their entire lives devoted to work and they were viewed as good earners, not antisocial spinster-aunts with intimacy issues. Why couldn't a woman be the same?

When Caldwell's span bridge finally appeared, Claire was ready to get the meeting over with, head back to her apartment on Park Avenue, and start prepping for the Tech-nitron showdown on Tuesday. Hell, maybe there would be enough time to even go back to the office.

The Leeds estate consisted of ten acres of sculptured grounds, four outbuildings, and a wall that you'd need rapel-ling gear and the upper body strength of a personal trainer to surmount. The mansion was a huge pile of stone set on a rise, an ostentatious display of new wealth erected during the Gothic Revival period of the 1890s. To Claire, it looked like something Vincent Price would pay taxes on.

Navigating the circular drive, she parked in front of the cathedral-worthy entrance and set her cell phone to vibrate. Picking up her bag, she approached the house thinking she should have a cross in one hand and a dagger in the other. Man, if she had Leeds's money, she'd live in something a little less dreary. Like a mausoleum.

One side of the double doors was opened before she got to the lion's head knocker. Leeds's butler, who was a hun­dred and eight if he was a day, bowed.

"Good evening, Miss Stroughton. May I inquire, did madam leave the keys in the car?"

Was his name Fletcher? Yeah, that was it. And Miss Leeds liked you to use his name. "No, Fletcher."

"Perhaps you will give them to me? In the event your car must be moved." When she frowned, he said quietly, "I'm afraid Miss Leeds is not doing well. If an ambulance must come. . ."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is she ill or. . ." Claire let the sentence drift off as she handed over her keys.

"She's very weak. Please, come with me."

Fletcher walked with the kind of slow dignity you'd ex­pect from a man sporting a formal British butler's uniform. And he fit in with the decor. The house was furnished in old-money style, with layer upon layer of art collected over generations choking the rooms. The priceless hodgepodge of museum-quality paintings and sculpture and furniture was from different periods, but it flowed together. Although what an upkeep. Dusting the stuff would be like cutting twenty acres of grass with a push mower—as soon as you were finished, you'd need to start again.

She and Fletcher took the massive, curving staircase up to the second floor and went down the hallway. On both sides, hanging on red silk walls, were portraits of various Leeds, their pale faces glowing against dark backgrounds, their two-dimensional eyes following you. The air smelled like lemon polish and old wood.

Down at the end, Fletcher knocked on a carved door. When there was a weak greeting, he opened the panel wide.

Miss Leeds was propped up in a bed the size of a house, looking as small as a child, as fragile as a sheet of paper. There was white lace everywhere, dripping from the canopy, hanging to the floor around the mattress, covering the win­dows. It was a wintry scene complete with icicles and snow banks, except it wasn't cold.

"Thank you for coming, Claire." Miss Leeds's voice was frail to the point of a whisper. "Forgive me for not being able to meet with you properly."

"That's quite all right." Claire came forward on tiptoe, afraid to make any noise or sudden movements. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I did yesterday. Perhaps I have caught the flu."

"It has been going around, but I'm glad you're on the mend." Claire did not think it would be helpful to mention she'd had to go on antibiotics for something like that herself. "Still, I'll be quick and let you get back to resting."

"But you must stay for some tea. Won't you?"

Fletcher piped up. "Shall I get the tea?"

"Please, Claire. Join me for tea."

Hell. She wanted to get back.

Client is always right. Client is always right. "But of course."

"Good. Fletcher, do bring the tea and serve it when we're through with my papers." Miss Leeds smiled and closed her eyes. "Claire, you may sit beside me. Fletcher will bring you a chair."

Fletcher didn't look like he could handle bringing over a footstool, much less something she could sit in.

"That's okay," Claire said. "I'll get one—"

Without taking a breath, the butler easily hefted over an antique armchair that looked as if it weighed as much as a Buick.

Whoa. Bionic butler, evidently. "Ah . . . thank you."

"Madam will be comfortable in this."

Yeah, and maybe madam will drive it home if her car doesn't start.

As Fletcher left, Claire put her butt on the throne and glanced at her client. The old woman's eyes were still closed. "Miss Leeds . . . are you sure you don't want me to leave the will with you? You can review it at your leisure and I can come back to notarize your signature."

There was a long silence and she wondered if the woman had fallen asleep. Or, God forbid . . . "Miss Leeds?"

Pale lips barely moved. "Have you a gentleman caller yet?"

"Excuse—er, no."

"You are so lovely, you know." Watery eyes opened and Miss Leeds's head turned on the pillow. "I should like you to meet my son."

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Leeds had a son?

"I have shocked you." The smile that stretched thin skin was sad. "Yes. I am . . . a mother. It all happened long ago and in secret—both the deed and the birthing. We kept it all quiet. Father insisted and he was right to do so. That was why I never married. How could I?"

Holy . . . shit. Back then, whenever it was, women did not have children out of wedlock. The scandal would have been tremendous for a prominent family like the Leeds. And . . . well, that must be why Miss Leeds had never made any mention of a son in her will. She'd left the bulk of the estate to Fletcher because old mores died hard.

"My son will like you."

Okay, that was a total no-go. If the woman had had a baby when she was in her early twenties, the guy would be seventy by now. But more than that, the client might always be right, but there was no way in hell Claire was going to prostitute herself to keep business.

"Miss Leeds, I don't think—"

"You will meet him. And he will like you."

Claire assumed her most diplomatic voice, the one that was ultracalm and ultrareasonable. "I'm sure he's a wonder­ful man, but it would be a conflict of interest."

"You will meet. . . and he will like you."

Before Claire could try another approach, Fletcher came back pushing a large cart with enough silver on it to qualify as a Tiffany's display. "Shall I serve now, Miss Leeds?"

"After the papers, please." Miss Leeds reached out a veined hand, the nails of which were trimmed perfectly and polished pink. Maybe Fletcher had his beauty license, too. "Claire, will you read to me?"

The changes were not complicated and neither was Miss Leeds's approval—which made the trip feel utterly unneces­sary. As that frail hand curled around Claire's Montblanc and drew a shaky approximation of "Eliza Merchant Castile Leeds" on the last line, Claire tried not to think of the four hours of work time she'd lost or the fact that she couldn't stand coddling people.

Claire notarized the signature, Fletcher signed as wit­ness, and then the documents went back into the briefcase.

Miss Leeds coughed a little. "Thank you for driving all this way. I know it was an inconvenience, but I do so appre­ciate it."

Claire looked at the woman lying in the sea of frothy white lace.

This is a deathbed, she thought. And the Grim Reaper is standing close by. Tapping his foot and checking his watch.

It was hard not to feel like a heel. Man, she was a certi­fied, cast-iron, career bitch, worrying about a couple of lost hours when it seemed as if Miss Leeds had so few of them left.

"It was my pleasure."

"Now the tea," Miss Leeds said.

Fletcher wheeled a brass cart over to the chair and poured what smelled like Earl Grey into a porcelain cup.

"Sugar, madam?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks." She hated tea, but the sugar hit would make swallowing it palatable. When Fletcher presented the stuff to her, she noticed there was only one cup. "You aren't having anything, Miss Leeds?"

"None for me, I'm afraid. Doctor's orders."

Claire took a sip. "What kind of Earl Grey is this? It tastes different than I've had before."

"Do you like it?"

"Actually, I do."

When she finished the cup, Miss Leeds closed her eyes with something that seemed oddly like relief and Fletcher took away the empty cup.

"Well, I think I'd better go, Miss Leeds."

"My son is going to like you," the old woman whispered. "He's waiting for you."

Claire blinked and called on all her tact. "I'm afraid I have to head back to the city. Perhaps I can meet him some other time?"

"He needs to meet you now."

Claire blinked again and heard her father's refrain in her head: The client is always right. "If it's important to you, I could . . ." Claire swallowed. "I, ah . . . I could . . ."

Miss Leeds smiled a little. "It will not be so bad for you. He is like his father. A lovely beast."

Claire rubbed her eyes. There were two Miss Leeds in the bed. Actually, there were two beds. So did that make four Miss Leeds? Or eight?

Miss Leeds looked at Claire with disarming clarity and a detachment that was discomforting. "You mustn't be afraid of him. He can be quite gentle if he's in the mood. I wouldn't try to run, though. He shall only catch you, after all."

"What—" Claire's mouth felt dry and fuzzy, and when she heard a noise to the left, it was as if the sound came from a vast distance.

Fletcher was taking the silver tray off the brass cart and putting it on a bureau. When he came back to the cart, he extended a hidden panel out at the foot of it so the thing be­came like a stretcher.

Claire felt her bones loosen, then collapse altogether. As she slid into the side of the chair, Fletcher picked her up and carried her to the cart, just as easily as he had brought over the heavy chair.

He was laying her flat when her vision started to slip. Desperately, she tried to hold on to consciousness as she was wheeled down the hall into an old-fashioned brass and glass elevator. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the butler pressing the button marked "B" for basement.

The lift lurched and she sank with it, falling into oblivion.

2

Claire rolled over in her bed, feeling velvet under her hands and smooth Egyptian cotton against her cheek. She moved her head up and down on the soft pillow, aware that her temples were pounding and she was vaguely nause­ated.

What a strange dream. . . Miss Leeds and that butler. The tea. The cart. The elevator.

God, her head hurt, but what was that wonderful smell? Dark spices . . . like a fine men's cologne, only one that she'd never smelled before. As she breathed in deep, her body warmed in response and she ran her palm over the velvet duvet. It felt like skin—

Wait a minute. She didn't have velvet on her bed.

She opened her eyes . . . and stared into a candle. Which was on a nightstand that was not her own.

Panic roared in her chest, but lethargy prevailed in her body. She struggled to get her head up, and when she finally lifted it, her vision swam. Not that it really mattered. She couldn't see beyond the shallow pool of light that fell on the bed.

Vast, inky darkness surrounded her.

She heard an eerie shifting sound. Metal on metal. Mov­ing around. Coming toward her.

She looked to the noise, her mouth opening, a scream rising in her throat only to get tangled on the back of her tongue.

There was a massive black shape at the foot of the bed. A huge . . . man.

Terror made her break out in a sweat and the shot of adrenaline cleared her head. She reached around for any­thing she could use as a weapon. The candle, with its heavy silver holder, was the only thing. She grabbed for it—

A hand clamped on her wrist.

Mindlessly, she tried to scramble back, her feet wadding up the velvet duvet, her body thrashing. It made no differ­ence. The hold was iron.

And yet uninjuring.

A voice came through the dense darkness. "Please . . . I shall not hurt you."

The words were spoken on a long breath of sadness, and for a moment, Claire stopped fighting. Such sorrow. Such pervading loneliness. Such a beautiful male voice.

Wake up, Claire! What the hell was she doing? Sympa­thizing with the guy who had a death grip on her?

Baring her teeth, she went for his thumb, ready to bite her way free and then knee him where he'd feel it most. She didn't get a chance to. With a gentle surge, she was turned onto her stomach and her arms held carefully at the small of her back. She wrenched her head to the side so she could breathe and tried to buck free.

The man didn't hurt her. He didn't touch her inappropri­ately. He just held her loosely as she struggled, and when she finally exhausted herself, he let go immediately. While pant­ing, she heard the chains being dragged into the darkness over to the left.

When her lungs stopped pumping wildly, she grunted, "You can't keep me here."

Silence. Not even breathing.

"You have to let me go."

Where the hell was she? Shit. . . that dream of Fletcher had been real. So she must be somewhere on the Leeds es­tate.

"People will be looking for me."

This was a lie. It was a holiday weekend and most of her firm's lawyers were taking work to their summer homes, so there was no one to miss her if she didn't come into the of­fice as she'd planned to. And if folks tried to reach her and got voice mail, they'd probably assume she'd finally gotten a life and was taking some time off for Labor Day.

"Where are you?" she demanded, her voice echoing. When there was no response she wondered if she hadn't been left alone.

She reached out for the candle and used the weak glow to look around. The wall behind the carved wooden head­board was made of the same pale gray stone as the front of the Leeds mansion, so that confirmed where she was. The bed she was on was draped in deep blue velvet and sat high off the floor. She was wearing a white robe and her under­wear.

That was all she could ascertain.

Slipping off the edge of the mattress, her legs wobbled and she fell as her knees gave out. Wax spilled on her hand, burning her skin, and the stone floor bruised her ankle. She caught her breath and dragged herself up by the bed's duvet.

Her head was bad, aching and scrambled. Her stomach felt like it was filled with latex paint and thumbtacks. And panic made both of those happy problems worse.

She stuck her hand out and shuffled forward, keeping the candle as far in front of her as she could. When she made contact with something, she shrieked and jumped back—until she realized what the irregular, vertical pattern was.

Books. Leather-bound books.

She put the candle forward again and moved to the left, patting with her palm. More books. More . . . books. Books everywhere, organized by author. She was in the Dickens section, and going by the gold inlays on the spines, the damn things looked like first editions.

There was no dust on them, as if they were cleaned regu­larly. Or read.

Some countless yards later, she ran across a door. Angling the candle up and down, she tried to find a knob or handle, but there was nothing to mark the old wood except black iron hinges. To the right of it on the ground there was something the size of a bread box, but she couldn't guess what it was.

She straightened and pounded on the door.

"Miss Leeds! Fletcher!" She kept up the hollering for a while and threw in a good long scream, hoping to alarm someone. Nobody came.

Fear gave way to anger and she welcomed the aggression.

Scared but pissed off, she kept feeling her way around. Books. Just books. Floor to however high the ceiling was. Books, books, books . . .

Claire stopped and was suddenly relieved. "This is a dream. All this is just a dream."

She took a deep breath—

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The deep, resonant male voice sent her wheeling around, her back slapping against the stacks.

Show no fear, she thought. When you face off with your enemy, you show no fear.

"Let me out of this fucking room. Right now."

"In three days' time."

"Excuse me?"

"You will be here with me for three days. And then Mother will set you free."

"Mother . . . ?" This was Miss Leeds's son!

Claire shook her head, pieces of the conversation she'd had with the woman skipping through her mind, landing on nothing rational.

"This is unlawful restraint—"

"And after three days, you will remember nothing. Nei­ther where you went nor your time here. Nor me. Nothing will linger of the experience."

God . . . his voice was hypnotic. So sad. So smooth and low—

Chains dragged across the floor, the sound getting louder, reminding her that she needed to fear him. "Don't come near me."

"I'm sorry. I cannot wait."

She raced back for the door and beat against the wood, her jerky, frantic movements splashing wax everywhere. When the candle's flame went out, she dropped the silver holder and as it clattered away, she banged both fists against the solid panels.

The chains grew closer; he zeroed in on her. Terrified to the point of madness, Claire clawed at the door, her finger­nails leaving long trails.

Two hands covered hers, stopping them. Oh, God, he was right on her. Right behind her.

"Let me go!" she yelled.

"I will not harm you," he said quietly, gently. "I will not hurt you. . . ." He kept speaking to her, word after word after word until she fell into a kind of trance.

Her body tingled as his scent filled her nose. He was the source of that dark, spicy smell, the delicious fragrance ev­erything that was male and powerful and sexual. Her core grew swollen, heavy, wet. . .

Horrified by her reaction, she tried to jerk away. "Don't touch me."

"Be still." His voice was right in her ear. "I will not take much this first time and worry not. You will leave here with your virtue intact. I cannot lie with you."

She should not trust him. She should be terrified. Instead, his gentle hands and his quiet, deep voice and the sensual smell of him soothed her fears. Which was probably the thing that terrified her most.

He released her and one of his hands went to her hair. He pulled the pins out one by one until it fell down on her shoulders. "How lovely," he whispered.

She knew she should bolt. But she didn't actually want to get away from him. "It's dark. How do you know what it looks like . . ."

"I see you perfectly."

"I see nothing."

"It's better if you don't."

Was he ugly? Misshapened? Deformed? And if he was, would it really matter? She knew it wouldn't. She would take him however he was. Although, Jesus Christ. . . why?

"I am sorry to rush this," he said roughly. "I need just enough to calm myself."

She heard a hissing noise as her hair was moved to one side. Two sharp, blazing points sank into her neck, the pain a sweet rush. As her back arched and she gasped, his arms shot around her and locked her tight against what was an enormous male body.

He moaned and started sucking;

Her blood . . . he was. . . drinking her blood. And oh, God, it felt fantastic.

Claire, for the first time in her life, fainted.

When she woke up, she was in the bed, between the sheets, still wrapped in the robe. The pervading darkness made her whimper in a way she wouldn't have thought herself capable of, but there was nothing to ground her, no reality to grasp. She felt as if she were drowning in a dense, oily sea, her lungs stopped up with what she couldn't see through.

Anxiety tripped all kinds of wires in her head and she broke out in a cold sweat. She was going to go mad—

A candle flared next to her, illuminating the bedside table and the silver tray of food that was on it. A moment later another lit up on the other side of the huge bed. And so did another mounted high on the shelves beside the door. And another in what looked like a bathroom. And . . .

One by one they came on, lit by nobody. Which should have scared her, but she was too desperate to see to give a crap how the light came about.

The room was much larger than she'd expected, and the floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of that gray stone. The only major piece of furniture aside from the bed was a desk the size of a banquet table. Its smooth, glossy surface was covered with white papers and stacked high with black leather volumes. A thronelike chair was behind it, angled to the side as if someone had been sitting in it and had gotten up quickly.

Where was the man?

Her eyes went over to the one dark corner. And she knew he was there. Watching her. Waiting.

Claire remembered the feel of him pressing into her back and she put her hand to her neck. She felt. . . nothing. Well, not quite. There were two nearly imperceptible bumps. As if the biting had happened weeks and weeks ago.

"What did you do to me?" she demanded. Even though she knew. And oh, God . . . the implications were horrific.

"Forgive me." His lovely voice was strained. "I regret what I must take from an innocent. But I need to feed or I shall die and I have no choice. I am not permitted to leave my quarters."

Claire's vision took a little break and then came back with a checkerboard overlay—the kind of thing you got be­fore you passed out. Holy . . . shit.

It was a long time before she could think straight and the cognitive vacuum was filled with visions from Hollywood: undead, white-skinned, evil. . . vampire.

Her body trembled badly enough to rattle her teeth and she curled up into herself, knees to chest. As she started rocking, she had the disassociative thought that she'd never been so terrified in her life.

This was a nightmare. Whether she was dreaming or not, this was a total nightmare.

"Am I infected?" she asked.

"Are you—do you mean, have I turned you into what I am? No. Not at all. No."

Fueled by the urge to flee, she shot off the bed and bee-lined in the direction of the door. She didn't make it far. The room swam in circles around her and she tripped over her own feet. Throwing her hand out, she caught herself against the books.

He caught her as well, so fast it was as if he'd dematerial-ized from where he'd been. His careful hands held her only as tightly as they had to. "You must eat."

She hung on to the shelf and noticed for no good reason that she was in front of a complete collection of George El­iot. Maybe that was why he talked like a Victorian. He'd been reading nineteenth-century books for however long he'd been in here.

"Please," that beautiful voice implored. "You must eat—"

"I have to go to the bathroom." She looked across the room at a marble enclave. "Tell me there is a toilet in there."

"Yes. You shall find there is no door, but I shall avert my eyes."

"You do that."

Claire broke free of him and lurched forward, too shell­shocked and weak and freaked out to care about privacy. And because if he'd wanted to take advantage of her he could have any number of times up until now. And because honor was in every timbre of his voice. If he said he wouldn't look, he wouldn't.

Except, Christ, she was an idiot. Why the hell should she have faith in someone she didn't know? And was impris­oned with?

Although maybe that was part of it. He was stuck in here, too, evidently.

Unless he was lying.

The bathroom was tiled in cream marble from floor to ceiling and there was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub and a pedestal sink. It wasn't until she flushed and went over to wash up that she realized there was no mirror.

She rinsed her face off and dried it with one of a stack of white towels. Then she cupped her hands under the rush of water and drank. Her stomach settled a little and she was willing to bet food would help even more, but she wasn't ingesting a thing she was offered. She'd done that once with a cup of tea and look where the hell she'd ended up.

Back out in the bedroom, she stared at the darkened cor­ner. "I want to see your face. Now."

There was no additional risk in that. She already knew she was on the Leeds estate and she knew who he was—Miss Leeds's son. She had enough on them so that if they were going to kill her to keep her from making identification, they had plenty to go on already.

"You will show me your face. Now."

There was a long silence. Then she heard the chains and he stepped into the light.

Claire gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. He was as beautiful as his voice, as beautiful as his scent, as beauti­ful as an angel. . . and he looked no older than thirty.

His six-foot-five frame was dressed in a red silk robe that fell to the floor and was tied with an embroidered sash. His hair was as black as night and pulled off his face, falling down in vast waves to . . . God, probably the small of his back. And his face . . . The perfection of it was stunning, with his square jaw, thick lips, and straight nose the pinnacle of male magnificence.

She couldn't see his eyes, however. They were downcast, to the floor.

"My . . . God," she whispered. "You are unreal."

He shrank back into the shadows. "Please, eat. I will have to . . . come to you again. Soon."

Claire imagined him biting her. . . sucking at her neck . . . swallowing what was in her veins. And had to re­mind herself that it was a violation. And she was a prisoner against her will being used by . . . a monster.

She glanced down. Part of the chain that moved with him was still in the light. The thing was as thick as her wrist and she guessed that it was locked onto his ankle.

He was definitely a prisoner, too. "Why are you chained down here?"

"I am a danger to others. Now, eat. I beg of you."

"Who keeps you like this?"

There was only silence. Then, "The food. You must eat the food."

"Sorry. Not going to touch the stuff."

"It has not been tampered with."

"That's what I thought about your mother's Earl Grey."

The chains rattled as he came back out into the light.

Yes, they were locked on his ankle. The left one.

He walked across the room, staying as far away from her as possible and not looking at her. His stride was lithe and graceful as an animal's, his shoulders rolling as his legs car­ried him over the stone floor. The power in him was . . . frightening. And erotic. And sad.

He was like a gorgeous beast in a zoo.

He sat down where she had lain and reached out to the silver tray of food. Lifting the lid off the plate, he set it aside on the table and she smelled a wonderful blend of rosemary and lemon. He unrolled a linen napkin, took out a heavy silver fork, and sampled the lamb, the rice, and the green beans. Then he wiped his mouth with the damask folds, cleaned the fork off, and put the lid back on.

He rested his hands on his knees, keeping his head down. His hair was gorgeous, so thick and shiny, spilling over his shoulders, the curling ends brushing against the velvet duvet and his thighs. Actually, the locks were of two colors, a wine red and a black so dense it was close to blue.

She'd never seen that color combination before. At least not as it naturally grew out of someone's head. And she was damn sure his mother from hell wasn't sending a beautician down here every month to give him a foil job.

"We will wait," he said. "And you shall see the food is not tampered with."

She stared at him. Even though he was huge, he was so still and contained and modest, she wasn't scared of him. Of course, the logical part of her brain reminded her that she should be terrified. But then she thought of the way he'd subdued her without hurting her the first time she'd woken up. And the fact that he seemed frightened of her.

Except then she glanced at the chain and told herself to back up the brain train. That thing was on there for a reason.

"What is your name?" she asked.

His brows flicked down.

God, the light falling on his face turned it into something positively ethereal. And yet the thrusts of bone were all male, hard and uncompromising.

"Tell me."

"I don't have one," he said.

"What do you mean you don't have a name? What do people call you?"

"Fletcher does not call me anything. Mother used to call me Son. So I suppose that is my name. Son."

"Son."

His palms rubbed up and down on his thighs, the red silk of his robe moving with them.

"How long have you been down here?"

"What year is it?" When she told him, he said, "Fifty-six years."

She stopped breathing. "You're fifty-six?"

"No. I was brought down here when I was twelve."

"Dear Lord . . ." Okay, clearly they had different life ex­pectancies. "Why were you put in this cell?"

"My nature began to assert itself. Mother said it was safer for everyone this way."

"You've been down here for all this time?" He must be going insane, she thought. She couldn't imagine being by herself for decades. No wonder he couldn't meet her eyes. He wasn't used to interacting with anyone. "Down here alone?"

"I have my books. And my illustrations. I am not alone. Besides, I am safe from the sun here."

Claire's voice hardened as she remembered nice, little old Miss Leeds drugging her and throwing her down in this cell with him.

"How often does she bring you women?"

"Once a year."

"What, as some kind of birthday present?"

"It is as long as I can go without my hunger becoming too strong. If I wait, I become . . . difficult to handle." His voice was impossibly small. Ashamed.

Claire could feel herself getting viciously angry, the flush blooming up the skin of her throat. Man, Miss Leeds had not been matchmaking with a kind heart as she'd talked about her son up in her bedroom. The woman had seen Claire as food and her son as an animal.

"When was the last time you saw your mother?"

"The day she put me down here."

God, to be twelve and imprisoned and left. . .

"Will you eat now?" he asked. "You can see I am un­harmed."

Her stomach growled. "How long have I been here?"

"For dinner, only. So not long. There will be two break­fasts, one lunch, and one more dinner and then you will be free."

She glanced around and saw there were no clocks. So he'd adapted by telling time through meals. Jesus. . . Christ.

"Will you show me your eyes?" she asked, taking a step toward him. "Please."

He stood up, a towering force draped in red silk. "I will leave you to eat."

He walked by her, his head turned away, the chain drag­ging over the floor. When he got to the desk, he turned the chair around so it faced away from her and sat down. Picking up an artist's pencil, his hand paused over a piece of thick white paper. A moment later, the lead began stroking across the page. The sound it made was as soft as a child's breath.

Claire stared at him and made up her mind. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the food. She had to eat. If she was going to get them both out of here, she was going to need her strength.

3

Claire finished everything that was on the tray, and as she ate, the silence in the room was oddly unstrained con­sidering the situation.

After she put her napkin down, she shifted her legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows, tired, though not in a drugged way. As she glanced at the tray, she had an absurd thought that she couldn't remember when she'd last let herself actually finish a meal. She always di­eted, leaving herself a little hungry. It helped keep up her aggression level, made her sharp, focused.

Now, she felt a little fuzzy. And . . . was she yawning?

"I won't remember this?" she asked his back.

His head shook, that mane of hair waving, nearly brush­ing the floor. The red and black combination was stunning.

"Why not?"

"I will take the memories from you before you leave." "How?"

He shrugged. "I know not. I just. . . find them among your thoughts and bury them."

She pulled the duvet over her legs. She had a feeling that if she pressed him for more details, he would have none to give—as if he didn't understand himself or his nature all that well. Interesting. Miss Leeds was human as far as Claire could tell. So clearly the father had been . . .

Shit, was she actually taking this seriously?

Claire put her hand up to her neck and felt the faded bite mark. Yes . . . yes, she was. And though her brain cramped at the idea that vampires existed, she had irrefutable proof, didn't she.

Fletcher came to mind. He was something different, too, wasn't he. She didn't know what, but that odd strength cou­pled with his obvious age . . . Not right.

Silence stretched out, the minutes fluid, passing through the room, draining into infinity. Had an hour passed? Or half of one? Or three?

Strangely, she loved the sound of his pencil's soft strokes over the paper.

"What are you working on?" she asked.

He paused. "Why did you want to see my eyes?"

"Why wouldn't I? It will complete the picture of you."

He put the pencil down. As his hand came up to push his hair off his shoulder, it was shaking. "I need to . . . come to you, now."

The candles began to extinguish one by one.

Fear had her heart going like a bat out of hell. Fear and . . . oh, God, please let that rush not be partially about anticipation.

"Wait!" She sat up. "How do you know you won't . . . take too much?"

"I can sense your blood pressure and I am very careful. I couldn't bear to hurt you." He stood from the desk. More candles were extinguished.

"Please, not the whole darkness," she said when only the one on the bedside table was left. "I can't handle it."

"It will be better that way—"

"No! God, no . . . it really won't. You don't know what it feels like on my end. The darkness terrifies me."

"Then we shall do this in the light."

As he came to the bed, she heard the chains first; then his shadow emerged out of the blackness.

"Perhaps you would stand?" he said. "So I may do it from behind again? That way you wouldn't have to see me. It shall take a little longer this time."

Claire exhaled, her body heating, her blood running hot. She wanted to tease out the whys of her dangerous lack of self-preservation, but what did they matter? She was where she was. "I think . . . I think I want to see you."

He hesitated. "Are you sure? Because once I begin, it is difficult to stop in the middle. . . ."

God, they sounded like two solicitous Victorians talking about sex.

"I need to see."

He took a deep breath, as if he were nervous and girding himself to get through the anxiety. "Perhaps you would sit on the edge of the bed then? That way I may kneel before you."

Claire shifted so her legs were dangling off the mattress. He lowered a little, bending at the knees, then shook his head.

"No," he murmured. "I shall have to sit beside you."

He sat with his back to the candle, so his face was in darkness. "May I ask you to turn toward me?"

She changed her position and looked up. The light of the flame formed a halo around his head and she wished she could see his face. Craved the beauty in him.

"Michael," she whispered. "You should have been named Michael. After the archangel."

His hand came up and moved her hair back. Then it planted into the mattress as he leaned into her.

"I like that name," he said softly.

She felt his lips against her throat first, a light caress of skin brushing skin. Then his mouth drew back and she knew it was parting, revealing fangs. The bite happened quickly and decisively and she jumped, much more aware this time. The pain was greater, but so was the sweetness that followed.

Claire moaned as heat swept through her body and the pull of his sucking started, his mouth finding a rhythm. She wasn't exactly sure when she touched him. It just happened. Her palms went up to his shoulders.

He was the one who jerked now and as he pulled back, the light hit part of his face. He was breathing hard, his lips parted, the tips of his fangs just barely showing. He was hungry, but shocked.

She ran her hands down his arms. The muscles were thick and cut.

"I can't stop," he said in a distorted voice.

"I just. . . want to touch you."

"I can't stop."

"I know. And I want to touch you." "Why?"

"I want to feel you." She couldn't believe it, but she tilted her head to the side, exposing her throat. "Take what you need. And I'll do the same."

This time he lunged at her, clamping a hand on the op­posite side of her throat and biting her with power. Her body surged, her breasts making contact with the hard wall of his chest, his scent roaring. Gripping his heavy upper arms, she fell backward onto the pillows and he came with her.

Michael's body was now solidly on hers, the weight of him pushing her down on the mattress. He was blocking out the candlelight so she couldn't see anything clearly, though the glow behind him grounded her against infinity. Some­how it was okay, although for a dangerous reason: The dark­ness made the sensations of him at her neck all the more vivid, from the wet cup of his warm mouth to the tugging draw of his swallows to the sexual current between them.

God help her, she liked what he was doing to her.

Claire searched out and found his hair. With a groan of satisfaction, she tangled her hands in the silken thickness, balling up huge chunks of it, feeling her way to his scalp.

As he froze, she fell still and felt the trembling that went through him. She waited to see if he would continue and he did. When the drinking started up again, the room began to spin, but she didn't care. She had him to hold on to.

At least until he pulled back quickly and left her on the bed. Retreating into the dark corner, with his chains to mark his movement, he all but disappeared on her.

Claire sat up. When she felt wetness between her breasts, she looked down. Blood was running down her chest and getting absorbed by the white robe. She barked out a curse and scrambled to cover the puncture marks he'd made.

Instantly, Michael was in front of her, peeling her hands back. "I'm sorry, I didn't finish it properly. Wait, no, don't fight me. I need to finish it. Let me finish it so I can stop the bleeding."

He captured her hands in one of his, moved her hair back, and put his mouth on her throat. His tongue came out and stroked over her skin. And stroked again. And again.

It wasn't long before she'd forgotten all about bleeding to death.

Michael let go of her hands and cradled her in his arms. With abandonment, she let her head fall back as he lapped at her and nuzzled her.

He slowed. Then stopped. "You should sleep now," he whispered.

"I'm not tired." Which was a lie.

She felt herself get repositioned against the pillow, the curtain of his hair falling forward as he made her comfort­able.

When he would have pulled away, she took his hands. "Your eyes. You're going to show me. If you're going to do what you just did to me for the next two days, you owe me this."

After a long moment, he pushed his hair back and lifted his lids slowly. His irises were brilliant blue and bright as neon; in fact, they glowed. And around their outer edge, there was a black line. His lashes were thick and long.

His stare was hypnotic. Otherworldly. Extraordinary . . . just like the rest of him.

His head lowered. "Sleep. I shall probably come to you before breakfast."

"What about you? Do you sleep?"

"Yes." When she glanced at the other side of the bed, he murmured, "Not here tonight. Worry not."

"Then where?"

"Worry not."

He left suddenly, disappearing into the darkness. Left alone in the candlelight, she felt as though she were floating on the vast bed, at sea in what was both a luscious dream and a horrid nightmare.

4

Claire woke up when she heard the shower go on. Push­ing herself off the pillows, she put her feet to the floor and decided to do some exploring while Michael was busy. Picking up the candle, she walked in the direction of the desk. Or at least where she thought the damn thing was.

Her shin found it first, banging into a stout leg. With a curse, she bent over and rubbed at what was no doubt going to be a hell of a bruise. Damn candles. Moving more care­fully, she felt around for the chair he had sat in and lowered the mostly useless light at what he'd been working on.

"Oh, my God," she whispered.

It was a portrait of her. A stunningly deft and frankly sensual portrait of her staring straight out of the page. Except he never looked at her. How did he know— "Step away from that, please," Michael said from the bathroom.

"It's beautiful." She leaned farther over the table, taking in a wealth of different drawings, all of which looked very modern in execution. Which surprised her. "They're all beautiful."

There were forests and flowers that were distorted. Vistas of the Leedses' house and grounds that were surreal. Depic­tions of the rooms inside the mansion that were all a little off, but still visually arresting. That he was a modernist was a shock, given how formally he spoke and his old-fashioned manners—

With a chill, she looked back at the drawing of her. It was a classic portrait. With classic realism.

His other work wasn't a style, was it. The depictions were skewed because he hadn't seen what he was drawing in over fifty years. It was all from a memory that hadn't been re­freshed for decades.

She picked up the portrait. It was lovingly executed, care­fully rendered. A tribute to her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at any of that," he said, right into her ear.

She gasped and wheeled around. As her heart settled, she thought, damn, he smelled good. "Why don't you want me to see it?"

"It's private."

There was a pause as something occurred to her. "Did you draw the other women?"

"You should go back to bed."

"Did you?"

"No.""

That was a relief. For reasons she didn't enjoy. "Why not?"

"They did not. . . please my eye."

Without thinking, she asked, "Were you with any of them? Did you have sex with them?"

He'd left the shower on and the raining water on marble filled the silence.

"Tell me."

"No."

"You said you won't have sex with me. Is it because you aren't. . . able to be with humans?"

"It is a matter of honor."

"So vampires. . . have sex? I mean, you can, right?" Okay, why was she going down this road? Shut up, Claire—

"I am capable of arousal. And I can . . . take myself to conclusion."

She had to close her eyes as she pictured him on the bed gloriously naked, his hair let loose all around him. She saw one of those long lean hands wrapped around himself, strok­ing up and down his shaft until he arched off the mattress and—

She heard him inhale sharply and he said, "Why does that entice you?"

Jesus, his senses were acute. And how could it not?

Although it wasn't as if he needed to know the ins and outs of her arousal. "Have you ever been with a woman?"

His lowered head went back and forth. "Most of them have been terrified of me and rightfully so. They have shrunk back from me. Especially as I. . . fed from them."

She tried to imagine what it would be like to only have contact with people who thought you were horrific. No won­der he was so self-contained and ashamed.

"Those who didn't find me . . . repugnant," he said, "those who got used to my presence, who would not have denied me . . . I found that I lacked the will. I did not find them comely."

"You have never kissed someone?"

"No. Now answer the question I asked. Why does the idea of me . . . relieving the ache arouse you?"

"Because I would like to . . ." Watch. "I think you must look beautiful when you do that. I think you . . . are beauti­ful."

He gasped.

When there was nothing but shower sounds for a long while, she said, "I 'm sorry if I shocked you."

"You find me pleasing to your eye?"

"Yes."

"Truly?" he whispered. "Yes."

"I am blessed." The chains rolled across the floor as he turned away and walked back to the bathroom.

"Michael?"

The metal links just kept going.

She went over to the bed and sat at the end of it, holding the candle with both her palms as he took his time. When the water was switched off and he finally came out from the bathroom, she said, "I'd like a shower, too."

"Avail yourself." The water came back on as if he'd willed it. "I assure you of your privacy."

She went into the bathroom and put the candle on the counter. The air was warm and moist from his shower, scented with milled soap and his dark spices. Dropping her robe and her underwear, she stepped under the spray, the water pouring over her body and soaking into her hair and cleansing her skin.

She was appalled by the lack of compassion he'd received over the last five decades. By the cruelty that his only com­panions were stolen for him, their rights violated so that he could survive. By his imprisonment that had persisted and would continue unless he was freed. By the fact that he didn't even know he was beautiful.

She hated that he had lived alone for all his life.

Getting out of the shower, she dried off, put the robe back on, and tucked her panties and her bra in the pocket.

When she was out in the bedroom, she said, "Michael, where are you?"

She went farther into the room. "Michael?"

"I am at the desk."

"Will you turn on some lights?"

Candles flared instantly.

"Thank you." She stared at him as he shuffled to hide what he'd been drawing. "I am taking you with me," she said.

His head lifted and for once so did his eyes. God, they were amazing the way they glowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"When Fletcher comes for me, I'm going to make it so you get out." Most likely by beaning the butler with the very candleholder in her hands. "I'm going to take care of him."

"No!" Michael jumped to his feet. "You must not inter­fere. You shall leave as you came, without violence."

"The hell I will. This is wrong. All of it. It's wrong for the women and for you and it's your mother's fault. Fletcher's, too."

And would that she could take things to their right and proper conclusion. That woman and her thug butler needed to be put behind bars: Claire didn't care how old they were. Unfortunately, turning them into the police because they'd kept a vampire chained in the basement wasn't exactly what you wanted to lead with when you were trying to have one of Caldwell's most prominent citizens arrested.

That would be one hell of a hard sell. So freeing him was the best course.

"I cannot let you resist," he said.

"Don't you want to get out of here?"

"They will hurt you." His eyes were grave. "I would rather be imprisoned herein for all my days than have you harmed."

She thought about Fletcher's uncanny strength given his age. And the fact that he and Miss Leeds had been stealing women for fifty years and getting away with it. If Claire disappeared because they killed her, it would be a pain to justify, but bodies could be dealt with. Sure, her assistant knew where she'd gone, but Miss Leeds and Fletcher were no doubt smooth enough to play dumb. Plus they had Claire's car keys and the signed will. They could get rid of the car and maintain Claire had come and left and whatever bad things had happened had nothing to do with them.

Man . . . she was surprised they'd picked her, for no other reason than her personality was so assertive. Then again, she'd been pretty damn ladylike around Miss Leeds. And she was an acceptable target, she supposed: a single woman traveling alone on the last, rowdy weekend of the summer.

Clearly, they had an M.O. that had worked for five de­cades. And they were going to protect themselves. By force, according to Michael's fear.

She was going to need help getting him out. Maybe she could have him—no, he probably wasn't going to be the kind of backup she needed, given the head fuck that had been done on him. Damn .. . she was going to have to come back for him and she knew who to bring. She had friends in law enforcement, the kind who would be willing to put their badges in the drawer and leave their guns on their hips. The kind who could take care of a messy scene.

The kind who could take care of Fletcher while she took care of Michael.

She was coming back for him.

"No," Michael said. "You will not remember. You cannot come back."

A fresh wave of anger hit. That he could obviously read her mind didn't piss her off as much as the idea that he'd prevent her from helping him—even if it was because he wanted to protect her. "The hell I won't remember."

"I shall take your memories—"

"No, you won't." She put her hands on her hips. "Because you're going to swear on your honor, right here, right now, that you won't."

She knew she had him because she sensed there was nothing he would deny her. And she had absolute faith that if he promised he would leave her memories alone, he would.

"Swear to it." When he stayed quiet, she pushed her wet hair back. "This needs to stop. It isn't right on so many lev­els and this time your mother picked the wrong bitch to throw down here with you. You are getting out and I'm go­ing to spring you."

The smile he gave her was wistful, just a little lift to his mouth. "You are a fighter."

"Yes. Always. And sometimes I'm a whole army. Now give me your word."

He looked around the room with yearning in his face, his eyes intent as if he were trying to see through the stone walls and the earth up to the sky that was so far away. "I have not known fresh air in . . . a long time."

"Let me help you. Give me your word."

His eyes shifted over to her. They were such kind, intel­ligent, warm eyes. The sort of eyes you would want in a lover.

Claire stopped herself because being his Good Samari­tan did not include sleeping with him. Although . . . what a night that would be. His big body was no doubt capable of—

Stop it.

"Michael? Your word. Now."

He dropped his head. "I promise."

"What. What do you promise." The lawyer in her had to nail down the specifics.

"That I shall leave you intact."

"Not good enough. Intact could mean physically or men­tally. Say to me, 'Claire, I will not take your memories of me or this experience from you.'"

"Claire . . . what a lovely name."

"Don't stall. And look at me as you say it."

After a moment, his eyes rose to hers and he didn't blink or look away. "Claire, I will not take your memories of me or what transpires from you."

""Good." She went over to the bed and lay on top of the velvet duvet. As she arranged the lapels of the robe, he sank down into the chair.

"You look exhausted," she said to his back. "Why don't you come lie down? This bed is more than big enough for the both of us."

He braced his arms against his thighs. "That would not be appropriate."

"Why?"

All the candles dimmed. "Sleep. I will come to you later."

"Michael? Michael?"

Abruptly, a wave of exhaustion came over her. As she blacked out, she had a fleeting thought that it was because he had willed it so.

Claire woke up in total darkness, with the sense that he was looming over her. She was in the bed, as if he'd tucked her between the sheets.

"Michael?" When he didn't say anything, she asked, "Is it time for you to . . . ?"

"Not yet."

He said no more and still did not move, so she whispered, "What is it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"About getting you out?"

"No. When you asked me if I would . . . lay beside you?' "Yes."

She heard him take a deep breath. "Then may I. . . join you?"

"Yes."

She moved the sheets, making room as the mattress dipped low under the great weight of him. But instead of getting in, he stayed on top of the duvet.

"Aren't you cold?" she said. "Come inside."

The hesitation didn't surprise her. The fact that he lifted the blankets did. "I will retain my robe."

The bed moved as he shifted and the sound of the chains chilled her, reminding her they were both trapped. But then she smelled dark spices and could only think of holding him. Easing herself over, she touched his arm. When he jerked then settled, she was aware she had decided to be with him.

"Have you had many lovers?" he asked.

So he knew what she wanted, too. And she had a feeling he had come to her because he was seeking it as well. Still, she wasn't sure how to answer the question without making him feel insecure.

"Have you?" he prompted.

"A few. Not many." She'd been much more interested in winning at the negotiation table than sex.

"Your first time, what was it like? Were you scared?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I wanted to get it over with. I was twenty-three. I started late."

"Is that late?" he murmured. "How old are you now?" "Thirty-two."

"How many." Now, there was a masculine demand in his voice, an edge. And she liked the contrast with his essen­tially gentle disposition.

"Only three."

"Did they . . . please you?"

"Sometimes."

"When was the last time?" The words came fast and low.

He was jealous and it shouldn't have pleased her, but it did. She wanted him to feel possessive, because she wanted to have him.

"A year ago." He exhaled as if relieved, and in the silence that followed, she became curious. "And when was the last time you . . . relieved yourself?"

He cleared his throat and she was damn sure he was blushing. "In the shower."

"Just now?" she asked with surprise.

"It was hours ago. Or at least it feels that way." He coughed a little. "After I came to you—well, during the time that I came to you, I became . . . needful. To resist, I had to leave you and that is why I didn't finish you properly. I was afraid I would . . . touch you."

"What if I wanted that?"

"I will not have sex with you."

She sat up on her elbow. "Light a candle. I need to see your face while we talk like this."

Candles flared on both sides of the bed.

He was on his back, his lids closed, his red and black hair a great sea of waves over the white pillows.

"Why won't you look at me?" she asked. "Damn it, Mi­chael. Look at me."

"I look at you all the time. When the lights are off, I watch you. I stare at you."

"So meet me in the eye now."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It hurts."

Claire ran her hand up his arm. The muscles underneath strained, his biceps thick and well defined, his triceps cut.

"It shouldn't hurt to look at a person," she said.

"It is too close for me."

She stayed silent for a moment. "Michael, I'm going to kiss you. Now." When she heard the demand in her voice she throttled back a little. She didn't want to force him. "That is, if it's okay with you? You can absolutely say no."

She could feel his body tremble, the subtle quakes trans­mitted through the mattress. "I want you to. Until I think I will suffocate from the wanting. But then you know that, don't you. You know that's why I came to you."

"Yes, I do."

He laughed a little. "That is why I am as needful of you as I am. You see everything about me and you are unafraid. And you are the only one who has ever thought of getting me out."

She moved over to him and those burning blue eyes shifted to hers.

"Raise your head," she told him. When he did, she reached out and freed his hair from the leather tie. Splaying it out fully, she marveled at the glory and the weight and the incredible colors. Then she made eye contact and started to lower her mouth to his.

His lids pulled back, his stare bursting.

She stopped.

"Why are you frightened?" she asked, smoothing his widow's peak.

He shook his head impatiently. "Just kiss me."

"Tell me why."

"What if you don't like me?"

"I will. I do." To reassure him, she dipped her head down and pressed her lips to his softly: then she stroked over his mouth. God, he was velvet. And warmth. And anxious heat.

Especially as he groaned. The sound was all male and all about sex and her body responded by going loose between her legs.

To get his mouth parted, she licked at him, becoming lost in the sensation of soft on soft, breath on breath. When he opened up, she pressed inside, meeting the hard polish of his front teeth, then sinking in. She stroked his tongue and felt his chest rise sharply.

Worried that she'd gone too far, too fast, she pulled back. "Do you want to stop—"

The growl came out of nowhere. And he moved so fast, she couldn't track him.

The room spun as he flipped her over onto her back and then straddled her, a huge male animal who didn't frighten her in the slightest. He leaned down, the weight of his chest compressing hers, his legs bracketing her hips. He was breathing hard as he put their faces together, his eyes posi­tively glowing.

"I need more," he demanded. "Do that more. Harder. Now."

Claire recovered quickly and lifted her head off the pil­low, fusing their mouths. He pushed back, forcing her down, deepening the contact. And he learned fast. In a slick pene­tration, his tongue shot into her mouth and she surged under him.

With his legs straddling her, she couldn't feel his erec­tion. And she wanted that, needed that.

She yanked her mouth away from his. "Put yourself be­tween my legs. Lie between my thighs."

He lifted up and looked down at their bodies; then he used his knee to part her and fused them together.

"Oh, God," Claire moaned as he gasped. His arousal was hot and hard through the thin layers of silk they wore. And he was massive.

"Tell me what to do," he said. "Tell me . . ."

She raised her knees up and tilted her pelvis, cradling him into her sex. "Rub yourself against me. Your hips. Move them."

He did until they were both panting and groaning and his head was buried in her neck. The silk was a conductor, an enhancement, hardly any barrier at all. And maybe because of their circumstances, because this was like a fantasy, Claire let herself go, giving herself permission for once just to feel. She didn't think of anything but the contours of his body against her own and the way his surging motion was absorbed by her core and the incredible smell of him and the heat of the sex.

When he pulled back, she was ready to have him inside. Especially as he said, "I want to see you."

"Then take off my robe."

As he reared up, he took her breath away. His hair spilled all around him in glorious waves that caught and magnified the candlelight. His face was too beautiful to be real. And at his hips, a hungry, proud length was straining behind red silk.

"You are a dream," she said.

His hands shook as they gripped the tie that was around her waist and slowly slid the two pieces apart. He took the lapels and pulled them back, revealing her breasts.

As he looked at her, she became aware that he was mak­ing a strange sound, like the deep purr of a cat.

"You are. . . resplendent," he said, his eyes wide with wonder and awe. "May I touch you?"

When she nodded, one of his long-fingered hands came out. He brushed the underside of one breast and then trav­eled up to the pink, tight crown. The instant he made contact with her nipple, she arched and closed her eyes. His touch was like a flame, weighing nothing and burning her.

"Kiss me," she said, reaching for his shoulders so she could pull him down to her breast. When he went for her mouth instead, she stopped him. "On my breasts this time. Kiss me on them. All over them. Take them into your mouth and roll the nipples with your tongue."

Michael eased himself down her body until he was eye level with one of her nipples. His expression was part ani­malistic lust, like he wanted to devour her, and part win­some, aching gratitude.

He nuzzled at her and then covered her with his lips. As she shuddered and linked her legs around the middle of his back, he sucked gently, learning her body, taking his time. Impatient, needing more, she threaded her hands through his hair and urged him on so he'd work her with power.

He didn't need much encouragement.

Sexually speaking, his natural inclination was to domi­nate. She might have started out as the teacher, but he was taking things from there, driving the sex, taking them both higher. He watched her as he suckled on her, his eyes greedy and hot, all male satisfaction as she writhed under him. And then he was kissing her again and his hands were grabbing on to her hips so he could rub his arousal into her.

They had reached the point of no return as far as she was concerned and she was about to say so when he pulled back.

His mouth was open, his fangs showing. That was when she came.

She convulsed under his body, her thighs clamping around his hips, her core pressing upward, seeking more even as it released.

She was vaguely aware as his expression changed to one of shock. Which made sense because she was shouting something incoherent and digging her nails into him.

When she'd settled down, her eyes focused.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"God . . . yes." Her voice was haggard.

"Are you sure? What happened?"

"You made me orgasm." He frowned as if he were trying to figure out whether that was a good thing. "It felt fabu­lous."

"Can you do that again?"

God, she couldn't wait. "With you? Absolutely."

His smile was guileless, nothing but a generous, kind lift to that amazing mouth of his. "I want you to do that again. You're beautiful when that happens."

"Then touch me between my legs," she whispered against his lips. "And I will."

Michael rolled off her while pressing kisses to her breasts as if he hated leaving them. Then he took his hand and moved it down over her stomach, pushing the robe com­pletely aside.

She had a passing moment of worry. She had no idea how he'd react to her naked.

He tilted his head to one side as the silk fell off her body. "You have hair there."

"Don't you?"

He shook his head. "I like yours," he murmured, running his fingers back and forth ever so lightly. "It's so soft."

"There's something even softer."

"There is?"

She spread her legs and guided him where she wanted him to go. At the first surge of contact, she bit her lip and torqued—

Michael moaned. "You're . . . slick."

"I'm ready for you."

He took his hand up and stared at his fingers, then rubbed them together. "It's like silk." Before she could say another thing, he slipped them into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he sucked at what had touched her.

Which brought her right to the edge again. "Michael. . ."

And that was when breakfast arrived.

5

As the sound of a metal gate slamming shut ricocheted around the stone walls, the smell of bacon wafted over. Michael looked torn.

"Later," she said.

"You need to eat."

"Later."

"No, now. I am. . . very hungry for you. I will come to you when you are finished." With that, he went over for the tray, which had arrived in that bread box thing by the door. He brought the food over by the bed, then dissolved into the darkness.

As the sounds of the chains ceased, Claire pulled the robe around her. It was hard to imagine that she could be frustrated after the release he'd just given her. But she was. She wanted him inside of her.

Claire lifted the lid, looked at the food, and went cold. "This is lunch."

The bacon was in a quiche and there was a glass of wine as well as a fruit tart.

"You slept through breakfast and I didn't want you to eat cold food."

Jesus, she had only a day and a half left. Under normal circumstances that would be cause for celebration, assum­ing she was going to make it out alive so she could come back for him. But the fact that she had to leave him, even if she was returning to free him, made her anxious as hell.

"Michael, I'm going to get you out of here." When there was no answer, she leapt off the bed with an urgency grounded in her fear of the future. "Did you hear me?"

She started to walk in the direction of the black corner.

"Stop," he commanded.

"No." She grabbed the candleholder that was flickering on the bedside table and held it in front of herself as she marched straight across the room.

"Come no closer—"

As the light penetrated the dark corner, she gasped. Four lengths of chain hung from the wall with shackles on the ends, two about five feet up from the bottom, two right at floor level.

"What is this?" she hissed. "Michael. . . what do they do to you here?"

"It is where I must go when my rooms are cleaned. Or when my visitors come and depart. I must lock myself in and I am released later after Fletcher makes me sleep."

"He drugs you?" Although it wasn't like she didn't be­lieve the butler was capable of that shit. "Have you ever tried to escape?"

"Enough. You will eat now."

"To hell with food. Answer me." Her sharp voice came from the desperation in her chest. She couldn't bear the idea of him suffering. "Have you tried to get out?"

"It was long ago. And only once. Never again."

"Why?"

He walked away from her, the chain on his ankle seeth­ing over the stone floor.

"Why, Michael?"

"I was punished."

Oh, God. "How."

"They tried to take something from me. In the end, I pre­vailed, but someone got hurt. So never more do I protest. Now, eat. I must come to you soon." He sat down in front of his drawings, picked up a pencil, and got to work. As quiet as he was, she knew he'd shut her out until she did what he'd asked.

He might be shy and modest, but he was not a pushover. That was for sure.

The only reason she went back to the bed and started to eat was because her mind was scheming and it was a way to pass the time. As she thought about freeing him, and wor­ried about what had been done to him, she looked over at the dark corner, then around the room.

"Please turn on all the lights."

He did so immediately and the place was flooded with illumination.

Claire shifted her eyes back to the dark corner where the chains hung from the wall. She feared retribution for him. She really did. If she left, and they knew she was coming back. . .

She couldn't leave him here. It was too dangerous if they'd already tried to hurt him once.

Back to plan A. She was taking him with her.

As she put down the fork, she knew what she had to do. Michael would have to play a small role; she would take care of everything else. But he was coming with her. There was no way she would risk leaving him here.

She was wiping her mouth when she realized there was only one plate.

"Was this for both of us?" she asked, suddenly horrified. She'd finished a good half of the quiche.

"No. Just for you." He looked over his shoulder. "Please, don't stop. I want you to be full."

As she started in again with the food, he seemed to take a disproportionate happiness in her eating, practically glow­ing with satisfaction. And it was a strange, freeing joy to be encouraged like that. Accepted like that. So much of the dating scene in Manhattan was about staying sharp and keeping tight: being thin and in fashion while sitting across from a professional suit and tie. Keeping the conversation going through talk about Broadway plays and what was in the Times and who you knew. One-upping each other in a sophisticated way.

When Claire put the plate back on the tray, she was full. Satisfied. Relaxed in spite of the horrible situation. Sleep tug­ged at her like a child on a pant leg, wanting to embrace her.

She closed her eyes, and shortly thereafter all but one of the candles went out and she felt the bed moving.

Michael's voice was in her ear. "I need to take from you."

She offered her neck without reservation and urged him on top of her. With a groan, he sank his fangs into her throat and positioned himself as she'd taught him to—between her thighs, his erection pushing against her core. She shifted beneath him, loosened her robe, and he took to the invita­tion with greed. His hands traveled over her skin, working downward in strokes with his warm, male palm.

As he slipped his fingers between her legs, he nursed at her throat.

Her orgasms shattered her, the combination of the bite and the sexual power of him too much to bear and how glo­rious that was.

When he finally released her neck, he licked at her for some time and she wanted more. So did he. His mouth went to her breasts and she shamelessly pushed him lower, down the smooth skin of her stomach. She was delirious, blissed out, coasting on the heat between them.

She heard him gasp and knew he was looking at her core.

"You are delicate," he whispered. "And you glisten."

"Because of you."

"Where would a man . . . go?"

She couldn't believe he didn't have a clue, but then how would he? The kind of books he read couldn't have included female sexual anatomy.

She guided one of his fingers inside herself, arching as he penetrated her. "Here.. ." Her breath pumped harder. "Deep. In here."

He groaned and shut his eyes as if overwhelmed. In a very good way. "But you are small. You hold me so tightly now and yet I am much . . . larger where I am most male."

"Believe me, you would fit." She moved against his hand, pleasuring herself, wondering when the last time her inner harlot had come out.

Never.

He watched her body, her face, his eyes everywhere. His awe and fascination made it new for her, too.

"I find I want. . ." He cleared his throat. "I fear I have a. . . perversion."

"What is it?"

"I want to kiss you here," he said, running his thumb around her. "Because I want to swallow you."

"Then do it."

His eyes flared. "You would let me?"

"Oh, yes." She laid her knees wide, undulating her hips. "And it's not perverse."

His hands smoothed the insides of her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth dipped in for a kiss. He moaned into her flesh at the first contact of their lips, and his huge body shuddered, the bed magnifying the shimmying movement so that his erotic anticipation added to hers. He was slow at first, learning carefully, his eyes looking up over her mound and past her belly and breasts to her face. He was watching her to make sure he was doing it right. And was he ever.

"Yes . . ." she said hoarsely. "God, yes, I love it."

He lifted his head and smiled at her; then he slipped his arms under her legs and lapped at her gently, slowly. At first. Soon, he was driving her hard, taking over until that purring sound he made became wild and cut through the darkness, the rhythmic pump paralleling the rush of her blood. There was no end to pleasure, no end to that swirling, darting tongue of his or his pliant lips or his hot breath against her or the orgasms she had.

When he finally lifted his head, she nearly wept.

She reached up and pulled him higher, ready to return the favor. Except, as she reached for the belt on his robe, he grabbed her hands.

"No."

She could see his erection. The silk outlined its thick­ness. "I want to—"

"No." His voice shot through the room and he shied away from her, shied away from what they both needed.

"We don't have to . . . make love." When he said nothing, she murmured, "Michael, you must be aching by now."

"I will ease myself."

"Let me ease you."

"No!" He shook his head sharply. Then rubbed his face. "Forgive me my short temper."

Considering how sexed up he must be, it was perfectly reasonable. "Just help me understand why."

"You will try to negotiate the reason."

"Because I want to be with you. I want to make you feel good."

"That cannot be."

He started to get off the bed.

"Don't you do this," she snapped. "Don't shut me out."

As Michael froze, she sat up and wrapped her arms around him. "I swear I will go slowly. We can stop whenever you want."

"You will not . . . want what I have."

"Don't make up my mind for me. And if you're embar­rassed, get rid of all the light."

After a moment, the room plunged into darkness.

She kissed his shoulder and eased him back to the pil­lows. Along the way, she found the tie to his robe and slipped it free.

His breath was coming in short bursts as she put her palms on his chest and stroked the pads of pectorals and his tight nipples. She went lower, on to his ribbed stomach, the muscles clenching under his smooth, hairless skin—

She ran into the head of his erection and they both gasped.

Dear . . . Lord. It hadn't dawned on her that it would be that long. But then . . . he was big all over.

Michael jerked and hissed as she gripped him with her hand. God, he was too thick for her to close her palm around, but she knew how to treat him right. She stroked him up and down and he moaned and worked his hips instinctually.

"I am . . ." He made an incoherent noise. "I am . . . so close. Already so close."

She eased off, sweeping down to the base of him and—

Claire froze. And he stopped breathing.

There was something wrong. An abnormal ridge that went down to his—

"Oh, Jesus . . . Michael."

He pushed her hand away.

"You needn't finish me," he rasped.

She threw herself on top of him to keep him from run­ning. "They tried to castrate you."

Thank God they hadn't succeeded. "Why? Why did they—"

His body trembled, but not from anything sexual this time. "Mother thought. . . it would help control me. But I couldn't let them do it. I hurt the doctor. Badly. That was when the chains came." He forced her off him and she heard the rustle of his robe going back on. "I am dangerous."

Claire's throat was so tight she could barely speak. "Mi­chael—"

"But I would never hurt you."

"I know. I don't doubt that."

He was silent for a time. "I don't want you to see what I look like."

"I don't care about a scar. I only care that it's you. That is what matters." She reached her hand out through the dark­ness. When it found his shoulder, he jumped. "I want to keep going. I want my mouth on you, just like you wanted your mouth on me."

There was a long silence.

"I fear you," he whispered.

"Dear Lord, why?"

"Because I want you to . . . do what you said. I want. . . you."

"Then lie down again. Nothing that passes between us will ever be wrong. Come back to me."

She found his hands and tugged at them until he eased back into the pillows. Then she split the robe below the tie and took him into her hand. He was partially erect and he swelled against her palm, instantly hardening to stone. When she went down on him, the blunt tip of him parting her lips and filling her mouth, he called out her name and shoved into the mattress with his heels, his body going rigid.

He tried to pull her away. "I shall finish in your—"

"No, you won't. You're going to finish somewhere else." She found a rhythm with her hand and sucked his head and felt him shake and sweat and . . .

And when he was wild and raw, she released him and crawled up his chest.

"Make love with me, Michael. Finish inside me."

He groaned. "You're so small—"

She straddled his hips, ready to join them, but then she hesitated as he went totally still. God, now she knew what decent men felt like, the disquiet before taking someone for their first time. She didn't want to force him into it. She was desperate for him but only if it really felt right on both sides.

"Michael?" she said softly. "Are you okay?" He wasn't and the length of time it took him to say yes proved it.

"If you think I'm taking this too f—"

His arms shot around her. "What if I hurt you?"

"Is that your only concern?"

"Yes."

"You won't. I promise you." She stroked his chest. "I'm going to be fine."

"Then . . . please. Take me."

Thank God . . . "Let's roll over. You'll like it better that way." Considering his dominant streak, she knew that he'd get into being in control. "If you're on top, you can drive the—"

Man, he moved fast. She was on her back in a split sec­ond. But she moved just as quick, reaching in between them and positioning him against her.

"Push with your hips, Michael." He did and . . . "Oh, Christ."

"Oh . . ." he groaned.

She grabbed on to him and arched. He was huge inside of her and her thighs tightened up around his lower body as she adjusted.

"Do I pain you?" he grunted.

"You feel beautiful." She encouraged him into a rhythm of surges and withdrawals, a slow erotic dance she partnered perfectly. It was glorious, his body so heavy on top of her, his skin so hot, his muscles hard and fluid. "More, Michael. I'm not going to break. You can't hurt me."

He dug in and started to pound and suddenly she smelled something in the air, something coming off his body. The dark scent was his natural fragrance, only much, much stronger and with a different underlay that was all about sex. As he went wild on top of her, his hair tangling around them, his lips finding hers, his tongue in her mouth, she had a passing thought that nothing in her life would ever be the same. Something was transferring between them, a trade made and accepted—she just didn't know what she was get­ting or what exactly she was giving up.

It all felt right, though.

And then her body was lost, shooting over the edge, fall­ing in a shower of stars. Dimly, she heard Michael roar and he seized up, jerking once and then again and then many more times.

When they finished, he laid on top of her, panting, and she ran her hands up his sweat-beaded shoulders.

She smiled, sated. Content. "Was that—"

He pushed off of her and leaped from the bed, the chains rattling fast over the floor. A moment later, the water came on in the shower.

After a good dose of numb shock wore off, Claire wrapped her body in blankets and curled into herself. Clearly, she'd read the wonder of them being together wrong. He was in a hurry to clean her off of him.

Then she heard the sobs.

Or what sounded like them.

Claire sat up slowly, trying to sift through the rush of the water and isolate what her ear had picked up on. She wasn't sure what she was hearing so she put on her robe and got out of bed, making her way to the bathroom by using the book­cases as a guide. When she was at the doorway, she hesi­tated with her hand on the smooth jamb.

"Michael?" she said softly.

He let out a shout of surprise, then barked, "Go back to bed."

"What happened?"

"I beg you. . .." His voice broke.

"Michael, it's okay if you didn't like—" "Leave me."

The hell she would. Stumbling forward, she put her hands out into the infinite darkness, moving toward the sound of the running water. When her palms hit the spray she stopped.

God, what if she had done some harm to him? Pushed this innocent recluse too far, too hard?

"Talk to me, Michael." When there was nothing but run­ning water, she felt tears come to her own eyes. "I'm sorry I made us do that."

"I didn't know it would feel so . . ." He cleared his throat. "I am shattered. Apart in my skin. I shall never be whole again. It was so beautiful."

Claire sagged. At least he wasn't upset because he'd found it unappealing. "We need to lie down together."

"Whatever shall I do when you leave?"

"You're not staying here, remember?"

"But I am. I must. And you must go."

Fear shrunk her skin tight. "Not going to happen. That's not what we agreed to."

He shut off the shower, and as the water dripped, he took a deep breath of defeat. "You must be reasonable—"

"I am damned reasonable. I'm a lawyer. Reasoning's what I do." She reached out for him, but met only marble tile. Turning blindly, hands in front of her, she searched for him and got tangled in the darkness as surely as if it were vines. She had a feeling he was deliberately staying away from her. "Will you quit ghosting around?"

He laughed a little. "You are so . . . assertive."

"I am."

The sound of a towel being worked over a body called her to the left, but the flapping moved as she went toward it. "Stop that."

Michael's voice came from behind her. "Were the men who loved you that way, too? Powerful and tenacious? As you were with me?"

"Can you dematerialize or something? How can you move so fast?"

"Tell me about the men who loved you. Were they as strong as you?"

She thought of Mick Rhodes, her childhood friend who was also a partner at WN&S. "Ah . . . one of them was. The others, no. And they didn't love me. Look, let's focus on the now, okay? Where are you?"

"Why were you intimate with them, then? If they didn't return your love?"

"I wasn't in love with them, either. It was just sex." In the silence that followed, an odd kind of chill set up shop in her spine. "Michael? Michael?"

"I'm afraid I feel rather foolish."

"How so?" she asked cautiously.

Somehow she knew when he left the bathroom; it was as if her body sensed his or something. She fumbled her way back out into the bigger space. "Michael?"

"I've behaved in a childish manner, haven't I?" His voice was calm and level now. Horribly so. "To have cried over something that was . . . quite normal for you."

"Oh, God, Michael, no." Normal? That hadn't been nor­mal. Not at all. "I feel like crying right now myself be­cause—"

"So you pity me, do you? You shouldn't. There is no crime in not feeling as I do—"

"Shut up. Right now." She wanted to point her forefinger at him, but wasn't exactly sure which direction to target. "I'm not into pity and I don't lie. Those other men are not you. They have nothing to do with us."

So they were an "us" now, were they? she thought.

"Michael, I know this is all so hard for you, and probably throwing in the sex on top of everything wasn't such a great idea. I can also understand why getting out of here is scary. But you're not alone. We're going to do this together."

She had no idea how it was going to work out or where they would go, but the commitment had been made. With their minds. With their bodies.

Well, wasn't she a romantic all of a sudden. All her life she had mocked the whole consummating a marriage thing. Sex, to her, was just sex. Now, though, she knew differently. She felt for no good reason that they were tied together. It made no sense, but the bond was there and the physical inti­macy had been part of it.

His arms came around her from behind. "It does make sense. I feel the same."

She held on to his hands and leaned into him. "I don't know where we'll end up. But I'm going to take care of you."

His voice was low, his vow grave. "And I'm going to do the same for you."

They stayed that way, linked in the darkness, embracing. His body was warm against her back, and when he shifted closer, she felt his arousal. She moved her hips, rubbing against him.

"I want you," she said.

His exhaled breath shot into her ear. "You would be . . . ready again so soon?"

"Usually the guy is the one who needs to recover."

"Oh. Well, I think I could do that all night long . . . . "

And as it turned out, he could.

They made love so many times, the sex blurred together into one seamless erotic episode that lasted . . . God, hours and hours. Through the second dinner. Into the night.

Michael's body was capable of orgasm again about ten minutes after he came and he was driven to explore all the carnal joys of sex. He took her every way possible, and as he got more and more comfortable, that domination strain came out in him to a greater extent. No matter how he started them off, he always ended with her on the bottom, either face up or down. He liked to hold her in place with his weight, and sometimes with his hands, making her submit to him. Especially as he drank from her throat.

And she loved it, all of it. The way he overpowered her, the feel of him thick inside of her, the clamped seal of his mouth on her throat. It wasn't until the penetrations became painful for her that she could bear to stop him and she was frustrated that she couldn't keep going. She wanted more of that sweet suffocation underneath his surging body, more of his power.

In some ways, although she hadn't known it until Mi­chael, she'd felt like a man in a woman's body. Her attitude, her drive, her edge, all those warrior components of her per­sonality, had never really fit the body she was in, and her interests had never been of the female variety, even when she was young.

But with Michael's massive body on her, his sex pushed deep into her, his hard muscles straining, she gave way and, in doing so, came together within herself. She was strong and weak and powerful and submissive; she was all the yins and yangs, just as everyone was. And the warmth she felt for him was transformative, changing the way she saw things: those happy, mothering women with baby food on their blouses who she'd never understood? Those men who still got a dopey expression on their faces when they talked about their wives—even after having been married for fifty years? Those people who had so many children their houses were demilitarized zones—and yet who couldn't wait for Christ­mas so they could spend time with their families?

Well, she got it now. Chaos and love went hand in hand and oh, the glorious grace of the world because of it.

The thought had her frowning. How would the outside treat him? How would he fare out of this prison? Where would he go during the day? What would he do?

Her penthouse apartment with all those windows was a no-go. She would have to buy them another place. A house. In Greenwich or somewhere close to the city. She would make him a bedroom in the cellar where he could stay.

Except. . . wasn't that just another cell? Wasn't she just trapping him in her own way? Because what she saw on the other side was him sequestered away, waiting for her to come to him. Didn't he deserve to experience life? On his own? Perhaps even with his own kind?

How would he find them?

Michael stirred against her naked body. As he kissed her collarbone, he said, "I wish you . . ."

"What?"

"I wish you fed as I do. I would like to give you some­thing of myself."

"You have given me—"

"I shall treasure this night always."

She frowned. "There are going to be others."

"This was particularly special."

Well, of course it was. It had been his first time, Claire thought with a heated face. "I think it was, too."

That was when the final meal came. Breakfast.

Michael got up and brought the silver tray to her. As he set it down, the bedside candle flared, and in the soft light, she watched him run his fingertip over the silver fork's or­nate handle.

It was close to breakout time, she thought. And he knew it, too.

Claire stood, took his hand, and led him into the bath­room. After she turned the shower on, she spoke in a hush.

"Tell me the procedure. What happens when he comes for the women?"

Michael seemed confused, but then got with the pro­gram. "After the meal, I go to the corner and secure myself. He checks through the hole in the door. The woman is on the bed, just as she came. He rolls the cart in, moves her onto it, and then departs. Later, I am drugged. He releases the chains. And it is done."

"What do the women look like?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are they out of it? How aware are they? What's their af­fect?"

"They are still. Their eyes are open, but they seem un­aware of their surroundings."

"So the food is drugged. That food is drugged." Which was fine. She could pull off the out-of-it thing with no prob­lem. "How do you know when he's coming?"

"He arrives when I put the tray back out and secure my­self."

She took a deep breath. "Here's what we're going to do. I want you to chain yourself up, but leave one of the wrist locks loose—"

"I cannot do that. There are sensors. I'm not sure how, but he knows. Last year one was loose because part of my sleeve got caught in it. He knew it and made me fix it before he came in."

Damn it. She was going to have to do this on her own, then. Her advantage would be the fact that Fletcher had to come over and pick her up.

Claire waited a little bit longer then shut off the water. After she flapped the towel around in the darkness, she led Michael back out to the bedroom.

She took the silver fork off the tray and put it in the pocket of her robe—then thought better of it. If she were Fletcher, she would count the silverware to make sure none of it would be used as a weapon.

Claire glanced over to the drawing table. Bingo.

She picked up the tray and carried it into the bathroom where she shoveled most of the food into the toilet and flushed. Then she headed back over to Michael. On the way past his table, she took one of his sharpest pencils and put it in her robe's pocket.

She stopped in front of him and held out the tray. "It's time."

His eyes lifted to hers and they shimmered for a reason other than their extraordinary color. Tears hovered at the base of his thick lashes.

She put the tray on the bedside table and wrapped her arms around him, but somehow he ended up holding her. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to take care of you."

As he looked down into her face, he whispered, "I love you."

"Oh, God . . . I love you—"

"And I will miss you forever."

One of his tears hit her cheek as she started to push free in a panic. But then he passed his hand before her face and all went blank.

6

Three weeks later. . .

Claire stared out of her office window at the painfully clear autumn sky. The sunlight was so bright and the air so dry that the hard edges of the skyscrapers were honed to something like optical knives, the buildings cutting into her sight, giving her a headache. Man, she was tired. "What the hell are you doing?"

She swiveled away from the view and looked across her desk. "Oh, Mick. It's you."

Mick Rhodes, former lover, partner in the firm, all-around good guy, took up the whole space between her doorjambs. "You're leaving?" When she just nodded, he shook his head. "You're not pulling out. You can't walk away. What the hell are—"

"I've lost the burn, Mick."

"Since when? Back at the end of August you were eating opposing counsel for lunch on the Technitron merger!"

"I'm not hungry anymore." Which was both a profes­sional figurative and a literal truth. She hadn't had any ap­petite for the last week.

Mick yanked his red tie loose and shut the door behind himself. "So take a vacation. Take a month. But don't throw your whole career in the shitter over what is just a case of the momentary burnouts. So Technitron didn't go through. There'll be other deals."

Absently, she listened to the sound of the phone ringing on Martha's desk just out in the hall. And the talk of other attorneys as they hurried by her. And the bird-pecking sounds of a printer.

"I've always loved your name," she said softly. "Did I ever tell you that?"

Mick's eyes popped like she was nuts. Well, natch on that. She'd been feeling nuts ever since Labor Day week­end when instead of working, she'd slept for three days straight.

Truth was, she was worried that she was why the Techni­tron deal hadn't gone through. Ever since that lost weekend, she'd been fuzzy. Soft. Anxious and distracted.

"Claire, maybe you should talk with—"

She shook her head. "Except why do you use Mick? I've never known you as anything other than Mick. Michael is such a . . . beautiful name."

"Um, yeah. Listen, I really think you should talk with someone."

He was probably right. At night, she couldn't sleep be­cause she was plagued by dreams and during the day she was preoccupied by a depression for which there was no basis. Sure, Technitron had fallen apart, and maybe some of it was her fault, but that just couldn't account for her prevail­ing listlessness or the ache in the center of her chest.

Martha knocked and put her head in. "Excuse me, your doctor's on line two and I thought you might want to know that old Miss Leeds died. Her butler left a message Tuesday that got lost in the system. I only found it now."

Miss Leeds.

Claire put her hand up to her head as a wave of disassoci­ated hatred washed through her and her temples started to pound. "Ah, thanks, Martha. Mick, I'll talk to you later. I think Friday's my last day, by the way. I haven't totally decided."

"What? You can't take off that fast."

"I've drafted a list of my files and clients and the status of everything. I'll let the rest of you fight over them."

"Jesus Christ, Claire—"

"Shut the door on your way out. And Martha, please find out the where and when on Miss Leeds's funeral, please."

When she was alone, she picked up the phone. "This is Claire Stroughton."

"Please hold for Dr. Hughes."

Claire frowned and wondered what she needed to talk to the doctor about. The tests she'd had done yesterday weren't supposed to be back for several days—

"Hi, Claire." Emily Hughes was typically to the point. Which was why Claire liked her. "I know you're busy so I won't waste your time. You're pregnant. Which is why you've been feeling tired and nauseated."

Claire blinked. Then rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not."

"You're about three to four weeks along."

"Not possible."

"I know you're on the Pill. But the antibiotics you took at the end of August for that cold could have reduced its effec­tiveness—"

"It's not possible because I haven't had sex." Well, at least not in real life. Her dreams had been hot as hell lately and probably part of the reason why she was so exhausted. She kept waking up in the middle of the night, writhing, covered in sweat and wet between her legs. Try as she might she could never remember what her dream lover looked like, but God, he made her feel spectacular—at least until the end of the fantasies. They always parted at the end and she always woke up in tears.

"Claire, you can become pregnant without technically having sex."

"Okay, let me be more clear. I haven't been with a man in over a year. So I'm not pregnant. Your back room must have gotten my blood sample mixed up with someone else's. It is the only logical explanation. Because, trust me, I would have remembered having sex."

There was a long pause. "Would you mind coming down and giving another sample?"

"No problem. I'll stop by tomorrow."

When she hung up, Claire looked around her office and imagined herself taking down her diplomas from Harvard and Yale. She wasn't sure where she would go. Maybe upstate. Caldwell, for instance, was really nice. And it wasn't like she needed to work. She had plenty of money, and if she got bored she could put her shingle out and do a little legal work for private individuals. She was good at wills and anyone with half a brain could close a residential real estate deal.

Martha knocked and stuck her head in again. "Miss Leeds's funeral starts in a half hour, but it's private. There's a reception afterward at the estate, though, which you could make if you left now."

Did she really feel like driving all the way up to Caldwell? For a dead client who, for some reason, she hated now?

God, she had no clue why she absolutely despised poor, elderly, nutty Miss Leeds.

Martha pushed her sleek silver glasses up on her nose. "Claire . . . you look like hell. Don't go."

Except she couldn't not go. Even though her head throbbed to the beat of her heart and her stomach was rolling, there was no way she wasn't making the drive. She had to get there.

"Call for my car. I'm going to Caldwell."

Claire parked at the end of the Leedses' estate driveway, capping off a line of some fifty cars that stretched all the way up to the mansion. She didn't use the valets because she wasn't going to stay long and there was no reason to wait for someone to bring the Mercedes around. Plus she needed a little fresh air.

And, as it turned out, a bottle of aspirin. The moment she stepped out of the sedan and looked up at the big stone house, her head screamed with pain. Sagging against the Mercedes's hard body, she took shallow breaths as dread washed through her.

Evil was in that house. There was evil in that house.

"Ma'am? You okay?"

It was one of the parking attendants. A young kid of about twenty or so, dressed in a white polo shirt that had mcclane's parking on the breast in red thread.

"I'm fine." She carefully leaned in for her B irk in then shut her door. When she turned to smile at the guy, he was looking at her funny, like she was about to faint and he was praying she didn't on his watch.

"Ah, ma'am, I'm just getting this car right here." He nod­ded to the Lexus in front of her. "Do you want a ride up to the house in it?"

"Thanks, but I'll just walk up."

"Okay . . . if you're sure."

She went up the drive, eyes fixated on the gray stone house. She was shaking by the time she stepped up to the front door and lifted the knocker. Light-headed, weak, she felt as though she had the flu again; with hot and cold waves assaulting her body and her head pounding.

The door was opened by Fletcher.

Claire stumbled back in the face of the old man, her panic going out of control for absolutely no good reason.

Except abruptly she was rescued.

Her lawyer instincts, the ones that made her so good at confronting opposing counsel, the ones that made her a killer negotiator, the ones that had kicked in time after time when she couldn't afford to have her emotions show . . . her instincts clamped down on the out-of-the-blue panic and dread and calmed her instantly.

You never show weakness to your enemy. Ever.

Although why the hell an elderly butler would engender such a reaction, who the hell knew? Still, she was grateful because at least she didn't feel like she was going to pass out anymore. Once fogged, now she was clear.

Claire smiled coolly and extended her hand, the sounds of the wake inside bubbling in her ears.

"I'm sorry for your loss. And I brought the will." She pat­ted her shoulder bag.

"Thank you, Miss Stroughton." Fletcher looked down, his drooping eyes even lower than usual. "I shall miss her."

"We can go over the will next week or do it after the wake. Whatever is best for you."

He nodded. "Tonight would be best. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

"No problem." Claire flashed him her teeth and gripped the straps on her bag tightly. As she walked into the foyer, the fact that she wanted to use some of Hermes's best as a weapon against him was a shocker.

Claire joined the throng of people milling about between the dining room and the living room. She nodded to a num­ber of folks, several of whom were CEOs of the companies the Leeds family had interests in and Claire's firm repre­sented. Out of the rest of the hundred or so men and women, she guessed at least half were senior staff from various phi­lanthropies. No doubt anticipating a huge payday.

As she bumped shoulders and declined passed hors d'oeuvres and tried to figure out why she was in battle mode when there was nothing to fight against, her eyes kept going over to the grand staircase. There was something about it. . . something . . . behind it.

Working her way through the crowd, she went over to the foot of the great, rising spread of steps. Putting her hand on the ornate balustrade, a voice came into her head, one that overrode all the noise of talk and her headache and her urge to kill Fletcher.

Behind the stairs. Go behind the stairs. Find the elevator.

Without stopping to wonder how she knew what was back there, she slipped around to the flank of the staircase and found her way into a little alcove . . .

Where there was an elevator. An old-fashioned brass and glass one.

Take it to the basement.

The voice was undeniable and she reached out to slide the filigreed gate wide. Just before she stepped in she looked up. There was a lightbulb mounted at the top.

If she used the lift, that thing was going to send a signal. And her instincts told her to hide her tracks. If Fletcher knew where she was going, she wouldn't be able to . . .

Well, shit, she didn't know what she was doing. The only thing that was clear was that she had to get down to the basement without him knowing.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw a door beneath the curving staircase and went over to it. There was a brass bolt lock at the top and she flipped it free before trying the handle.

Pay dirt.

On the other side, there was a set of rough stairs, lit by cloudy, ancient yellow lightbulbs. She glanced behind her. No one was paying any attention to her and more important, Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.

Slipping into the stairwell, she closed the door after her and descended, her heels making a clipping sound that echoed around her.

Damn, they were loud.

She paused and removed her pumps, slipping them into the Birkin. Making no noise now, she moved even faster, her instincts on high alert. God, the staircase went on forever, its stone walls and floor reminding her of an Egyptian pyramid, and she felt like she was halfway to China before she came to the first landing. And still there was farther to go.

As she went down, the temperature dropped, which was good. The cooler it got, the more focused she became until her headache was gone and her body was nothing but har­nessed energy. She felt as if she were on a rescue mission, although damned if she knew who or what she was spring­ing from the basement.

The stairs dumped out into a corridor made of the same stone as the rest of the house. Lights mounted in the ceiling glowed dimly, barely penetrating the darkness.

Did she go left or right? To the left, there was just more hallway. To the right. .. there was just more hallway.

Go to the right.

She went down about fifty yards, maybe seventy-five, her stockinged feet quiet, the only sounds the bumping of her bag on her ribs and the rustle of her clothes. She was about to lose hope and turn back when she found . . . a huge door. The thing was like what you'd expect to run across in a cas­tle's dungeon, all studded with iron supports and with a slid­ing bar lock as thick as her thigh.

The moment she saw the thing, she started to weep un­controllably.

Sobbing, she walked up to the stout oak panels. At about eye level, there was a peephole of some sort. She arched up onto her tiptoes and looked—

"You shouldn't be down here."

She wheeled around. Fletcher was standing right behind her, one of his arms discreetly behind his back.

Claire wiped her eyes. "I'm lost."

"Yes, you are."

She slipped one hand into her shoulder bag and another into her suit jacket pocket.

"Why did you come down here?" the butler asked, step­ping nearer.

"I wasn't feeling well. When I found the door under the stairs, I wanted to get away from the crowd so I just wan­dered down here."

"Instead of going out to the gardens?"

"There were people there. A lot of them."

He wasn't buying it and Claire didn't care. She needed him to get just a little closer.

"Why didn't you go into one of the drawing rooms?"

When he got in range, she flipped her pump out of her bag and sent it skittering across the stone floor to the left. Fletcher pivoted to look at the sound and she took out the Mace that was on her key ring and put it to his eye level—so when he turned back and lifted up the hypodermic syringe he held in his palm, she nailed him right in the face.

With a howl, he dropped what he'd been going to use against her and shielded his eyes, stumbling backward until he banged into the far wall.

Mace was illegal in New York, of course. And thank God that was one law she'd been breaking for the last ten years.

Moving fast, Claire grabbed the needle, shoved it into the butler's upper arm, and pushed the plunger down hard. Fletcher squeaked then slumped into a heap on the stone floor.

She didn't know whether he was dead or tranquilized so she had no idea how much time she had. Running for the prison door, she broke two nails as she struggled to get the bar to slide free.

Urgency made her frantic, giving her the strength to move what felt like hundreds of pounds of iron up and back. When the barricade was out of the way, she gripped the toggle handle, wrenched it downward, and put her whole body into dragging the door open.

Candlelight. Books. A dark, lovely scent. . .

Her eyes shot across the space. To a man who was rising up in utter disbelief from a desk full of. . . drawings of her.

Claire's head swam, a screaming pain robbing her of sight. Her body sagged and then her knees gave out altogether, the stone floor no cushion whatsoever as she went down.

At once strong arms were around her, picking her up, carrying her over to . . . a bed with a velvet duvet and pil­lows as soft as a dove's wing.

She looked up at the man and tears poured from her eyes as she touched his face. God, his beautiful face was that of her dream lover, the one who had been keeping her up at night, the one she had been mourning during the day.

"How did you come back?" he asked.

"Who are you?"

He smiled. "My name is Michael."

The pain in her temples abruptly eased . . . and then the memories came to her, a rapid-fire collage of images and feelings and smells and tastes. . . all of Michael and her, together in this room.

Claire grabbed on to him and buried her face in his hair, sobbing at the near miss, at the fact that had Miss Leeds not died now, Claire might never have come back because she'd been determined to leave the firm.

And then she got pissed and shoved him back. "Why the hell did you do that! Why did you let me go!" She punched at his chest. "You let me go!"

"I'm sorry, my love—"

"Don't 'my love' me!" She was going to keep the tirade going when it occurred to her that the butler might only be temporarily incapacitated. She had no idea what had been in that syringe—and the bastard had that odd strength of his.

Claire hugged Michael tightly and forced herself to calm down. "Okay . . . all right. . . look, we're going to fight about this later. Right now, you're coming with me."

Although how was she going to get him out of the house? Hell, how was she going to get herself up and moving? The headache was gone but she felt dizzy—

Holy shit. She really was pregnant.

Claire looked at Michael. "I love you."

His face transformed, the stress leaving it, a love so deep and strong flooding into his handsome features that the an­gelic sight of him burned her eyes. "I am not worthy, but so grateful—"

"With all love and affection, shut up with that 'you're not worthy' crap. Now help me off this bed." She swayed a little as they stood up; then she looked at the shackle on his ankle. "We've got to get that thing off of you."

Michael stepped back and shook his head. "I can't go. I can't leave. They won't let me. Fletcher and Mother—"

"Your mother is dead," she said as gently as she could— considering she wanted to dig up that woman and kill her all over again.

Michael paled. Blinked a number of times.

"And Fletcher is out cold in the hall on the floor." When he didn't say anything, she took his hands in hers. "Michael, I want to help you with what you're feeling right now, but we don't have the time. We need to get you out of here. I need you to focus."

"I. . . where will I go?"

"You're coming to live with me. If you want. And even if you don't want that, you'll be free. To do what you wish."

His eyes bounced around the room, clinging to the bed and the books.

He was going to fight to stay, she thought. Which was a product of his decades of isolation and abuse. She needed to shake him up somehow—

She took his palm and placed it on her belly. "Michael, while I was with you, we created something together. A baby. It's in me. Your child is in me. I need you to come with me. With . . . us."

He went dead pale. And then . . .

Well, the change in him would have been scary if she hadn't trusted him implicitly not to hurt her. He seemed to grow bigger even though his body stayed the same, his eyes narrowing, his face becoming a mask of male authority . . . and rank aggression.

"My baby? My child?"

She nodded even though she was worried now whether telling him was the right thing—

He grabbed on to her and pulled her in so tight her bones bent. As he buried his head in her hair, his voice dropped to a growl.

"Mine," he said. "You are mine. Always."

Claire laughed a little. So much for her worrying about him wanting to experience life without her. "Good. I guess we're engaged. Now move it. We need to get out of here."

"Are you well? First, tell me if you are well?"

"Fine as far as I know. I just found out."

"Are you sure?"

"I can do anything I want. I'm young and healthy." She put her hand on his face. "We need to go. We really need to go."

Michael nodded and released her. Walking calmly, he went over to where the chain around his ankle was anchored to the wall and pulled the goddamn thing out with a vicious yank. A whole hunk of masonry came with it, something about the size of a head, and Michael swung the ball into the wall, shattering it free.

Then he came back to her like it was all nothing doing.

"Jesus Christ! Why didn't you do that before?"

"I had nowhere to go. No better place to be." He looked at his books one last time; then he picked up the chain, coiled it around his arm, and gallantly put his arm around her. "Let us go."

They stepped through the door together. Fletcher was still down on the stone floor, but his eyes were open and blinking slowly.

"Shit," she said as Michael looked at the butler. After running a quick analysis in her head, she muttered, "Let's just leave him here."

After all, considering the man had abducted about fifty women and had unlawfully imprisoned his employer's son for half a century, it was unlikely he was going to try to come after them legally. And asking Michael to kill the guy was too horrific to contemplate. Probably because Michael would do that if she asked him to.

She tugged on her man's arm. "Come on. Let's go . . ." The wake upstairs was a complication. "Shit, there are about a hundred people in the house. How can we—"

Michael snapped to attention. "I know a way out. From when I was a boy. We go this way."

They'd gone about ten yards when she spun around. The needle. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic needle. In the highly unlikely event Fletcher decided to come after her, it would be harder without that kind of evidence. And her shoe. She had to get her shoe.

Best to cover all tracks.

"Wait!" She ran back. Searched for the thing. Found it still sticking out of the man's arm. He looked up at her as she yanked it out and put it into her shoulder bag. His mouth was moving. Gaping, like a fish's.

After grabbing her shoe, she headed back for Michael, but her legs were like rubber.

"You are weak," he said, frowning.

"I'm fine—"

He scooped her up and started walking twice as fast as she could, his huge strides eating up the distance of the basement corridors. He moved quickly and decisively, which surprised her a little and reminded her that sweet-natured or not, he was a man, a man who had his woman in his arms. And God, he was strong. He was carrying her full weight in addition to however much that chain weighed and none of it seemed to slow him down in the slightest.

When he got to a sturdy door down at the far, far end of the basement's hallway, he leaned to the side and tried the handle. When it refused to budge, he took two steps back, punched his foot flat into the thing and busted it wide.

"Christ," she said. "You make the Terminator look like a two-year-old."

"What's a terminator?"

"Later."

Outside, the cool night air rushed at them and Michael faltered, his eyes peeling wide. He started to breathe heav­ily, like he was having a panic attack.

"Put me down," she said softly, knowing he was going to need a minute to get orientated.

He gently let her go and looked at the sky and the trees and the vast landscaped grounds of the house. Then he glanced up at the stone monolith he'd been trapped in for so long. She could imagine how lost he must feel, how his emo­tions must be boiling up, how conflicted he must be at leav­ing the claustrophobic comfort of his prison. But they had no time for him to acclimate.

"Michael, my car is at the end of the driveway. In the front of the house."

"I can do this," he whispered.

"Yes, you can."

She took his hand, which was clammy, and pulled him forward. Without hesitation, he hiked up the chains and led her around the side of the vast house.

Her car was parked where she'd left it and they hustled across the lawn, staying close to a row of hedges. The grass was damp and springy under her stockinged feet and her lungs ate up the autumn's clean oxygen.

Please, God, let us get away in one piece.

When she was in range of the Mercedes, she hit the re­mote and the sedan's lights flashed.

"What kind of car is this?" Michael asked, stunned. "It looks like a spaceship." Then he looked at the others. "They all seem like—"

Now was so not the time for him to channel his inner Car & Driver. "Get in."

"Ma'am?"

Claire looked up. The parking attendant, the kid who'd seen her before, was coming down the driveway. He seemed confused, as if he couldn't figure out where she'd come from. Or maybe he was just surprised to see her with a huge man in a red silk robe with a length of chain wrapped around his arm.

"Just leaving," she said with a wave as she hissed at Mi­chael, "Get in the damn car."

The kid rubbed at his spiky hair. "Ah . . ."

"Thanks for your help." Even though he hadn't given her any.

She was beyond relieved as she started the engine and pulled out of the spot—

Another Mercedes appeared right behind her, ready to put the drive to use, preventing her from putting them in re­verse and doing a K-turn to get right out onto the street. She had no choice but to head up the ring—around in front of the house where the attendants were all lined up and people were milling around.

Goddamn it.

"Put your head down," she said to Michael as they ap­proached the front door.

Please, oh, please, oh, please . . .

Just as she came up to the mansion, an elderly couple stepped forward to get into their car. With the Mercedes on her ass, and the pair's Cadillac blocking her way, she was trapped.

Sweat broke out between her breasts and under her arms and she tightened her hands on the wheel.

The front door opened wide and she fully expected to see the butler stumble out.

But it was just another elderly couple, ticket in hand as they approached an attendant.

Claire's eyes bounced to the car in front of her. The man was behind the wheel, but the woman was chatting with the kid who was holding her door open. Move it, Grandma! Of course the woman didn't. When she finally sat down, she fussed with her skirt and seemed to bitch to her husband a little, then turned back to the attendant.

One hundred and fifty-five million years later, the Cadil­lac's brake lights flashed and the sedan began to move at idle speed.

Heart pounding, hands straining, lungs frozen solid, Claire begged and pleaded with the universe to let them get away.

And then it happened.

The Cadillac went down the hill. And so did she. And then she turned onto the road behind the couple. And then she was going thirty-two miles an hour heading away from the Leeds estate.

As soon as she got a dotted line, she floored the accelera­tor and sucked the doors off the Cadillac.

Eyes on the road, she fumbled with her bag. She needed her phone. Where was her— She pulled it out and hit speed dial.

As it rang, she glanced at Michael. He was braced in the seat, arms out straight against the door on one side and the armrest on the other, legs crammed under the glove compart­ment. He was as white as paste and his eyes pinged around his skull.

"Put your seat belt on," she said. "It's to your right. Reach down and pull it across like I've done with mine."

He found the strap and yanked it around himself, then resumed his deer-in-headlights routine, bracing himself for an imminent impact that wasn't going to happen.

It dawned on her that he might well have never been in a car before.

"Michael, I can't slow down. I—"

"I'm fine."

"We're going—" Her call was answered, the man's hello an incredible relief. "Mick? Thank God. Listen, I'm coming to your house and I need some favors. Huge favors that I won't ever be able to rep—thank you. Oh, Jesus, thank you. About an hour. And I have someone with me." She hung up and looked across the seat. "This is going to be all right. We're going to a friend's house in Greenwich, Connecticut. We can stay there. He's going to help us. It's going to be okay."

At least she hoped it was going to be okay. She assumed the butler wouldn't come after them through legitimate channels, but as she drove through the night, she realized there were other ways to get someone. Ways that didn't in­volve the human legal system. Shit. There was no telling what kind of resources Fletcher had at his disposal, and if he had enough wherewithal to be successful at what he'd done for so long, he was smart.

Which meant he'd taken down her license plate. And he also knew where she lived, didn't he. Because . . . oh, God, she'd woken up in her bed at home after the three days with Michael. Fletcher had somehow gotten her back there.

Maybe he had some mind tricks at his disposal as well.

Maybe they should have killed him.

7

When Mick Rhodes's Federal mansion came into view an hour later, Claire wondered whether she was do­ing the right thing by getting her friend involved even tan-gentially.

After all, she was pulling into the guy's driveway with an escapee vampire who had a bad case of justifiable agorapho­bia. Who was also carsick.

Michael was green around the gills as she put the Mer­cedes in park. "We're safe."

He swallowed hard. "And we're not moving. This is good."

The front lights came on and Mick walked out onto the porch.

Claire opened her door and got out as Michael did the same. "Mick is an old friend. We can trust him."

Michael sniffed the air. "And he was your lover, was he not?" he said softly. "He remembers you with a certain . . . need."

Jesus. "That was a long time ago."

"Indeed." Gone was the fear and the queasiness. Michael was dead serious. And staring at Mick like the other man was his enemy.

Vampires were evidently rather territorial of their mates.

Mick lifted his hand in greeting and called, "Glad you made it. And who's your friend?"

"He's going to help us, Michael," she said, going around to her man and taking his hand in hers. "Come on."

Michael's eyes shifted over to hers. "If he touches you inappropriately, I'm going to bite him. Just so we are clear." Michael glanced back at her friend. "I'm not an animal and I shall not behave as such. But you are mine and things will go better for him if he respects that."

Vampires were evidently very territorial of their mates. "He will. I swear it."

Mick shifted impatiently. "Are you two coming or go­ing?"

"Coming," she muttered as she started to walk forward. When they got to the house, she said, "This is Michael."

"Nice to meet you, Michael."

Michael glanced at the palm that was offered. As he bowed slightly instead of putting his hand out, she wondered whether he didn't trust himself to touch Mick even in a po­lite way. "How do you do?" he said.

"I'm all right." Mick put his hand back in his pocket with a shrug, then frowned. "Chains. . . is that what you have on your arm?"

Claire took a deep breath. "I told you I needed big fa­vors."

There was a moment's hesitation. Then Mick shook his head and indicated the open door. "Come on in, you two, and how about we start by ditching your iron, buddy. Unless you're wearing it as a fashion statement? I've got a hacksaw." He glanced at Claire. "And maybe you'd like to tell me what the hell is going on here."

An hour later, Claire was drinking a cup of coffee in the li­brary, looking over the rim at Michael, who was free of the chain and seemingly much more himself after the nausea of the car ride had fully faded. Dressed in his robe, he fit in perfectly here, she thought. With the formal, antique feel of the library, he seemed to have stepped out of a Victorian novel—maybe the very one he held in his hands. He was loving all of Mick's books, examining their spines, taking them out, leafing through them.

"Where did you find him?" Mick asked softly from be­hind her.

"It's a long story."

"He's. . . unusual, isn't he?"

Christ, you have no idea, she thought, taking another sip from her cup.

"Michael's unlike any man I've met."

"And he's why you're leaving the firm, isn't he?" When she didn't reply, her friend murmured, "So what do you need from me?"

"Somewhere to stay the night, for starters." She stared down into the coffee. "And I want to buy him a new identity. Birth certificate, social security number, credit history, tax payments, driver's license. I know you know people who can take care of this, Mick, and what I get for my money has to be impregnable. It has to stand up in court. Because we might end up there."

Which was going to be no fun at all.

"Shit. . . what kind of mess are you in?"

"No mess." It was far, far worse than a mess.

"Liar. You show up here with a man who's covered in iron links. . . talks like a Victorian but looks like he could cheer-fully eat me alive . . . has hair down to his ass and is dressed in a red silk Hugh Hefner special. And who smells like a . . . well, he smells really good actually. What kind of cologne is that? I think I want some."

"You can't buy it. And Mick, frankly, the less you know the better." Because she was about to become a white-collar criminal. "I also want to use your computer. Oh, and we have to sleep in your basement."

Michael turned, frowned at the two of them standing so close together, and came across the room, putting his hand on her shoulder. Mick had the smarts to step back.

"So will you help us?" she asked Mick.

Mick rubbed his face. "Let me buy the identity for you. The man I know is really touchy and he won't accept a pay­ment from anyone else but me. You can reimburse me some­how. And you're serious? You want to sleep in my basement? I mean, I've got six guest rooms in this ark and this is an old house. It's not nice down there."

"No, downstairs is better."

"We shall stay in a proper bed," Michael announced. "We shall stay upstairs."

She looked over her shoulder. "But—"

His hand squeezed gently. "I shall not have you sleeping in quarters unfit for a lady."

"Michael—"

"Perhaps you will show us to our room, kind sir?" Okay, clearly when her man decided something, that was that.

Mick frowned. "Ah . . . yeah. Sure, buddy—"

Michael wheeled toward one of the windows. And posi­tively growled.

"Stay inside," he said. Then disappeared into thin air.

Mick barked out a curse, but she wasn't about to worry over her friend. Claire ran for the window and watched as Michael took form on the side lawn in the moonlight.

The butler was back. Fletcher was standing there like something out of a nightmare, glowing like a ghost though his form was solid.

Her first thought was that he'd probably put some kind of GPS device on her car. It was the only explanation for how he could have found them. But then she realized he was not human. So God only knew what kind of shit he had at his disposal.

"Who is that?" Mick said from behind her. "Or. . . Christ, Claire, should the question be what?"

What happened next was gruesome and horrible and the only option. Michael and the butler faced off, and they fought to the death.

Fletcher's.

Claire couldn't watch, but Mick did and she tracked his face as he witnessed the carnage. "Is Michael. . ."

"He's doing—" Mick winced. "Yeah, there's not going to be much left of that other guy to bury."

She knew it was over when Mick took a deep breath and rubbed his face. "Stay here. I'm going to go see about . . . your man?"

"Yes," she said. "He's mine."

Mick went around the corner to the front door, and she heard the men talking softly from the other side of the door­way.

"Claire?" Michael said without coming into the room. "I'm fine, but I shall go get cleaned up, shall I?"

It wasn't a question even though he'd posed it as one. She knew he was staying outside because he didn't want her to see him, but screw that.

She walked across the library and through the—

Okay, that was a lot of blood. But it didn't appear to be his because it was on his hands and his . . . mouth. As if he'd bitten Fletcher. A number of times.

"Oh, God."

Except then she looked into his eyes. They were grim and serious and resolute. As if he'd done what he'd had to and that was that. But there were shadows in them, as if he were afraid she'd think he was a monster.

She pulled herself together and walked over to him. "I'll help you wash."

After she bathed Michael, she got him some clothes. Which was a joke. Though Mick was a big guy, the only thing that fit her man even remotely was a pair of flannel pajama bot­toms and a button-down shirt—and even still, it was all tight and showed a lot of ankle and wrist.

But he looked good, his hair damp and curling at the ends as it dried, its red and black colors coming to life.

Mick showed them into a lovely bedroom that mercifully had only two windows and thick drapes. Hopefully that would be enough protection.

Mick was the one who pulled the lined curtains into place.

"You need anything, you know where I sleep," he said. He hesitated at the door, then closed them in together.

Claire took a deep breath. "Michael—"

He cut her off. "You said you could do anything while you were with child, correct?"

When she nodded, he looked at the bed as if imagining them on it. "Even . . ."

She had to smile. "Yes, even that. But first, we need to talk—"

He was on her in a heartbeat, pressing her back against the door, his hands rough on either side of her waist.

"No talking," he growled. "First, I take you."

His mouth clamped onto hers, his tongue going deep, and then there was a tearing noise—her blouse being ripped open. Oh, God, yes . . . He kissed her until she was dizzy for a reason other than her pregnancy, and sometime in the middle of the rush, he picked her up and laid her out on the bed. With smooth coordination, like he'd been planning the moves, he pushed his pajama bottoms down, pulled her skirt up, bit through one side of her panties, and then—

He was inside.

Her body arched up against him and she held on hard as she gasped. She was extra tight because she was only par­tially ready for him, but the moment he drove into her, she caught up with him. He pumped heavy and strong, but with care as well, the antique bed groaning under the force of his body as he took her.

The glorious smell of him invaded her nose and she knew what this was about. This was him staking his claim to her in addition to loving her. This was a possession by some­thing other than a human man and it was so totally fine by her.

Michael came with a great clenching of his body and a roar that broke through the silence in the house. Loud as it was, their host had to have heard it so it was a good thing she didn't care enough to be embarrassed as her own orgasm swept through her.

After it was over, they stayed locked together, inter­twined, their breathing hard for precious moments.

And then he said, "Forgive me . . . my love." He pulled back and smoothed her cheek while gently kissing her lips. "I fear I am rather . . . territorial when it comes to you."

She laughed. "You be as territorial as you want. Coming from you, I like it."

"Claire . . . what do we do about the future?"

"I have it all planned out. I'm very good at strategy." She put her fingers through his long, luxurious hair, the red and black strands curling around her wrist and arm. "I'm going to fix it so your mother leaves you everything."

"How?"

"I redrafted her will every four months or so while she was alive and I'm going to do it one last time downstairs in Mick's study tomorrow morning."

Yes, she was violating the professional code of ethics she'd sworn to when she'd taken her oath as an attorney. Yes, she could be disbarred. Yes, she was compromising her per­sonal standards. But a great wrong had been done seemingly without remorse and sometimes to right something, you had to get your hands dirty. There were no more Leedses left, so there were no heirs to contest the will. And the philanthro­pies would be left in, so there would still be millions upon millions going to them.

The wrong she would commit was the right thing to do.

And the fact that Fletcher was dead? Just made it all easier.

"She owes you," Claire said. "Your mother. . . your mother needs to take care of her son and I'm going to make sure she does."

"You are my hero." The love shining in Michael's eyes was a benediction unlike any she'd ever seen.

"And you are my sun," she replied.

As they kissed again, she had the weirdest sense it was all going to work out, even though none of it made sense: a human woman who never thought she'd get married and have a family because she was too tough for that kind of thing. A male vampire who was both pliant and fierce—and who hadn't been out of a dungeon in fifty years.

But it was right. They were right for each other.

Although God only knew what the future had in store for them.

EPILOGUE

Nine years later. . .

"Daddy! I'm coming for you!" Claire looked over the moonlit lawns of the Leeds estate and watched her oldest child, Gabriella, go into full stealth mode. Her waist-length red and black hair was a shroud in the night, her coltish legs long for an eight-year-old. She moved quickly and silently to the stand of fruit trees in the back garden, going over the grass like her father did with fluidity and grace—as was the way with vampires.

Michael materialized behind his daughter and shouted, "Boo!"

Gabriella jumped about twelve feet into the air, but re­covered quickly, landing on her feet and tearing after her father while giggling. She tackled him, and the two went down in the grass, fireflies hovering above the tickling fest as if they too were laughing.

"Mama, I'm finished," came a quiet voice from the left.

Claire put her hand out and felt her son's little palm slide into hers. "Thank you for cleaning your room."

"I'm sorry it got so messy."

She tugged Luke into her lap. At six years old, it was clear that he took after his father's side as well and not just on looks. Luke was going to grow up to be what Michael and Gabriella were. He had an aversion to the sun; he was a night owl; and his hearing and eyesight were abnormally acute. The real tip-off, though, were the adult-sized canines that had come in already. Well, that and the fact that Luke and Michael smelled exactly the same, like dark spices.

Claire kissed her son's forehead. "Have I told you I love you today?"

Luke hid his face in her neck, as was his nature. "Yes, Mama. At dinner when you told Daddy and Gabby, too."

"When else did I tell you?"

"At lunch." Her son's laughter was coming through in his voice, but he was trying to hide it.

"When else?" She gave his ribs a little squeeze to get him to loosen up.

Luke wriggled in her lap and gave up the fight. "At break­fast!"

The two of them laughed and she hugged her shy, gentle son close as Michael and Gabriella came racing up the lawn.

Claire looked at her husband and felt a wave of respect and love come over her. He was so amazing, so steady and strong in his quiet way, taking care of her and the children with tender kindness. He was also a ferocious lover and vi­cious protector—as a vandal had learned a couple of months ago.

She loved him even more than she had this morning, though less than she would tomorrow.

"Hi," she said to him, as Gabriella took Luke's hand and led him off to show him the fresh buds on the tea roses next to the gazebo.

"My love," Michael murmured, sitting down on the grass next to her and pulling her into his arms. "You are beautiful in this light."

"Thank you."

She had to smile, thinking that the beautiful stuff was because of him. As was the fact that she looked younger than she had when she'd met him and not just because she'd stopped working around the clock. The two of them had dis­covered through some kinky moments that he liked to be used for drinking and that his blood had a curious effect on her. It seemed to have halted her aging process—or at the very least slowed it down to such a degree that she hadn't aged at all in the last nine years. Had even regressed a little.

There were a lot of unanswered questions. Michael still had no idea who his father was or whether there were any other vampires on the planet. They were both worried about their children's futures and the isolation at the estate and the fact that kids needed friends their own age. And health care was an issue because how could they take the children to a human doctor?

Generally, though, things were better than imaginable. Claire managed the huge Leeds fortune. Michael home-schooled the children. Luke and Gabriella were thriving and healthy.

It was a good life. An odd life, but a good life.

And there was some news to share.

"You're a very good father, you know that?" Claire said, brushing back her man's hip-length hair.

Michael kissed her neck. "You're a very good mother. And a perfect wife. And a brilliant businesswoman. I don't know how you do it all."

"Time management is a wonderful thing." Claire put her husband's hand on her belly. "And I'm going to need to do a little more managing."

Michael froze. "Claire?"

She laughed. "You were very busy with me last month and it seems as if. . ."

He hugged her tight and trembled a little. She knew there were moments when the abuse and imprisonment came back to him, and unfortunately it was typically when he got good news. All these years later, he still struggled with anything he viewed as lucky or miraculous. It made him feel, he said, as if he were in danger of waking up and having this new life of his be just a dream.

"Are you okay? Do you feel all right?" he asked, pulling back, eyes going over her.

"Fine. As always, I'm fine." The home births were not a walk in the park, but through Mick, who seemed to know someone who knew someone about all things, they'd found a midwife they could trust.

Michael rubbed her tummy. "You make me so happy. So proud."

"Right back at you."

He kissed her as he always did, lingering before he pulled away. Funny, after all their time together, he still hated to part their mouths.

"If it's a boy, I'd like to call him Matthew or Mark," she said.

"And a girl?"

"Michael can be a girl's name as well." Claire grinned. "And have I mentioned how much I like that name? Michael is a great name."

Her husband dipped his head. With their lips touching, he said softly, "It might have come up once before. Yes, if I do recall correctly, that is your favorite name."

"My very favorite."

Claire smiled as she was thoroughly kissed by the vampire she loved. While she wrapped her arms around her husband, she thought, yes, they definitely needed another Michael in the family.