I n t e r i o r M o t i v e s

Diane Maxwell

Interior Motives

Fool me once shame on you...

Rose Anderson had everything she ever wanted; a promising career as one of todays top Interior
Designers...head-over-heals in love with the man of her dreams -- and then her wonderful world
shattered before her very eyes; the man she adored had been a sham all along, an opportunist out
to use her talent.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but after picking herself up and dusting herself off, she vowed
she'd never be that naive again.

fool me twice...

Michael St. Lawrence was one of industry's leading Restoration Architects who prided himself
on a job done his way. Rose was perfectly prepared to bunk heads about who was boss when he
took the commission for restoring Huntington House, but not the instant sizzling attraction
between them that threatened her last chance of proving herself.

Well this time her heart wouldn't cloud over reason. Nope, she wouldn't walk that same
destructive path twice in one lifetime -- no matter how much Michael's kiss promised to prove
her wrong...or how much her heart ached to take another chance...
Chapter 1

"You need to go to Huntington House. Right now."

"Huh?" Rose Anderson asked absently as she scanned a column of figures which simply refused
to add up.

She instantly regretted her inattention when an exasperated sigh preceded the next words at the
other end of the telephone line. "What does it take for you to listen to me?"

"Why do you want me to go?"

"I just think you should. I have this feeling. . ."

Rose blew out her breath. Technically, her aunt was now her boss. And if her boss asked her do
something regarding her job... Still, it was so late. "Can't it wait until morning?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Rosy."

The hurt in that one word made Rose feel like she'd kicked a defenseless puppy. "I'm sorry. It's
been a long day and--"

"You're tired, want a warm bath, a glass of chocolate milk and the books still won't balance," her
Aunt Maye finished. "Don't work yourself so hard, honey. I'm certain you can do this job for us."

"Of course I can." Rose pushed the accounting books for her interior design firm aside, sick and
tired of blaring red ink. "After that architect you've hired restores Huntington House, it will be no
problem to decorate it. I've always wanted to."

"All the members love your ideas, too. Even Daisy didn't argue. So miracles can still occur."

Rose laughed. Her aunt and Daisy Greenworthy were co-presidents of the historical society
which owned Huntington House. Their arguments over policy, projects and money were
legendary. It should be interesting to see how world renowned architect Michael St. Lawrence
would deal with them.

And how he'd like taking orders from Rose, the project's head.

She slipped her feet back into her shoes then glanced at her watch. If she left now, she could be
back home in a bubble bath in thirty minutes. Hopefully.
"When you get there, make sure all the lights are out and the doors are locked, okay?"

"You don't have to tell me. . ." Rose halted, cleared her throat and began again. "When is
Michael St. Lawrence supposed to be at the site?"

"I knew you were anxious to meet him," Maye's tone was smug.

"I'm not anxious. I'd just like to get a few things straight with him right off the bat. That's all."

"Sure it is. You've wanted to meet him since you returned from that Louisiana house he restored
last year." Rose could almost picture her aunt's face lit with a grin. "You said pictures don't do
his work justice."

"They don't," Rose replied as she remembered the beauty and grace of the house she toured last
Christmas. Proclaimed the pinnacle of St. Lawrence's brilliant career in restoring historical
mansions, it was literally too breathtaking for mere words.

Yet Rose felt this strange sense of apprehension every time his name was mentioned.

"Drive over to Huntington House now," Maye urged. "Or is there something you want to talk
about further? Perhaps how attractive he is?"

"Turn off the match-making Auntie." Rose stood. "Like I just said, pictures often don't tell the
whole story. Besides, I'm not interested in how he looks. I only care how dedicated he'll be
toward Huntington House. And how honest he really is."

"He's not another Louis," her aunt replied softly. "I wish I could make you believe that, even if
he's from the same place and once owned the same firm Louis now works for."

Rose stiffened at the mention of her ex-boyfriend. "I don't care to discuss it."

"Louis was wrong, spiteful and plain shoddy. But it's over. Please don't keep blaming every man
in the world for the actions of one."

Rose slowly relaxed and grinned, glad for the diversion. "This advice from someone who still
holds a grudge because the North won the Civil War?"

"That's completely different," Maye argued. The vehemence of her tone increased Rose's
amusement. "Every self-respecting Southerner holds some ill feelings for its treatment after the
War. But I don't judge people before I know them a bit, either."

Rose picked up her purse. "I'll say good-bye now, Auntie."

"Give Michael St. Lawrence a chance."

"Thanks for the advice." Rose glanced at her watch again.

"If you'd only listened when I first tried to tell you about that Louis character. . ."

"I know, I know. I could have spared myself and my career a whole lot of heartache." Rose
searched through the pile of books on her desk until she found her keys. It was old history.
Really, it was. "Thanks for reminding me. Again."

"You're welcome. While we're at it, it wouldn't hurt if you'd simply see Michael as a very
attractive man instead of--"

"Auntie if you say it, I really will--"

"Scream. Yes, I know."

Rose laughed. "Talk to you later."

"Call if you need me." Maye broke their phone connection.

Rose shook her head and also hung up. She sighed and walked to her door. She didn't have time
for such nonsense as whether Michael St. Lawrence was attractive or not. All her energy needed
to be focused on Huntington House. She'd waited for the chance to decorate it half her life. It
was her dream. She couldn't let anything stand in her way.

The deserted, crumbling house was like an old friend to her aunt's society. And to Rose. It
provided her only real chance to prove her talent to the world. Not to mention this project would
finally put her struggling firm in the black.

History would not repeat itself.

It took just a few minutes to drive from her apartment to Huntington House. She parked her car
in the empty driveway and stared at the sprawling, two-story structure. It sat like a sleeping
woman waiting to get ready for a huge, important party. Like her wedding reception.

Rose frowned. Her aunt's feeling was right, it seemed. The front door stood wide open like a
mouth gaping in shock. A single light glared from the dark interior. She'd definitely locked that
door and turned out all the lights before she left two hours ago.

So what were they now doing open and on?

She glanced around. Overgrown bushes, trees with sagging limbs, and grass that stood knee-high
filled the yard. There were no signs of other people. No cars. No voices.

A thin shiver of fear ran along her spine.

She shook it off. It was her job as project manager to find out what was going on. "For Lord's
sake," she murmured disgustedly. "Mrs. Greenworthy was probably here and just forgot to lock
up. Go in, turn off that light, lock the door and go home."
She reached in her glove compartment, retrieved a can of mace and slipped it into the pocket of
her jeans. No sense in not being prepared, just in case. She left the car, climbed the rickety front
steps and entered the house.

The feeble beacon of light led her to the huge ballroom. Silence pressed upon her like winter fog:
eerie, complete, almost menacing. Her footsteps echoed throughout the supposed-to-be empty
house. Dark shadows loomed all around. Her pulse throbbed. Her imagination whirled. Were
ghosts lurking in the shadows?

Or something worse?

"Don't be a ninny. There are no ghosts-- or anything else-- here," Rose said half to herself, half
aloud. She walked resolutely toward the room's only furniture, a small table and shining desktop
lamp. "You've been here a thousand times. Just call out, make certain no one's here and--"

An impossibly heavy amount of flesh, bone, and raw power hurled her to the wooden floor like
an abandoned rag doll.

Chapter 2

Grimy dust and gritty sand filled her open mouth. Her chest pounded like the feet of a school
marching band. Scratched wood flooring pressed against her face. The weight upon her
threatened to break her into pieces.

Break her body, maybe. But not spirit. Or her voice. Rose ignored the horrible taste of dirt, filled
her lungs with what little air she could and prepared to scream for all she was worth.

As if sensing her intent, razor sharp talons gripped her arms and flipped her over as if she
weighed no more than a sheet of paper. What little air she'd gained whooshed from her in a
surprised gasp.

Unnatural silence filled the stale, still air. Inky blackness obscured her vision. Rose tried to raise
her arms only to have them pinned at her sides by cast-iron, denim-clad knees. Her fingers
scratched ineffectively at the material. She almost sobbed in frustration at her helplessness.

Panic roared in her ears. She beat it down and began to struggle. The floor, as hard and inflexible
as the weight atop her, conceded no help. Both remained firm and unyielding despite her efforts.
She ached after only a few seconds of pointless twisting and straining. Her head felt like a child's
twirling top.
Worse, she didn't want to scream any more. She wanted to sneeze. Desperately. Dust settled in
her eyes, burned them unbearably.

She heard only harsh, labored breathing. Hers or her captor's? She didn't know. Her heart
pounded harder, threatened to explode. Half her eyes, nose and mouth remained covered by a
hand. A huge, sweaty hand. She couldn't breathe through the unrelenting fingers. If she couldn't
breathe, she'd. . .

She was acting like a victim, something she'd vowed never to be again. Rose wiggled in
renewed, determined efforts not only to break free, but to draw air into her starving lungs.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a deep male voice intoned during her fiercest struggles. His
warm breath washed her face like a tidal wave.

Rose instantly stilled. If he intended harm, her struggles merely aided him. Maybe even excited
him. Oh, dear Lord. Instead of fighting him, she fought against her steadily rising fear. She
opened her eyes to their widest. She succeeded only in brushing the rough plane of his palm with
her lashes.

Roughly callused, his hand was used to a lot of hard work. It shifted as if her eyelashes tickled.
His fingers parted after an excessive amount of time. They finally moved from her eyes and nose
so slowly, another eternity passed. They remained clamped like a vice over her mouth ensuring
she wouldn't scream.

Not that she could.

She breathed in deep. Air scorched its way into her lungs. The roar in her ears gradually
lessened. She blinked swiftly several times, clearing tears, dust and shimmering dots from her
eyes.

The full glare from the small lamp behind her lent his face an ethereal glow. She almost laughed
despite her fear. Ethereal? Him? A man who'd broken into the house and now held her pinned
like a fish in a net?

Then her gaze met his. All rational thought ceased. His eyes resembled sapphires. Only they
were more beautiful than any jewel of the same deep blue color. The surrounding face brought
unexpected appreciation, too. It was exceptionally strong, had elegant lines, classical features
and dark brows with incredibly long lashes. Gorgeous. He wasn't a killer.

Was he?

She couldn't look away. Her heart thudded hard enough for him to feel it. No wonder she
couldn't move. In all fairness to her wayward thoughts, he covered her like shingles covered a
roof: tight, secure, not a thing between them.
Need slammed into her stomach with the force of a two-by-four. As stunning and incapacitating
as any blow, too. She knew nothing about him. Nothing. Except desire this strong, this
unexpected and out of place meant only one thing.

He must be exactly like Louis. Only Louis had aroused this sort of desire in her and had
possessed the power to destroy her career, happiness and faith in herself.

And then she recognized her captor. His face had been plastered all over television, magazines
and newspapers for years. Along with his constant string of ever changing women friends.

Pictures, in his case, also didn't show the entire scope.

She sighed and closed her eyes. She had more chance of winning the non-existent North Carolina
state lottery than having a relationship with him. Even if she had wanted one, which she didn't.

Truly nauseating. All this blaring red ink in her life.

She kicked, amazed both of her legs weren't broken from the hard fall. He shifted and stilled her.
His fingers trailed across her cheek and neck. Strange sparks leapt to life under his touch. She
cursed herself again for being such a silly fool as to acknowledge, if only to herself, his gentle
caress felt so wonderful.

He lifted his body and stood. She breathed a sigh of relief. But it was short-lived.

He crossed his arms over his polo shirt and peered down from an incredible angle of height. She
remained motionless at his feet like some pagan offering to a conquering god. Her breath stayed
firmly lodged in her throat as she contemplated dashing for the front door against finding out
exactly what he was doing here at this time of night.

"Who are you?" his tone was suspicious and lined with more than a little curiosity.

Rose stared at him half a second more, just enough to gather her scattered wits. She sat up,
holding his gaze. What a mistake. He straddled her body with his feet, her head even with his. . .

Great, her mind interrupted. Thousands of pins pierce you all over, dust covers you head to foot,
your sense of smell has deserted because you won't let him see you sneeze and all you can do is
stare like some deer facing headlights and have ridiculous fantasies. Real professional.

Rose bent her head, supposedly to brush her sweatshirt, but really to cover her mortified blush.
What on earth was wrong with her? She'd never reacted like this before. Even to Louis.

She awkwardly retreated, ignoring the way her legs slid against his leather shoes as she pushed
along the floor. The desk rubbed her shoulders and halted her. By sheer stubborn will, she kept
her gaze from his memorizing blue eyes and stared at the way his golden hair reflected light. "I'm
Rose Anderson."
"Rose Anderson?" he repeated. Like a trained parrot, she thought.

"My aunt's historical society owns this house. I assume since you're here and the door was open
with no signs of a break-in you're supposed to be Michael St. Lawrence?" Rose shoved to her
feet and moved from further contact with his body, including his outstretched hand.

"I am." His hand fell to his side as he continued to stare at her.

Rose glared back, rubbing a particularly sore spot on her arm that had taken the brunt of her fall.
Relief flooded through her along with something else. Acute disappointment?

Irritated at the way her pulse still raced, only not from fear, her tone was snappier than she meant
it to be. "You are what? Supposed to be St. Lawrence or definitely are St. Lawrence?"

He smiled. She nearly lost her breath again. What an incredible twist of sensual lips. Apollo
come to life. "I definitely am Michael St. Lawrence. I apologize for tackling you. I assumed you
were a prowler."

"A prowler?" Rose laughed with decisive scorn, thankful to mask her admiration of his physical
endowments before she made an even bigger fool of herself. "You left the front door wide open.
That in itself invites trouble, doesn't it?"

His gaze roamed the entire length of her body leisurely and thoroughly. Her ire rose along with
her temper. Oh yeah. All that public praise for his work and all those fawning women had gone
straight to his head. He definitely needed to be taken down a peg a two.

She was just the woman for the job.

"That depends on what you call trouble. I'd have enjoyed that tumble in more favorable
circumstances." His gaze swept her again. "As it was, I definitely savored every second. Didn't
you?"

His automatic assumption she'd want nothing more than to jump in his bed annoyed her so
intensely she nearly choked. Well, this would certainly be a fun project.

Just as soon as she put him firmly in his place.

"Oh? What did just occur, St. Lawrence?"

"Southern guile, Ms. Anderson?" he said slowly. She might say he tried to drawl the words, but
he failed miserably with the too fake accent. He pointed to the smudged floor. "After all, you
were there, weren't you?"

Rose shook her head. She didn't doubt he was good at seducing women. But he wouldn't find her
a pushover. Not a complete one, anyway. "The only thing that happened was you knocked me
down and nearly suffocated me with that large hammer you liken to a hand."
"Come now," he said in a shade deeper voice as he edged a few steps closer. "Shall I describe
what we're both wondering after that too brief little tumble?"

"No," Rose said shortly, tightly. Conceited jerk. She wasn't about to fall for the same old tricks
with the same sort of man.

Not twice in one lifetime.

A small smile teased his lips. "Don't you believe I'm sincere?"

"No," she repeated. Resistance wouldn't seem so futile if he just wouldn't keep smiling. "I'm
supposed to believe you had absolutely no idea I'd drop by tonight, right?"

"I knew someone from the society would eventually show up. I just didn't expect someone
tonight."

"You tackle every woman who crosses your path?"

"Only those I feel immediate attraction to."

Rose gave him her iciest smile. "I suppose you spend a lot of time defending yourself from
wrongful injury and sexual harassment suits then."

He tilted his head to one side. "You do a lot of supposing, don't you, Ms. Anderson?"

"You do a lot of evading, don't you, St. Lawrence?"

"Do I?" His eyes widened. "Pardon me. You're the first woman I've tackled. Outside the
bedroom. And I've never been accused of wrongful injury or sexual harassment."

Rose bit her tongue to keep from saying, then you should be. She cleared her throat. "Look, you
may be the architect here, but I'm the project manager. Let's stick to business. I'm certain we'll
both be happier."

"Ms. Anderson--""

Rose put up a hand to forestall any further innuendoes. "I'm here to work. If you aren't, leave.
Round up one of your numerous women friends for whatever it is you're attempting to coerce me
into."

"I've never had to coerce a woman in my entire life." Her barb had the desired effect. He lost his
smile and sounded outraged she'd even mentioned such a thing.

"Why start then?" Rose glanced around the desk. "Are these your plans?"
"Yes." He moved to stand next to her.

He was huge, all muscle and strength. She nearly shivered at the restrained power he must
control deep inside. She studied his plans with a critical eye. "I see you've already figured out
there's not much structurally to be done."

"A few weeks should cover it. Your aunt faxed the original floor plans a few days ago with the
house's history. I've added my thoughts and-- What?" he asked as she shook her head.

"This won't work. Walnut moldings will totally ruin the appearance. We'll use oak instead."

"I've already ordered walnut." His tone held a slight edge.

She almost grinned. Good. He was starting to get the picture. "Then by all means, cancel your
order first thing tomorrow. Local companies have been promised the job. You should have
checked with me first." She turned over one sheet to look at another.

"No one indicated I needed your approval before I began work."

"Now you know." She hazarded a quick glance at him. Just as quickly she looked back at his
plans. The scorching light of his eyes made it too dangerous to speak coherently and watch him
at the same time. She pointed at his plans. "No door here. Use a large window with a wide
window seat."

"I'm not accustomed to taking orders from a decorator," his voice reflected ice edged in steel.

She ignored the warning. "I'm an interior designer. The original ceiling joists will remain. Cancel
these steel ones you've sketched in."

"Ms. Anderson."

"And we definitely don't want an extended porch." Rose picked up a marker and made a bright
red X across the sheet.

He snatched the pen and nearly ripped her fingers off her hand. "Don't mark on my plans. Ever."

Rose gazed at him once more. So. The fire of lust could be extinguished and replaced with anger.
She'd have to remember that. "The outside columns are already taken care of, so--"

"My services were retained to restore this house," he interrupted harshly.

Maybe now they could get to the heart of the matter. She was head of this project. The sooner
this arrogant Louis-clone learned that, the better for all of them.

"Correct." She kept her tone calm, cool, impersonal. No outward indication of victory.
"However, your word certainly isn't law. Not at Huntington House."
He lifted one eyebrow, his gaze distinctly mocking. "I suppose you're going to tell me your word
is?"

"The society appointed me their spokesperson. I take their trust very seriously. You'll find what I
say goes."

"You know more than I about the architecture of old Southern houses? You also have a degree in
architecture?"

"No. But eight generations of my mother's family were born, raised and educated in this region."

His sigh was long and deep. "Your family tree makes you an authority on Huntington House?
How?"

"All the studying in the world can't replace knowing the area, customs and history," Rose replied
with all the confidence she felt. Which under his piercing stare, was a tad too little for comfort.

He ran a hand through his straight blond hair. "I fail to see how that qualifies you to give me
orders."

"We do things very differently here, St. Lawrence. A fact you should have grasped with all the
time you've reportedly spent in this region. But then," Rose tilted her head slightly, "most of you
aren't very quick to realize things right in front of you." She referred to big name architects from
ivy-league schools holding fancy degrees and believing themselves superior to all other life.

His eyes narrowed as his gaze dug into her. "You've never let the Civil War die, have you?"

"This has nothing to do with the War," she denied. "I simply know I'm right. And so do you."

He opened his mouth to speak, but once more she lifted a hand to forestall him. Further
arguments, especially this late, were useless. "We can go over the rest tomorrow. I'll give you a
copy of exactly how I want the house restored."

"I?" He immediately caught her slip and smiled as her cheeks heated.

"Accept I'm in charge St. Lawrence or we'll find another architect." She waited with in-drawn
breath for him to spin on his heels and march out.

He simply crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her as if challenging her to make him
leave. He looked every bit as determined as she felt.

She moved around the desk, intent on escape. She'd won the battle. Time to retreat so she
wouldn't lose the war. She had a feeling she'd pushed him just as far as she dared. He knew the
score. That was what mattered. "Lock up exactly as it was before you leave."

"Yes, Ms. Anderson. Will there be anything else, Ms. Anderson?"

Rose caught herself nearly laughing at his sarcastically submissive tone. "Not right now. Good
night."

Without a backward glance, she walked out of the house. As she drove away, she resolved to
ignore his not-so-subtle charm and definitely hypnotizing blue eyes. No matter what it took.

Chapter 3

"No," Rose Anderson argued late the next morning, her voice competing with the thunderous
racket above. "These arches weren't made like Gothic towers. They were built as graceful
accents to the windows. Not showy, garish copies of cheap European architecture."

"Indeed? Were you around two hundred years ago to ask the builder what he meant the arches to
convey?" Michael made his voice also rise above the pounding of hammers as the construction
crew re shingled the roof.

"Certainly not." She flung his blueprints to the floor. He almost grinned. She seemed ready to
spit nails. "I know what she wanted her dream home to be. And 'contemporary flashy' is
definitely nowhere in the top one thousand."

"She?" To hide his smile, Michael stooped from his chair to gather the scattered papers. "Did
they actually have female builders two hundred years ago?"

"Not the actual builder," she cut in. "The owner. Naturally, he'd discuss with his wife all of the
plans any builder submitted to make certain the house was what she wanted."

"Perhaps she wanted the attention something new would add to her house." Michael settled back
and began to twirl a pencil in his fingers. Obviously the rumors about her fire and spirit weren't
exaggerations. He sat behind the narrow table he used as a desk. She stood across from him.

And good God. An unforgettable goddess if he ever saw one. Small, long fingered hands firmly
planted on trim, definitely female hips visible even through the oversized sweatshirt she wore.
Face flushed the color of her name. Pointed chin stuck high in the air. Her eyes blasted him with
contemptuous blue-green fire. No sign of ice in that heated gaze.

No hot passion, either. His determination to finish the job he'd been drawn here to do prevented
him from hurling her to the dusty floor. Again.

He could show her exactly how to reignite that flame they'd sparked last night. Exactly.

His gaze roamed her slender form. Her red shirt with its NCSU mascot wolf emblem suited.
Matched the heat of her temper perfectly. And those jeans-- Good God. He almost couldn't stand
it. Serious thoughts of tackling her again, damn the consequences, fluttered through his mind just
as she spoke again.
"You don't understand a thing about our traditions and ways. Not a single solitary thing."

Michael lifted an eye brow. "Really? I've had no complaints before." He definitely wasn't
referring to the house.

But she obviously was. "You've no idea what Huntington House is. Or what it was designed to
be."

"And you, a struggling interior decorator hardly out of design school," he bit his tongue to hold
back the rest of the sentence. This was definitely not the time to acknowledge he knew all about
her reputation in the business. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You think you're the only
one capable of understanding these delicate intricacies of Southern restoration?"

Her chin went a tad higher at his dry tone. "Yes, at this particular point, I am. Stop being so
darned difficult and listen to what I'm saying."

At the word 'difficult', Michael reluctantly tossed the image of having her beneath him. He
injected enough scorn in his voice to wither the few colorful leaves on the trees outside. "I'm not
being difficult, Ms. Anderson."

She flushed yet stood her ground. She didn't attempt to deny what they both knew: she had a
reputation as being a trouble maker and hard to work with. In a word, difficult. He liked that she
stood firm. She wasn't a quitter or a whiner. No matter what the professional world said.

"Then please acknowledge we should leave the history of this house alone. Everything needs to
be restored the same way it was built."

"Anyone with an ounce of sense can see there's always room for improvement. Particularly when
restoring a house. Especially someone with little to no experience in architecture."

"I won't let you turn this project into some sort of defective showplace simply to suit your
vanity," she retorted, no doubt goaded by his phrase 'anyone with an ounce of sense'.

"My vanity?" He grinned openly. God, but she was fun! Not at all like the yes women he'd
known most of his life. "My dear Ms. Anderson, it isn't my--"

"I'm not your 'dear' anything." Her chin lifted more. He resisted the urge to tug it-- and her--
closer. "Let me further repeat, St. Lawrence, southern houses were built to be homes, not
museums."

"What do you call Biltmore?" Michael threw back, impressed with her persistence even if she
was the most exasperating female on the face on the earth. Good thing they weren't outside. If it
rained, she'd drown, high as that stub nose was. "I assume you've visited it, since it's in this
glorious old state you take such pride in. Asheville's Biltmore is a museum if ever I saw one."
"I'm glad you think so." Her eyes, her entire face, became impregnable masks of haughty
derision. The ice queen returned, Michael thought with another half-smile.

She leaned over the narrow table, her face mere inches from his lips. He could almost feel each
of her heartbeats. "Biltmore may be a museum now, Mister Arrogant-Know-It-All, but it wasn't
built to be one. Just as this house wasn't."

He also leaned over and stilled the pencil's movement. His head raised slightly, met her furious
gaze straight on. "George Vanderbilt constructed Biltmore to be a showplace."

"Vanderbilt came and built Biltmore for escape," she injected as the tiny pulse at the base of her
throat began to throb and beg for his kiss. "He also came for peace and a calmer, more--"

"Poorer life."

She shrugged, attempting a nonchalance she couldn't possible feel. Didn't she sense the sparks?
The electricity? Good God, how could she not? "Certainly he had a few money problems during
construction. That's entirely beside the point."

"Beside the point?" he echoed as he jerked his attention back to what they were discussing.
"Vanderbilt went bankrupt building that museum you're trying to deny is a museum."

She gritted her teeth and he laughed outright. "You're deliberately missing the point, St.
Lawrence."

"And just what would that be, Ms. Anderson?"

She breathed in slowly, once, twice, three times. He clenched his hands to keep from touching
her. "Any true southerner knows how to build homes as places to actually live, laugh, eat and
relax with your family in. Not monstrosities like some of your northern examples of
architecture."

"Tell me Ms. Southern Pride, since you feel so strongly about Southerners being so much better
than us ignorant Yankees, why the hell do you live in a state called North Carolina?" It was a
childish remark, he knew that even as he said it.

But something about her made him want to know why she continued to deny what was
happening between them. The sparks between them threatened to set this house aflame. Why did
she pretend differently? She'd picked fights all morning.

What about him frightened her? And why?

"Andersons helped build this state. They founded many of its towns. Long before the American
Revolution and long after. They were at Jamestown in 1607. They eventually moved south,
settled along the Carolina coast and finally inland to Aberdeen and Raleigh."
Michael caught the faintly resentful note in her voice. What was this? Pride in her heritage, yet
regret she had one? At least she did know about them and their deeds, could trace her family.
Know they did more than pose for portraits as his had.

She was a bundle of contradictions. He'd love to solve the mystery of her. He cleared his throat.
"I suppose all these ancestors told you how a Southern home should be built."

She nodded, her gaze on him, yet somehow he felt she didn't see him. He'd change that soon
enough, though. Anger was, after all, usually a front for a deeper, denied emotion. As he well
knew. "It's hard to imagine anyone living the tranquil life you described with you under the same
roof."

She caught her breath, her eyes mixed with anger and hurt. He knew he'd hit home with his
stinging remark and felt oddly disconcerted at the pain marring her blue-green eyes. "I'm simply
trying to--"

"Be a royal pain in my ass."

"Explain what the society wants," she continued over him. "Perhaps if you'd ever really listen
instead of shouting all the time we might reach an understanding."

Michael leaned back. She wasn't, he suddenly realized, upset about his so-called awful plans for
Huntington House. She was furious he was in charge. Furious-- and scared.

Why?

He resumed twirling a pencil as if he hadn't a care in the world. The pounding above dimmed to
a more conversational level. "All right. Explain what you're trying to do to me."

She ignored his subliminal message and leaned back to a more natural standing position.
"Huntington House is different. Always has been. Always will be."

He frowned. He hadn't expected this. "In what way? Specifically."

"It's like an unhappily married woman," she said, her voice soft yet firm. "Taken care of,
provided for, sure. But not really, truly loved."

"And you want to really truly love it now?"

Her cheeks flushed but she continued. "Yes. I've loved this house for a long time. It deserves
more than just gloss on the surface. It needs the whole make over. The emotion."

Against his will, he was intrigued-- and more than a little amazed at her description of a view
he'd thought uniquely his own. "By all means, please continue."
"It's magical, mythical. Like Arthur and Camelot. Tradition, honor, chivalry. Huntington House
is a southern belle. Only she's sincere, not flighty or silly." Her voice changed, took on a dreamy,
engaging note. Her whole face softened as her gaze lifted and stared beyond him. "She's
Cinderella going to the ball. She's Sleeping Beauty awaiting true love."

He stared at her. Was she talking about the house or herself? Perhaps both. She and the house
were connected, he realized. In more ways than he'd first believed.

Her face took on a glow of such reverence Michael caught his breath. "Huntington House
represents the last golden age of cavaliers and fair maidens. The last great gasp of all innocent,
noble and virtuous in the whole world. I want this house to reflect all that she holds inside. All
that's been ignored and overlooked for way too long."

A smile tugged at his lips. Yes, they were most definitely talking about her. Something stirred
deep inside, something he thought long dead. His eyes looked into hers and nearly drowned in
the earnest, passionate belief she tried with desperate dreaminess to convey.

"She deserves to be loved, not put on display like some cold ice statue or museum," she
whispered as those aqua eyes pleaded for understanding. His understanding.

He drew in his breath slowly. This was the first positive, honest emotion he'd seen from her. The
ice statue had a heart. A romantic, if naive, one at that.

He understood exactly what that heart said, what it wanted to believe. How or why he
understood, he didn't know. They, he and Rose Anderson, wanted the same things. Dreamed the
same dreams, saw the same images. At least for Huntington House.

He only needed to convince her they did.

But he waited too long. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, the opportunity for spoken
understanding faded as surely as the glow animating her face vanished in an instant like morning
fog in a hot sun.

He stared into a face now as hard and blank as it had previously been softly ebullient. Regret
filled him for what he'd lost. And didn't even know he wanted.

Her voice became just as flat yet more determined than before. "This house has survived storms,
droughts and Sherman's destructive march to the sea. I'm not about to let another Yankee
scalawag come in and--"

"Yankee scalawag?" Michael interrupted. He didn't know whether to be amused or angered by

her outdated insult. He tried to shift into the unfeeling mode again, the one where they faced
each other as opposites. "I assure you I'm not whatever that is."
"Take over as if none of us know what we're doing," her words poured right over the top of his,
ignored the evenness he'd placed in his tone. "I'm in charge. I make the rules for Huntington
House."

Fine, he thought. They'd continue to play the game her way. For now. "That remains to be seen."

She tossed her head, her chin high and pointed. "I make the decisions. I'm sorry that upsets your
over-inflated ego. That's simply the way it is."

He shook his head and refused to let insults draw him into battle. "Is it? Somehow I doubt that,
Rose. And so do you."

A look of utter condescension flooded her expression at his quiet challenge. "I bet even your own
parents don't like you, do they?"

Anger consumed him until all he saw was a thick red haze.

Chapter 4

The hammers above abruptly ceased. The pencil snapped between his fingers.

Rose suppressed a shudder, not at the sharp crackling noise the splintering wood made in the
dead silent room. Oh no, not at that.

She shuddered at the hardness entering his expression, the violent cobalt of his eyes as she stared
into them. He wished her neck instead of that pencil had just snapped into two useless shreds. Or
something close. The clench of his square jaw, the constriction of his fingers on the fragmented
pieces told her.

And subtly warned he wouldn't be pushed any further. She needed a strategic retreat before he
leveled both barrels of those furious guns masquerading as human eyes at her.

She straightened. She refused to let him scare her. He'd listen and follow her directions even if
she had to fight him the entire time, every single torturous step of the way. She'd accept no less
from him.

She'd accept no less from herself.

He tossed the broken pencil aside and slowly got to his feet. She stood her ground and didn't
back away. She was, she thought with a half smile, either very courageous or simply extremely
stubborn.
But this house demanded her strength. It needed her.

Almost as much as she needed it.

She watched him walk around the desk. He stopped inches from where she stood. She made her
spine so straight it could be used as a level and face him dead on.

"I have no intention of continuing this discussion, Ms. Anderson. It's obvious you're determined
to make me quit by making working conditions intolerable. As you no doubt did on the first and
only project in your short but attention-grabbing career."

Rose caught her breath. He knew. Or rather, he knew the story everyone else believed. He didn't,
couldn't, know the truth.

She would rather die before she told him.

"You should have learned by now this no discussion, no compromise attitude of yours will not
win you any friends among builders, architects or construction workers." He bent slightly, made
their eyes level. "Regardless what you do, I will not discontinue this project."

She raised her chin the smallest of fractions and eyed him dead on. All hands to battle positions.
"Never's a long time, St. Lawrence."

He nodded. "You're about to find out just how long. I fully intend to see this house restored."

She took a deep breath. Her chest filled and nearly singed his. "We'll just have to see about that."

"We certainly shall." His unflinching regard unnerved her. He seemed as cold as the marble floor
they would soon install in this room. "How you ever got that construction crew to agree to work
here with you is beyond me."

"They're friends. We've been through a lot together. All of them are extremely capable, hard-
working and dependable," Rose said slowly, unwilling to say much more.

He tilted his head, studied her with those eyes she couldn't begin to read. "They need the money
this project will bring same as you, ehh?"

Her hands fisted. She almost slugged him. Almost. He knew too much, she thought, realized
things she didn't want to discuss, let alone consider.

She tried to throw him off, to put him in the defense chair. "If that's what you think, why are you
here? Spend a little too much in the Louisiana bayou? Lose your fortune on one of the
Mississippi River floating casinos?"

His eyes narrowed. "Let's just say my reasons for taking on this project are my own and leave it
at that."
"Really? You dropped your usual asking fee to restore Huntington House. Why?"

He lifted his hand, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek. The touch threw
her as off guard as his words. "I like a challenge."

In work or play? She almost asked and bit her tongue at the last minute not to blurt it out. How
could he be so gentle with her when his tone and questions were ripping her to shreds? "So you
consider Huntington House a challenge?"

"Among other NC things." His fingers slipped under her chin, lifted her eyes to his.

She blinked to break the intensity of his stare. She swallowed, felt her pulse leap. "You're
fascinated by the lost gold story, huh?"

His hand dropped as his eyes clouded with confusion. "Lost gold?"

"During the Confederate retreat before General Sherman," Rose began, so thankful to have her
history major to fall back on she almost sighed in relief, "a shipment of confederate gold coins
was supposedly lost near here. Rumor says since Huntington House was the only structure
around for fifty miles in 1865, that gold is buried somewhere in this house."

"Really?" he murmured. He stuck his hands into his pockets. "I suppose you think the gold will
show up while we're restoring this house?"

Rose shook her head. "If it ever really existed, it's long gone. The people here then were starving.
Times were horribly hard. Food was scarce and expensive. If there was gold around, whoever
found it would have sold it to buy food and live."

"Maybe he or she buried it with plans to return for it later but wasn't able to come back."

She smiled and nearly laughed. "Ah, I see you're buying into the story, just as most people do.
Aunt Maye and her society plan to use the legend as a drawing point to lure tourists to
Huntington House when it's restored."

His hands slowly tugged from his pockets while he looked at her with eyes gone cool and clear
once more. "Your aunt is the reason you have this job. The reason you believe you're in charge."

Rose flushed from her head to her feet. It may be true, in a blunt way, yet he made it sound like
Maye's position on the society was the only reason Rose was in charge of restoring Huntington
House. And that wasn't the truth.

Entirely.

"Aunt Maye showed my sketches to her society when they were considering applications for
designers. My work stood on its own." She lifted her chin and glared, dared him to refute her.
She may take shots from every other designer and architect in the world, but damned if she'd
take them from him.

Especially when it came to Huntington House.

He lifted a brow but didn't comment.

She gathered her courage and looked away. Then surprised even herself with what she said. "I
think we both know this is the only job I'll be hired to work on. For now. Do us both a favor and
leave before the restoration gets going full steam. I'm sure you have lots of other projects.
Please."

"You'll leave before I do," he whispered, yet she heard his steely note of determination more
clearly than if he'd shouted. "I guarantee you will."

Rose couldn't reply. She'd suddenly become aware just how much heat he emitted. How his spicy
scent waffled through her nose like a deep, undisturbed forest of great pines. How difficult it
stayed to keep her gaze focused on his eyes and not his lips.

Sugar. Double sugar, she cursed silently. That explained the stupid reason she admitted she
couldn't get another job. This melty feeling spinning and churning her insides was attraction. She
hated it, she hated him, but there could be no mistake what she felt. Exactly as she had with
Louis.

Almost.

She was an idiot. A complete, total idiot.

She took a couple of steps back, in annoyance at both herself and him. "I guess we've both said
all there is to say."

"I don't believe we're finished," he drawled behind her.

"We're finished," Rose corrected softly. She didn't dare turn to see what expression might be on
his face now.

Although she wanted to. Greatly.

"For now, perhaps."

"Forever," she muttered, knowing it untrue even before she spoke.

"Running away?"

She refused to rise to his low taunt, or the laughter she heard lurking beneath it. She forced her
feet to the open doorway. "I have work to do."
"Who was he, Rose?"

She halted in mid step. Her defenses crumpled like wood under a chainsaw, scattering all around.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. "Who was who?"

"Oh, you know exactly who I mean." The familiarity in his tone stunned her. He spoke as if he
possessed some inner knowledge of her life, of her thoughts. Which was impossible.

Wasn't it?

"Who made you think you hate all men? That man on your first project? The one named Louis
something or other?"

Her breath lodged in her throat so tightly she couldn't breathe. If she were the imaginative type,
she'd swear he just read her mind. She forced air out of her lungs, drew more swiftly back in.
What a ridiculous notion. He hadn't been inside her mind. He guessed. That's all.

"Why I don't like you has nothing to do with anyone else," she lied, her voice steady. Good thing
she wasn't looking at him. She'd never pull this lie off. "You reinforce my disgust of you with
every word you utter." She continued her departure.

His flint tone stopped her yet again. "The next time you include me in your absurd hatred of all
people from parts of the country other than yours, there'll be dire consequences."

She slowly turned then shuddered, unable to prevent it, all the while hating to let him see his
effect on her.

The tingling along her backbone had nothing to do with fear or apprehension. It had everything
to do with the vow in his eyes. As blue as the center of a red hot flame, they scorched her like a
moth flying to its destruction in the heat.

He wasn't promising physical violence. Oh no. This look was much, much different. Definitely a
lot less subtle. His gaze promised something satisfying and pleasurable. Given a chance, some
shared feeling and mutual respect.

Even as he promised she knew wanting him wouldn't be enough. She wanted more. Despite their
obvious sparks. She needed more.

He didn't promise more. Maybe he couldn't. Louis hadn't been able to.

Besides, how on earth could they ever agree on something as complex, as intimate and ultimate
as making love?

Having sex, she swiftly corrected when she saw his gaze briefly, yet thoroughly, travel over her
body. It wasn't love when only one person felt something. Louis taught her that, too.
She couldn't make the same mistake again. Too much was at stake.

Rose stared at him a minute, then almost ran from the ballroom and up the main staircase. She
entered the first room at the top, slammed the door and leaned weakly against it.

She took a deep breath and wiped her face again. Slowly, methodically, she listed ten American
history dates. 1492. 1587. 1607. 1776. 1781. 1861. 1865. 1941. 1945. 1963. As always, the
simple recital stilled her rapid breathing and relaxed her. History dates were as calming to an
Anderson as counting was to others.

She quietly laughed. She wasn't nearly as upset as she'd thought. Or she'd have automatically
named North Carolina's dates rather than America's. Her state's required more concentration than
her country's.

He was exactly like Louis, no matter what her aunt thought. A playboy out for whatever woman
dumb enough to fall for him. A man determined to step all over anything in his path to get fame
and glory. There was nothing unusual about Michael St. Lawrence. Nothing at all.

Except his incredible sapphire eyes. And his rugged good looks. And his sensual, chocolate
syrup tone. And--

And nothing. She snatched a sketch pad from the floor where she'd left it earlier. "Business," she
muttered as she focused her mind on designing new draperies for this bedroom. "Concentrate on
the business at hand. And that's all."

Chapter 5

The quiet continued for what seemed hours. Rose paused in her eighth sketch to brush back a
lock of unruly hair. The crew must have stopped for lunch. Her thought was confirmed a few
minutes later.

"We've stopped for a pizza break." Melinda, one of the construction crew's best workers, leaned
against the doorway.

Rose grinned at the tall, corn-stalk slender woman. No one who saw Melinda believed she often
worked as hard as any two men. "I knew Aunt Maye's society was paying you too much," she
joked. "Who's the guy with the deep pockets?"

"Michael." Melinda sighed in appreciation, then tugged chestnut hair behind her ears and back
into her severe topknot. "Want to join us?"

Rose shook her head, appetite appalled at the thought of being around him so soon after their last
encounter. "Thanks, anyway."
"There's a chocolate chip pizzert dessert."

The light pastry baked in the shape of a pizza, covered with chocolate sauce and decadent chunks
of chocolate then drizzled with a white glaze was one of her all time favorites. For a moment,
just a weak moment, she was tempted. Then she remembered who had paid for it, who would no
doubt be watching her every bite.

And if he was watching her, she'd have to watch him. His full lips would sink slowly into a piece
of pizza loaded with all the toppings. His tongue would reach out to catch the drop of sauce on
the corner of his mouth and she'd want to--

"No," Rose said as firmly as she could while the image lingered in her mind. "I've got too much
to do."

"Okay." Melinda turned to go. "I'll be more than happy to eat your share along with mine."

"I know," Rose muttered as she started to sketch again. "How you stay so thin when you eat so
much is beyond me."

"It's a gift," Melinda's comment preceded her laughter as she departed.

"Someone certainly wants brownie points," Rose muttered, striking the pad with her pencil a bit
more forcibly than necessary. "Lord, a small fortune could be spent feeding this crew. Especially
given their huge appetites. 'Course, what's a hundred dollars thrown here or there to St.
Lawrence?"

A lot to her. Always had been. Probably always would be. Just like an intimate act between her
and any man must first require trust, respect and deep feeling instead of spur-of-the-moment
uncontrollable lust.

What if she and Michael actually could manage to. . .

"Stop it," she ordered herself aloud. "This silly fantasizing won't work. We're too different. Too
stubborn. There's plenty to keep you occupied. Get busy."

When the hammers and saws resumed an hour or so later, she quit sketching to inspect the
bedrooms. She found a couple of rotted floorboards, a few patches in the plaster walls. Complete
new furnishings, draperies, electrical lighting. That was all.

Her eyes drifted closed. She could see it all so clearly in her mind.

Four of the larger bedrooms were actually suites, with their own attached baths, dressing and
sitting rooms. All the floors would be left in their natural pine state, refinished then polished to
bring the wood's grain closer to the surface. The upper porch which ran the length of the three
front rooms would be restored and strengthened.
The walls would be painted a deep rich blue or repapered in delicate florals. The chair railing and
matching crown molding, carved with florets, would be painted rich ivory to match the window
and door trim.

The window seats would be filled with thick cushions and plump pillows. Satin draperies would
hang over the arched windows. Misty lace panels in white and a twin shade would close out the
world or open the room to light and air.

The furniture would be dark cherry in the three back bedrooms and golden oak in the front,
slightly more feminine ones. Globe lamps with flower patterned shades would provide night time
light. Pine hope chests would hold delicately scented sheets and hand-made quilts at the foot of
each four poster bed. Deep feather mattress and lace edged sheets would invite happy dreams.
Graceful feminine vanities with dainty curved legs and little padded stools would be perfect
partners for the tall elegant wardrobes and slender standing oval mirrors. Two button backed
chairs would circle each fireplace.

Yet the fireplaces themselves would be the focus of each room. Their black marble would be
scrubbed to gleaming. Needlepoint footstools, positioned between the chairs, would be in front
of every hearth, a comfortable, leg-stretching distance from the brass screens and matching
utensils. Curved, carved mantles housing delicate silver tin types, candlesticks and vases of fresh
flowers would draw the eye up to the gilded mirror reflecting the entire room.

Rose sighed and opened her eyes. Soon. It would all be real soon.

She brushed grime from her jeans. She always dressed causally. Interning with this crew had
taught her very early little progress came from maintaining clean amidst flying sawdust. Or
pretending a fashion sophistication she definitely didn't possess.

Annie, on the other hand. . .

She smiled a little as she thought of her partner. "Good ole Annie," she muttered. "Who nearly
had a heart attack on our first job when she backed into a freshly painted wall and destroyed her
expensive suit."

She laughed outright as the scene flashed through her mind. Annie, in her red leather suit,
backing into a bright blue wall. She'd looked like a clown, or a image from an old I Love Lucy
show.

"Served her right," Rose muttered as she brushed more dirt from her jeans. "Coming to a site in
those spike heels and ridiculous long nails. And that bottle of perfume she'd poured on herself."

Of course, from that day on, Annie never came to a site before it was finished. Which left Rose
to do all of the work.

"Like I mind." Rose straightened, stretched her back and arms. "It's probably better we aren't in
contact more. I'd rather work alone. And I hate the smell of her perfume."
While Annie was as different from Rose as black from white, they actually made a decent team.
Rose provided the work. Annie provided the needed start-up money, social contacts and all the
glamour. It wasn't such a bad arrangement.

She wandered back to collect her sketches and notes. A piece of the chocolate dessert from
lunchtime lay on a paper plate atop her notebooks. She smiled. God bless Melinda.

She bit into the dessert, eyes closing automatically as the taste of sweet pastry and soul-soothing
rich chocolate slipped over her tongue. Who cared who paid for this? It was like eating a slice of
Heaven. She groaned and finished the piece in three bites.

She was looking for a napkin to wipe her fingers when the hammers stopped once more. She
frowned and slipped out into the hallway. What now?

"Miss Anderson?"

She halted in the middle of the wide staircase. A smile touched her lips. "Hello, Mark. Is there a
problem?"

"We finished pulling down the old molding." Mark, crew foreman, pointed to a mass of rotted
boards with wicked, rusty nails. He dusted his hands on his blue jean jacket. "We piled them here
at the bottom of the stairs. Just like Mister St. Lawrence asked."

Rose lost her smile. "He told you that? Why? None are salvageable. Someone could get hurt by
those nails."

Mark shrugged. "That's what I said too. But he didn't listen."

"He'll listen to me," Rose said firmly and took a step down.

Mark shook his head. "Please, Miss Anderson. You just stay right here until I get someone to set
aside them boards. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

Her lips curled again. Mark was a bit overprotective. Annie teased her mercilessly about his
crush, too. "I know my way around. I'll be--"

She took a step and tripped. A scream ripped her throat.

Objects raced past in super fast motion. Falling. Fast. So fast. Straight toward the nails pointed
directly at her face.

No, not nails. Huge, gaping, jagged teeth of a hungry shark. She fought, grabbed at skidding
steps and slippery railing determined to defy her desperate hands. She had to stop! Those teeth
would soon pierce her unprotected skin, possibly kill her.

She never felt a bite or so much as a nip.

She lay motionless against a hard, immovable object under her back, stunned and disbelieving.
She'd miraculously missed the unmissable pile. Hit the floor instead.

She kept her eyes closed to catch her breath. And inventoried what was broken. Surely
something had to be after that fall.

And, sure enough, something was broken. Not on her. Under her. The floor moved. Breathed.
Laughed. Spoke.

"Falling for me already, Ms. Anderson?" a husky voice whispered in her hair. "You'll never
know what this does for my ego. And so soon after our last meeting, too."

Please God, Rose prayed desperately, perform another miracle. Let me be imagining his
heartbeat under my ear. His voice and smell and everything about him. Please.

Naturally, of course, too much to ask after her tumble. The fall itself was safe. The landing was
what became dangerous now.

Her eyes slid open. Her head tilted back to meet the unflinching regard of sapphire beacons. The
floor? Ha. What an idiot she'd been to even consider such an insane thing. Floors were simple,
functional, immovable.

Lord knew, there was nothing remotely simple or functional about the man holding her.
Although immovable fit to a tee.

Michael St. Lawrence stood between her body and the nail infested boards. He held her
awkwardly, half her body twisted on the step above, half of her, especially her breasts, pressed
intimately against his chest and hands. A secure, unwavering hold.

He spoke with that infuriating mocking tone ruining what could have otherwise been a sexy,
exceptionally libido increasing moment. "Did you fall for me or the piece of dessert I left for
you? Melinda said it was your favorite."

"Let go." Rose gathered the shreds of her dignity and wiggled her legs under the rest of her.
"This doesn't mean I'm falling for anyone. Especially you."

"Too bad," she imagined he muttered as he pushed her upright.

"Miss Anderson, are you okay?" Mark appeared at her side the moment Michael released her. He
twisted his hands into knots, his brown eyes clouded. "I'm so sorry I didn't catch you. It all
happened so fast."

"I'm fine," Rose patted his arm. "It was a stupid accident. I'm fine." Actually, she could barely
keep from shaking all over like a leaf in a strong wind. She wasn't about to admit such a thing in
front of St. Lawrence, though.
Even if he had managed to prevent a nasty accident. Even if he was looking at her with that
stranger-than-an-eclispe light beckoning from his eyes.

And even if he had brought her a piece of her all-time favorite dessert.

"Are you sure? Can I get you something? A cold drink or a blanket or something?"

Rose grinned again. "No, thank you. I'm okay. Really. Please have those boards taken off before
someone does get hurt, though."

"Yes, Miss Anderson. Right away." Mark frowned. "You know, we fixed these steps this
morning. There weren't any loose ones before lunch. Funny how there'd be one this afternoon to
make you fall."

You'll leave before I do. I guarantee. It screamed through her mind as Mark left. The steps had
been fixed. She hadn't noticed any loose ones when she went up.

And he'd had to come up to bring her the dessert. . .

He intended to get rid of her. He'd known she was on the upper floors. That she'd have to come
down some time. He'd ordered those boards placed at the bottom. And. . .

Why did he jump in to save you? a tiny part of her spinning mind asked. Why risk injury himself?
Why make it so easy to suspect him?

Her hand trembled as she pushed back her hair. She had no answers. Only questions.

And a lot of lingering doubts.

"Ms. Anderson?"

Her gaze skidded from the inquiry in his. "I. . . there's something I need to do upstairs." She fled
back upstairs without a backward glance, careful to avoid the loose step.

Michael stared at her back. What the hell was wrong? She acted terrified. Not from the near
accident. But of him. Ungrateful female.

He shrugged. Whatever. He didn't expect her thanks. A simple thank you instead of that Bambi-
in-headlights act would have been nice, though. He climbed up to inspect the loose step.

It had definitely been tampered with. The nails securing it had been pulled up just enough to
make it loose, yet not enough to be seen unless someone looked closely.

She could have been killed.

Good God. He'd nearly went up in flames when he felt her soft breasts pressing against him. He
hated to think what might have happened to her satiny skin had he not acted so quickly when he
saw her start to fall.

He leaned against the wall. Her huge, sea hued eyes all but swallowed her face after Mark spoke
about fixing the steps. Why? A delayed reaction because she'd almost been skewered? Did she
know something? Like who might have tampered with the step?

Or could she also be terrified by this consuming, way-too-strong-for-comfort attraction between

them?

Either way, she'd fled like some timid, shrinking wallflower.

He chuckled and started back down the stairs. Rose Anderson could never be described as timid,
shrinking or a wallflower. She'd be noticed in a crowd bigger than the Time's Square New Year's
Eve celebration. Her blue-green eyes and unshakable stubborn streak would make certain of that.

She'd eaten the peace offering he'd left her. She still had a trace of chocolate sauce on the left
corner of her lip. He smiled, then immediately frowned. She'd accept his tokens, yet still act
scared? Why? What was going on?

"Blasted female," he muttered as he walked back to the ballroom. He didn't have time for
mysteries. He had his own plans. And he wasn't about to give them up.

Not even to someone with hair the rich color of honey, eyes the stormy shade of ocean waves
and a face that had haunted his dreams last night.

Good God. Even her back appealed. Nipped in waist. Pert little bottom. Long, lean legs in form-
fitting jeans. Too attractive by half. Aroused him too far by half.

He either needed to make love with her or throttle her. The former appealed more to his inflamed
senses. Especially considering she'd relaxed into his embrace before realizing who held her. If
she'd only be that soft and trusting, that gloriously desirable when they were alone. . .

Good God. They'd be explosive together.

His fingers thrust through his hair. Explosive. Right.

If he heard just one more time the south was superior to the north. . . Or he didn't understand
anything about the south. . . Or she was more qualified to judge how the house should be
restored than he. . . Or even that southerners didn't do things like northerners. . .He'd just as soon
strangle her and end their joint misery.

He sighed. She wanted this house restored perfectly? He'd prove he was the only one who could
do just that. Then he'd prove how quickly he could melt all that fake ice she enclosed herself in.
Maybe then he could solve the mystery that was Rose Anderson.

Chapter 6

"It was just your imagination," Rose muttered as she wrapped her arms around her waist and all
but squeezed the breath from her lungs. "A fantasy built by a near death experience."

She'd believed, for a split second, that step had been fixed so she'd fall and be injured, possibly
even killed. Someone wanted her gone from Huntington House.

And he or she was willing to kill her to get rid of her.

That's it, her mind cut in. Plan an entire Gothic novel. Helpless female, some rotten, dark villain,
mysterious accidents. You should be a fiction writer.

"All right," Rose muttered aloud, "who tampered with the step? Who wants me off this project
badly enough to scare me? Mark doesn't. None of the crew do. I certainly don't."

Michael St. Lawrence did. He'd said so. She frowned. Well, he'd almost said so.

Yet, he didn't seem the type to deliberately cause injury, no matter what she thought he'd implied
earlier. If he wanted to hurt her, he'd had plenty of opportunity last night.

"Besides, St. Lawrence's gorgeous with lots of experience. He knows exactly what he's doing
with that sexy smile and sensual tone," Rose kicked at dust bunnies trailing the hardwood floor,
watched them scatter with a sense of wrath. "He'd seduce me then get me to quit while in the
throes of passion."

Seduce her. Lord, what a wonderfully intriguing notion. Her blood heated and her knees went
weak just at the thought of being under him-- better yet, atop him while they. . .

But there was more. So much more.

He'd brought her dessert. No man had ever done anything like that before. Such a sweet,
romantic gesture. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him thinking of her, carrying that piece of
pizzert all the way upstairs, laying it on her book for her to find.

Had he stood in the room and daydreamed, too? Imagined what Huntington House would look
like when they were finished? How beautiful it would be?

Or did he simply see another project? Another jewel in his glittering crown of a career?

And what about her? What did he really think of her? He knew of her reputation, knew no one
else would hire her. Yet he still came to Huntington House, still agreed to be the architect.
Why?

There were plenty of other houses to restore. What made a man of his caliber come to
Huntington House? Especially when he denied knowing about the legend of the lost gold.

Why was he here?

Better yet, why did he stay?

"It doesn't matter why," Rose mumbled as she walked across the room. "His reasons are his own,
just as mine are. I've got to keep this all in focus, all business-like. I'd be a fool to think anything
else could ever be between us."

Business. Or one causal night in his bed. At the most.

"For heaven's sake." Rose gathered a bucket of water and cleaning fluid and prepared to take on
cleaning the marbled fireplace. "Get a grip and get to work. It saved your sanity before. It will
now. And keep you from talking to yourself."

She'd be on her guard now. Fully armed as she watched for more loose steps or something
similar. She was ready for anything.

She hoped.

Hours later, Rose cautiously returned down the stairs. It was late, well after sunset. The crew
always quit at five. The silence inside and out announced today had been no exception.

She probably should have quit, too. Yet she'd become so involved she had, as usual, not paid
attention to anything else. At first, she meant just to clean a portion of the marble, just to see how
it would look.

That portion had gradually grown bigger and bigger until she finally leaned back, blew whips of
hair from her face and determined she'd uncovered so much of the marble beneath the grime she
might as well uncover the rest.

Now it was so late. So dark. So reminiscent of last night. The stillness so profound she could
almost hear dust settling.

"I'm not afraid," she lied as she inched toward the ballroom's glow. "St. Lawrence is an architect.
He wouldn't dare harm me. I'll show him some good old fashioned southern karate if he so much
as raises one finger toward me."

"I've been waiting for you."

Rose halted half way into the room. She stood straighter and gazed directly at the man leaning
against his desk. As he moved forward, his broad back and shoulders blocked much of the light
behind him. Deliberate? She'd bet on it.

She cleared her throat and focused on a spot just over his right shoulder. "Something you
wanted, St. Lawrence?"

His soft laugh washed over her like the darkness of night. "Oh yes, Ms. Anderson. There's
definitely something I want."

Rose swallowed. Hard. "Regarding the house?"

"No. Something more. . . personal." He shifted again, as if unable to keep still for a second. A
mere footstep separated them. "Regarding you. And me."

An image, unbidden and unwanted right then, slammed through her brain. Her heart nearly
jumped from her chest. She saw herself flat on her back. On this floor. As she'd been last night.
He towered above her, his large body braced on his elbows. Their eyes met, held. Their lips
joined as surely as their bodies would. Long past arguing. About to. . .

She attempted to lie anyway, to deny her mind's ridiculous flight of fantasy. "I. . . I don't have the
faintest idea what you mean. Personal? What has that to do with me?"

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" His large palm cupped her face and exerted just
enough pressure to pull her closer to him without hurting her.

She swallowed again. That blasted lump in her throat just wouldn't stay down. "I don't. Let go of
me."

He released her, his hand falling to his side. He didn't need his hands. His gaze held her as surely
as his fingers might. His warmth, his very presence, made her feel like she stood in his embrace.

And Lord help her, she felt safe. Secure. Protected.

He leaned closer, his words a breath of a whisper against her cheek. "Shall I show you what I
mean?"

"No," she whispered, turning from his lips just in the very nick of time. He'd read her mind, no
doubt this time. Too sharp, too on the mark to be anything else.

She lifted her hands to push at him. He caught her fingers and lifted them to his lips. She caught
her breath as the thought hit her with a slam in her stomach. His hands. Something about his
hands. . .

They were rough. Calloused. He'd worked. Really worked. Hard, down-and-dirty labor.
Construction? Carpentry, perhaps?
Rigging a step to make certain someone tripped?

"Rose," he muttered in that chocolate syrup tone so very, very hard to resist. "Don't--" A sharp,
cracking sound crashed over his words.

She found her mind's image recreated. Her body flat on the floor. His atop hers. She struggled,
yet stopped abruptly when the more shots of shattering glass crashed into the stillness. The huge,
multiple French doors burst inward. Razor-edged missiles littered their forms along with an
unmistakable warm wetness over her neck.

She struggled again, cutting her hands on the glass and wood bits lining the floor. He held her
down and still, his hands oddly gentle and comforting as they glided over her skin.

"Wait," his lips over her ear murmured with velvet softness. "Let's make certain there isn't
anything more to come."

"But you're. . . I'm. . . one of us is bleeding," Rose stammered, desperate to make him move
before she did something to regret in a saner moment. Like kiss him. "We need to stop it." What
an understatement. "Catch whoever just vandalized the house."

"Stay still." He shifted his body more until she was covered. Bathed in his heat, hardness and
masculine smell.

Good Lord, no bubble bath ever felt this good. Nothing on earth matched the sudden security,
warmth and desire she felt right at this second. He felt it, too. Some, anyway. She couldn't
mistake the effect on his body, the pulsating hardness of him against the junction of her thighs.
So close. So very close.

Like her dream. . . If only she knew him better. If only. . .

If only she trusted him.

He shifted and stood when no further doors smashed. He helped her up, pulled a bandana from
his back pocket then dabbed at her cuts. "Are you hurt?"

She fought to speak, to understand. All but one of the lovely French doors across from them
were now shattered in jagged pieces on the floor. Cement blocks lay like condemning mockers
here and there, proving what had shattered the glass.

"Rose," he asked, his tone a tad urgent as his fingers cupped her chin and returned her gaze to
his. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, shivered under his soothing touch. Her gaze flew to the broken glass then back to
his. "Michael. . ."
"What?" His gaze trailed over her. Not in lust, she quickly saw, but in concern, as if he were
checking for injuries.

He cared if she was hurt? Why?

Or was it all an extremely convincing act?

She shivered again, drew his gaze back to her face. "I'm fine. I just don't-- You're bleeding!"

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. Nothing serious though."

"Are you sure?" The cuts along the side of his face and down his neck oozed blood at, to her, an
alarming rate. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor."

He smiled as he finished tending her minor scratches and went to work on his own. "Sweetheart,
I'm fine. Believe me, I've survived more than this in my life."

"Why?" she demanded as he pressed the bandana along the scratches nicking the side of his neck
and face.

"Why have I survived? Simple. I like to live."

"No," she said, as impatience crept into her tone. She waved a hand at the debris behind her.
"Why would someone vandalize this house?"

"I believe the question is who." His dark blue eyes, fathomless as the deep reaches of space,
studied her with a look she couldn't even begin to decipher. "Who wants to kill you, Ms.
Anderson? Besides me of course”

Chapter 7

"Mac."

"Mic?"

"Yeah. I have some work for you. If you're interested."

"You know I am. It's not like there's anything else to occupy my time these days. So. What's up?
Need a background on a new flame?"

"No." Michael raked a hand through his hair. "A complete on Rose M. Anderson. Got that?"
"Yeah. Rose M. Anderson. Complete, ehh? Serious?"

"You bet. There's something very strange about her. I intend to find out exactly what before she
ruins my reputation as an architect." He sank onto the bed with a slight groan. Three steaming
showers hadn't really helped. Slamming full force upon hard pine floors twice in two nights
definitely couldn't be any worse than having four or five three hundred pound men come
stampeding toward you on a football field.

Even if he had landed on the softest thing he'd ever felt.

"This the decorator you mentioned to Devon when y'all talked before you flew down there?"

Michael sighed as he rotated his stiff, aching shoulders. "That son of yours never keeps anything
to himself, does he?"

"Not about you. First time either of us have known the famed St. Lawrence charm and
magnetism to fail with a woman. You usually have 'em falling by the road in droves two seconds
after you pass. If it takes that long. Lost your touch, have you?"

Michael grinned, though doing so tugged at the scratch on his face and made it flame. "Don't
hold your breath. I haven't given up yet."

"Didn't think for a minute you would. Got to stick to the plan at all times, isn't that a fact?"

"That's a fact. While you're at it, get the low down on Ms. Anderson's aunt. Name's Maye. Same
last name. No middle initial. Lives in Aberdeen. Know where that is?"

"I've heard of it. And I know how to use a map."

"But can you fold one?"

"Can you?"

He silently conceded the point. "Get back to me soon as possible with anything you find out.
And I do mean anything. No matter how small."

"Personal, too?"

"Of course."

A low whistle proceeded the next words. "Sounds serious to me."

"No one messes with my reputation. No one."

"I heartily second that." Silence, followed by, "I'll do my best, Mic. Call me tomorrow. Same
time. I'll give you what I've dug up then."
"Thanks. I owe you one."

Michael replaced the phone in its cradle and tried to summon the energy to take another long, hot
shower.

He fell asleep with visions of Rose in his arms instead.

Several blocks away, Rose sank into a tub of warm bubbles. She sighed with pleasure and
ducked beneath the water. After she surfaced and wiped creamy bubbles from her face, she
slicked back her hair and sighed again.

Ahh. Exactly what she needed after the day she'd just been through. The small cuts on her hands
stung when the bubbles touched them. As if she needed any reminders.

Idiot architect. Imagine asking who wanted to kill her. Besides himself. As if she had a enemy in
the world besides--

The telephone rang, almost on cue. She grinned and picked up the cordless she'd laid on the floor
by the tub. "Hello Auntie."

"How did you know it was me?"

"A good guess."

"Oh. well, since I usually call every night around this time, I suppose that had something to do
with it, too." Her aunt laughed then said, "I hear you had some trouble at the house tonight."

Rose sat up with a splash. "How do you know that? I didn't tell anyone. Did--"

"Mike called me."

"He what?!"

"He called to report on the house's progress. I left a message on his hotel machine because I
knew he'd call me. I left one for you, too, but you hadn't called so I thought I find out your side
now. What happened?"

"Someone threw some cement blocks through the French doors. They're shattered beyond repair.
All but one."

"Well, we were going to replace them anyway."

Rose almost pulled the phone from her ear to stare at it in disbelief. "Aunt Maye, that's not the
point. Someone deliberately smashed those doors."

"Yes dear, I heard you the first time. Do you have any idea who?"
Rose relaxed some, let a hand idly trail through water and bubbles. "No, not really. I can't think
of anyone who'd vandalize Huntington House." She shook her head, sent water droplets flying
from her wet hair. "I can't understand it."

"Neither can I. But Mike seems to think the incident was somehow related to you."

"Oh he does, does he?" Rose slapped at the bubbles as they lapped around her waist. She was
rewarded with a face full of water. She blinked and reached for a towel to wipe it away. "For all I
know, he paid someone to smash those doors."

"He was trying to keep you from being hurt."

Rose ignored the quiet voice of reason on at the end of the line and snorted. "Right. Plus he
suggested we not call the police like I wanted. What's he trying to hide if he's so darn innocent?"

"He's trying to keep the media away. His name commands attention. He's only trying to protect--
"

"Himself."

"And you." Her aunt sighed. "Rosy, it wouldn't do for anyone to have a bunch of reporters
sniffing and snooping around. It'll be bad enough when the media gets wind of where he is. He's
protecting all of us."

"Yeah sure. My dead body at Huntington House would definitely mess up his fine reputation,
wouldn't it?"

"Do not ever talk like that again."

Rose bent her head at the sharp command in her aunt's tone. "I'm sorry to upset you."

"I know you've had a bad scare," her aunt's voice changed to a softer, more loving tone. "I know
you're tired. Get some sleep. In the morning all this will look brighter."

Aunt Maye. The eternal optimist. Rose sighed, slipped from the tub and wrapped her body in a
fluffy white towel. "Okay, okay. I'll talk to you later, then."

"I think it's wonderful to see a man stand up for himself and to you without completely steam
rolling you," her aunt observed in the same quiet tone which used to urge Rose to finish her
homework before she could watch t.v.

"Without completely. . . Sugar and double sugar!" Rose exclaimed as she yanked a comb
through her hair. "Ramming me out of his way, not to mention the entire project, is exactly what
he's trying to do."

"With that attitude, it's a wonder he doesn't get riled. Maybe you should just quit."
Rose sucked in her breath. "Aunt Maye! How can you even suggest such a thing?"

Her aunt sighed. "Rosy, look. I know how hard it was for you to pick up the pieces after Louis. I
know how much Huntington House means to you. But I'm not going to sit back and watch you
shove a perfectly decent man away because of some left-over bitterness you need to let go of. It's
over. Done. Finished. Give Mike a chance."

Thoroughly disgusted at the weakness in her that wanted to do just that, Rose muttered, "I'm
sorry I've been such a pain to you."

"That's all right. You know I love you and will support you no matter what you do. But I won't
let you turn into a dried up old spinster over a man not fit to lick the ground you walk over. Now
go get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

Rose felt like an eight-year-old caught cheating on a test. "Thanks, Auntie. Good night."

"Good night, Rosy. Sleep well."

Of course, she didn't sleep well. Between her mind conjuring up images of Michael St. Lawrence
as a vengeful murderer out to kill her one minute and erotic scenes of them entwined together on
the floor without shattering glass, mutual distrust and animosity separating them the next she was
awake nearly all night.

Not to mention all the guilt she felt at letting her aunt down. Maye had raised her, always been
there for her. Was she really so caught in her own bitterness she was hurting the ones who really
did love her?

She found no answers in the dark night. Or in the faint gray which finally began to filter into her
room.

The steadily pouring rain falling from the heavily overcast sky didn't improve her gloomy mood.
If the sun had only been shinning, she could at least consign all the sensual dream stuff and guilt
to an over tired mind. The murderer part, too. Maybe.

But not likely.

Her luck didn't look bright, either. The very person whose image she constantly saw last night
was the first and only soul at the house when she arrived.

"I told the crew to take some time off until it stops raining," he informed her the moment she
walked through the front door.

"There's plenty of jobs inside," Rose replied in a disgruntled tone. She shook out her sodden
umbrella, placed it near the door then removed her equally wet raincoat. "The crew needs this
job to support families. What makes you think you have the right to--"
"You ran off like a scared rabbit last night," he cut in, his eyes hard as flint as he studied her
face.

She took a quick, deep breath. "Of course I did. After we finished covering the doors, I wanted to
catch the people responsible for the vandalism since you wouldn't let me call the police."

He waved a hand, dismissing her attempt to switch subjects. "Don't you feel there are some
things we need to discuss?"

"Such as?" Rose unloaded her backpack of sketch pads and pencils, trying to appear
unconcerned, unaffected.

Unafraid.

"Why are so many accidents happening to you?"

She shrugged as she strolled into the ballroom. "This is a construction site. If you spent any time
around one, you'd know mishaps happen all the time." She stared at shoe molding heaped on the
floor. That pile had not been there last night. "Who--"

"I did," he replied behind her.

He pulled up those rotten boards from along the floor? Mister Big Name Architect? She shook
her head. "You? Really?"

"Well, Good God, don't sound so surprised," he said. She caught a note of impatience in his tone.
"I do know how to remove nails. I interned with a construction company for eight summers."

That surprised her even more. "You worked on a crew?"

"The only way to know every restoration aspect is to experience every part. Isn't that why you
work with the crew here?"

"Partly," she said and resumed walking. "The money helps too."

"No arguments there. I earned enough to pay my way through college."

Rose turned and glared at him. "Like you ever needed to worry about money."

No emotion whatsoever showed in his face. Yet his hands clenched into fists. "I'm familiar with
what goes on at a construction site. And I do actually get my hands dirty."

She wondered at the almost perceptible tension radiating from him. His family was well-known
and wealthy. Surely he didn't hold her surprise at him saying he needed money against her.
She shrugged again, at him and at her questions. Nonchalance might make him slip and reveal
something. "There's no need for all this third degree about the accidents then. Mishaps occur all
the time."

"Mishaps?" He pointed at the plywood-covered doors lining one side of the huge room. They had
been the only source of natural light. It seemed dimmer inside the room today than it had late the
night they met. "You call those shattering like a house of cards a mishap?"

"No," Rose said softly. She switched on another desk lamp to dispel some of the lingering
shadows. "I don't. No more than I call that trick step and those boards at the bottom of the steps
an accident."

He leapt across the space separating them with all the grace and quickness of a panther stalking
its evening meal. He snagged her shoulders in twin grips of iron. She almost winced under the
pressure. "I did not know about the step and I did not know about those boards being at the
bottom of the staircase."

She drilled her gaze into his with all the supposed calmness of a sturdily built structure standing
firm against a destructive storm. "Mark said they placed the boards there at your order."

He stared back. He didn't once blink. She saw the first hint of something besides anger or lust in
his blue eyes. She saw concern, disbelief, suspicion. But no triumph.

Was she wrong about him?

"I didn't give any such order," he denied. "I don't give a damn what that foreman told you."

"Mark has no reason to lie. He isn't capable of sabotage on a project. None of the crew are," she
maintained stubbornly, determined not to let his powerful eyes make her falter.

Or distract her from gaining the truth.

"How do you know? Because they're southerners like you? Or because he's not me?" His grip
tightened, his voice rough as they locked eyes in silent battle.

She glared at him. "I can't believe you'd suggest Mark is responsible for that step."

He lips twisted into something that was more sneer than grin. "I didn't suggest it, Rose. You did."

She couldn't help it. Even with all the tension radiating from his fingers and into her arms she
threw back her head and laughed. "Please. Mark? He's so quiet I hardly even know he's around
most of the time. And unlike some men around here, Mark doesn't have to be the center of
attention all the time, either."
"So you think I'm the one who rigged that step?"

"Someone put those boards there and rigged the step." She attempted to shrug off his hold. He
tightened it more.

"And you think it was me?" he repeated, firmer this time, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"You've made it more than plain you don't exactly like me."

"You've made it just as plain you don't like me."

"You guaranteed I'll leave the project before you will," Rose continued, fighting the absurd
impulse to melt into his embrace. "You tell me who you'd suspect."

He cursed beneath his breath. A trace of cynical humor appeared in his eyes. "You honestly think
I'd try to kill you? Risk my own reputation?"

She stared at him while the rain beat against the plywood with the tempo of a conga drum. She
almost hated herself for what she had to ask. "Would you?"

He released her with a shove that nearly sent her sprawling. "What do you think?"

His anger pounded at her with all the force of a category five hurricane. "I think I know Mark
and the crew. I think I know nothing about you. Or what you might or might not do."

"That's for damn certain," he muttered, running a hand through the gold of his hair.

His reply made her furious. He hadn't denied involvement in the accident. Again. She'd been
trying to give him every chance. Idiot. Her and him.

But if he thought she'd let all this go, tuck her tail between her legs and quit the project, well, he
was in for one gigantic surprise.

His rage was a hurricane? Ha. Hers was a dozen whirling, vicious tornadoes spawned from that.
"I'm not going to be easy to get rid of, St. Lawrence. Better luck next time."

"For God's own sake!" he burst out, raking his hair again. "Quit being so damned melodramatic
and help me solve this."

"Help you remove me from this project?" She shook her head, even more angry because his hair
looked better all rumbled. He looked like he'd just crawled out of bed after an extremely
satisfying night of sex. "My. You do intend to stretch southern hospitality, don't you?"

"Oh hell," he cursed, his tone heavy with disgust and something she couldn't identify.
"As for being overly dramatic, you're the one who asked me last night who besides you wanted
to kill me." Rose walked around the make shift desk. She'd throw it at him if he didn't outright
deny or confirm her suspicions. "Furthermore--"

A growl stopped her in mid-sentence and mid-stride. She glanced under the desk as a large, two-
tone brown dog emerged from beneath. For a split second, neither it nor Rose moved a muscle.
Rose doubted either of them so much as breathed.

"Is it yours?" he asked suddenly, appearing directly behind her like a towering guardian angel.

She shook her head. The animal growled again. Her heart melted at the trapped look on its face.
"I've never seen him. Must be a stray that wanted to come in out of the rain."

"Strays are dangerous," his whispered. His warm breath flowed over her neck like a gentle
caress. "Let's back out of here very slowly and call animal control."

"But what if he's hurt?" Rose hissed back. The dog took a few steps forward to sniff the air
around her shoes. It then moved off to her side. She turned slowly to watch as he sniffed around
the floor of the room.

"Let animal control handle it. He might turn on you and--"

"No." Rose stepped away, drawing both his furious hiss and the dog's renewed attention. "He
needs help. Come here, sweetie. It's okay. I won't hurt you."

"Rose," her name was a long, drawn out sigh. "Damn it. If that animal bites you--"

"Shh! You'll scare him. Come on. It's okay." Rose dropped to her knees and carefully crawled
toward the unmoving canine.

She'd almost reached it when the sound began.

Deep wailing moans. A thousand lost souls turned out of Heaven facing eternal damnation in
hell. Groaning. Creaking. Screeching. The agonized sounds of a beast in tortuous death.

Impossible to describe. Ten times worse than nails on a chalkboard. One hundred times worse
than ambulance sirens. It swelled, filled the room and entire house with shouting. Moaning.
Cursing.

Glancing up toward the source of the unholy noise, Rose stared, dumbfounded. Her entire body
froze in place.

A massive wooden ceiling beam fell directly above her. Plaster showered her in a frantic blizzard
of musty, cream-colored flakes.
She stared through the snow-like flakes, able to count each and every knot in the falling timber.
Able to smell its dampness. Capable of tasting her own fear in the back of her throat. Hearing
only those unearthly moans become something like maniacal laughter.

A blow to the small of her back sent her tumbling, scrambling to one side. Away from beneath
the falling beam.

And certain death.

She lay on her stomach, feeling crushed regardless. Breath gone, heart lodged firmly somewhere
around her windpipe. The floor under her body groaned and shook from the beam's impact. The
air snatched at her, revolted in a crazy dance from the backlash. Clouds of dust and more plaster
filled the air. Blinded her. Choked her.

But strangely, calming. Making her not afraid anymore.

Though Lord knew, she really should be.

CHAPTER 8

"Are you hurt?" Michael asked in a voice gruff with suppressed emotion. Most of the debris had
cleared from the air. Nothing except raindrops on the roof and their joint jerky breaths could be
heard once again.

She didn't respond, lying motionless under his protective weight.

"Rose?" he maneuvered off her, peered into her face. He cursed softly at the numb shock veiling
her aqua eyes.

He carried her limp body to a narrow bench he'd constructed less than an hour ago. He sank onto
it and cradled her close against his still thrashing heart. He stared at the floor then gently turned
her head more fully into his chest.

Not yet. She'd see. She'd know. Later. Much later.

His gaze moved to the beam. Then to the ceiling. Good holy God.

Plaster still drifted from the now bare spot. The beam had held solid and dependable for
centuries. Massive, as big around as four men his size. Weighed nearly a quarter of a ton. How
the hell could it have come loose? He'd inspected each and every beam not two days ago. None
had been anything near loose.

What the hell was going on?

Her slim form began to shake with the aftermath of shock.

He tightened his embrace. She felt butter soft and fragile in his arms, her cheek pressed to his
chest, her weight barely noticeable.

But she smelled like wild flowers and life. Glorious, pulsating life. He wanted nothing more,
right then, but to hold her like this for the next month, year, century.

He stroked her hair, her back. Pieces of ceiling plaster clung to his sweat slick hands. He shook
them off and noticed how his hands trembled. He experienced shock, too, then.

This soft warmth could have been lying hard and cold in some morgue, her aqua eyes never to
open again. She'd almost been killed. While he watched.

Michael took a deep breath. He concentrated on calming his own unsteady emotions. "Are you
all right?"

She nodded slowly, yet didn't move away. She seemed to need his warmth almost as much as he
needed hers. "It. . . that beam almost crushed me."

"I know," he whispered and suppressed a shudder at how close she'd come to death.

"I guess I should thank you for saving my life," her voice was soft and oddly steady. "Again."

He almost smiled. "I guess you should."

"You tackling me is becoming a habit, isn't it?"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes as her arms slid around his waist and held on tight. Good God. Why should he
be so relieved? They'd done nothing but fight. Sure, he wanted her, but this rising tide of
whatever inside him had nothing to do with lust. It went deeper. Much deeper.

Yet he had no idea why.

"Thank you for saving my life."

"You're welcome." His dry, unconcerned tone told nothing, he hoped, of his thoughts.

A few seconds later she said, "Don't you think we should call the police now? I mean, is
Huntington House safe? What if the crew comes and someone gets hurt or--"

"Rose, sweetheart," he cut in softly, resisting the impulse to kiss her hair. "Let's handle this
between us a little while longer, alright?"
"But what if someone gets hurt or--"

"I won't let that happen. I won't let anything happen to you," he amended and meant the words
with all his being. Mac had to find out who was behind these incidents soon. And when he did,
Michael would see to the punishment personally.

He didn't have time to wonder at this strange new protectiveness he felt. "Michael?" she asked in
a hesitate, unsure tone.

She sounded exactly like he felt. "Yes, Rose?"

"I'm sorry I called you a Yankee scalawag."

He laughed with genuine amusement. "I'm sorry if I acted like one. Whatever one is."

She paused. He waited, almost dreading what she might say next. And sure enough, she asked,
"Why did you work summers with a construction crew?"

"I didn't want to be in some sterile office while others did my dirty work." Would she be satisfied
with that?

Nope. "Anything else?"

"I needed to support myself through college." He shifted her weight from one leg to his lap,
forestalling her next question. It was too soon to be discussing something this serious, this
personal. Too quick and way too unsettling. He barely knew her.

Yet he felt closer to her than anyone in his whole life.

She persisted, as he'd known she would. "Why?"

She was like a pit bull, easily the most determined person he'd ever met. He surprised himself by
admitting, "I didn't want anything from the people termed my parents. I make my own way.
Without their help."

"Why don't you like them?"

He sucked in his breath. How could she not know? Everyone knew. Especially since he refused
to answer any public questions whatsoever about them. "You don't know?"

She raised her head to stare into his eyes. Her gaze was not curious. Just direct and open. How
the hell could he guard against such devastating candor? "No. I was interested in your
professional life. Not your family history."
He'd spent his life rising above his father's name. Why the hell should it sting when she claimed
ignorance in who he was? He gritted his teeth and changed the subject. "Do you believe I didn't
have anything to do with your accidents now?"

She let silence lay between them a moment. "Please tell me you didn't order those boards placed
at the steps. Or have someone smash all the doors."

"I didn't tell anyone to put those boards by the steps." He smiled into her eyes. "I didn't hire
someone to smash all the doors. And before it comes up, I didn't make that beam fall."

She lowered her gaze and whispered, "I believe you."

Something slammed into his stomach. She gave him her trust. Freely, willingly. It surprised him.
It humbled him. Most of all, it disturbed him. He wasn't used to this kind of emotion, this sort of
gentleness.

The cool, aloof platform he always kept with his clients turned to quicksand beneath him. Just
when he needed it most.

He tried to tease his way back onto firmer ground. "Even if I'm not from the south?"

She ignored the jab. "I've seen your other restorations," she said as her fingers slid in a caress
over his shirt. "Watched you work. You care about your job. About this house. That means a lot
to me. You wouldn't sabotage a project. Especially Huntington House."

"Minutes ago you believed me fully capable of it." He lifted her face, forced her gaze to meet his.
"What suddenly changed your mind? You'd seen my other projects when you accused me."

Her eyes went wide and denying. "I never accused you outright."

"Strongly suggested, then. What changed? My valiant attempt to save our skins from crushing?"

Her mouth opened and closed. Red color crept up her neck. She jerked her chin from his hands
and pointed it into the air. Her gaze focused somewhere on the wall behind his head as her body
stiffened. "I don't know what changed, okay? I just know you aren't responsible."

Her admission sent tiny shudders through every pore, every cell of his body. Ahh. So she
couldn't explain this strange attraction, either. Good. He liked knowing they were on even
footing.

And he loved seeing her fighting spirit return. "Female logic? Or southern intuition?"

Her gaze drifted back to his. Sparks fired in the blue-green depths. "Both. Aunt Maye and her
society believe you. That's good enough for me. For now, anyway. But I'm still in charge."
Oh, yes, her spirit had returned. "You say you are." He shrugged casually and ran a fingertip over
her hair. Her head shook it away and he grinned. "But let's not beat that dead horse. How did the
society acquire this house? Was it a member's or did they buy it?"

Her gaze remained wary, defensive, yet she answered him calmly enough. "A descendant of the
original family left Huntington House to her fellow members when she died. They've saved for
over three years to raise the money to restore it. This house means the world to them."

"Just to them?" he asked and watched her eyes flare.

"To me, too," she admitted in something close to a whisper. "I guess you know what happened
on my first project."

He knew what the media had said, what the men blacklisting her had claimed. But he wanted the
truth. Her side. "I've heard rumors."

She laughed, but it was so sad, so heartbreaking he instinctively tightened his arms around her.
"Let's just say I didn't go along with what the head honchos wanted me to do. I put up a fuss at
what I knew was wrong and got slammed for it. So yes, Huntington House, from a professional
stand point, means the world to me."

He heard something in her voice, some tone every time she said the house's name. He lifted a
hand to stroke her hair. "And from a personal one? What does Huntington House mean to you,
Rose?"

She sighed. "When I was six, Aunt Maye brought me here for the first time. Something about
this house, its grace, its promise, its history, I'm not sure what, is a part of me. It always has
been. Huntington House captured my heart the very first time I laid eyes on it. It still holds it."

He ran a hand over her lips. Her breath became quick little pants that pressed her soft breasts
directly into his thudding heart. "Surely it doesn't hold all of your heart."

She stared at him wordlessly, her gaze limp with question before it moved to his mouth and back
up again.

Now his breath came in wheezes. His body hardened and his muscles clenched. Was she asking
what he thought?

She had to be. He plowed his hands into her hair, brought her face closer to his. Anticipation
coursed through him. Explosive. Good God, they'd be so explosive together.

She sighed, closed her eyes and tilted her chin to raise her lips to him.

He opened his mouth to meet hers--

"What the hell is going on in here?"

 Chapter 9

Rose leapt from Michael's lap. "What are you doing here?"

Tall, elegant, the very picture of a runway model, Annie Swain picked her way into the room.
She took small mincing steps, hampered by six inch spike heels and an extremely short, tight
leather skirt. A cloud of Chanel reached with gagging grips out from her. Her gaze took in the
room with the swiftness of a striking cobra.

"I came to tell you those fabrics you wanted will be delivered once the cleaning crew finishes."
She tossed her head. Waves of fiery red hair tumbled down her back. "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not," Rose said quickly, probably too quickly. "We, I mean, I was just doing some
sketching--"

"From his lap?" Annie narrowed heavily made up, black as sin eyes on Michael. "You've never
said anything nice about him. Now I know why."

A stab of jealous fury shot through Rose. Annie gazed at him with open invitation. Her hands ran
over her body from shoulder to hip and back again. Her tongue stroked her lips in what was
supposed to be an unconscious movement. She all but undulated as she stood directly across
from him.

Would Michael fall for it? Just as all her other conquests?

"No wonder you didn't want me around," Annie continued. Her eyes never left him. "You
wanted this little project all to yourself."

Rose gritted her teeth. She couldn't make Annie mad. She'd practiced this control for eight
months. It was time to practice it again. "This beam fell and--"

"Really? You don't say," Annie bit off the words. "How?"

"I imagine gravity played a major part," Michael inserted. "It certainly doesn't take a physics
major to see that."

Rose almost grinned at his clipped, abrupt tone. He wasn't at Annie's feet? Lord, a first for
everything. "If Mich-- St. Lawrence hadn't knocked me out of the way, the beam would have
landed on me."

Annie finally stopped moving and glared at her. "You never said he was so attractive. Now he's a
hero, too?"
"I suppose he. . ." Rose's words ended in a tight gasp. She dropped to her knees beside the
lifeless form on the floor. "Michael, help me! We've got to move this thing off of him!"

He reached her side instantly, just as he had been when she first encountered the dog. "It won't
do any good."

She shook her head as guilt filled her. "It's my fault. If I hadn't been trying to get him to come to
me, he wouldn't be dead."

"Rose, sweetheart, of course it isn't your fault," he whispered as he rubbed her shoulders. "You
didn't make this beam fall."

"But I was trying to make him come to me. If I'd just let him go, called animal control like you
suggested then--"

"Oh, for hell's sake!" Annie shouted, rapping one sharp heel on the wooden floor. "Quit being so
damned sentimental about some stupid animal and worry about that mess it's made."

"Be quiet," Michael growled at her while Rose struggled to get herself under control. "It's not
your fault, sweetheart. You know it's not."

For a moment, a very brief moment, she thought about snuggling against him again and letting
his strong arms shut out the world as they had after the beam first fell.

But she wasn't in shock anymore. And she wasn't a fool. "I have to bury him." She pushed his
hands off her shoulders and got to her feet. "I'll call Mark. He and the crew can help me move
the beam."

"I'm not helping," Annie announced as she turned to teeter away. "I'm not staying, either. When
you're ready to be serious about your job, Rose Anderson, a job I provide the money for, you
know how to reach me."

"Yes I do," Rose murmured. Lord, she wished she didn't need a partner. Especially this particular
partner. But she did. And because she did, she said nothing else.

Annie turned at the doorway. "I would say it was a pleasure to meet you Larry, but it wasn't."

"Likewise," he shot back.

Rose climbed over the fallen wood as Annie stomped away. She walked swiftly, intending to
escape before this blasted weakness made her do something stupid. Like throw herself at him as
surely as Annie had.

He'd no doubt reject her even quicker.

"Rose?"
She halted, stiffened her spine and shoulders. "Yes?"

"That's your partner?"

She nodded and ignored his astonished tone. "I should have introduced you. She's not usually so.
. ."

"Bitchy? Insensitive?"

Rose smiled, glad he couldn't see it. "She's not. Most of the time." Annie wasn't. Not to men,
anyway. She sought a quick excuse, finally found one. "She's not fond of sites while they're
under construction. That's all." Rose walked out while she could still make her legs obey her. Her
mind whirled with questions and half forgotten fears.

The front door slammed hard enough to shake the frame. She sighed. Annie didn't seem to like
Michael anymore than he seemed to like her. How strange.

Hadn't he found Annie alluring? Sexy, even? Especially compared to her partner? Every other
man they'd ever met had. Why didn't Michael?

Or was this yet another game to him? Was he only pretending disinterest? Did he intend to let
Annie chase him until he caught her?

Rose shook her head. Why did she even care? All her energy needed to focus on how and why
the beam fell. Who made it fall.

Maybe no one. It could have been rotten. The engineer and Michael may have overlooked
something. Maybe.

But not likely.

The engineer routinely checked every government and state historical building. He was
extremely thorough, but almost agonizingly slow and methodic. He'd found nothing wrong at
this house.

She sighed as she picked up the cellular phone she used for business. Michael had wanted to
replace all the beams the very first day they'd discussed plans for the house. He'd have used a
loose or rotted beam to convince her to accept his plans. There hadn't been anything wrong with
any of the beams.

Then why had one fallen?

***
An hour later she, Michael, and some of the construction crew stood in the garden behind the
house. A weeping willow, several ancient oaks and the inevitable pines sheltered them from the
steady rainy mist while the last shovel of wet earth fell over stray's grave.

Good thing they hadn't started to lay the expensive marble flooring yet, Rose thought as she
watched Michael smooth the pitifully small mound. And also a good thing they'd had the floor
evened out and the pilings reinforced over the past year. The beam would have destroyed it. Only
the well placed pine planks and solid underneath support had prevented cracks from the impact.
Or worse, a huge gaping hole.

She'd looked the beam over thoroughly once they removed the poor lifeless stray. No signs of
rot. Hadn't been cut. Not wrenched from the ceiling in any way.

All the railroad spike-like nails originally holding it in the ceiling joists had been removed
without a trace. Why? How?

Rose shook her head sadly as the small group dispersed. Extreme patience and skill were
required to calmly climb a ladder, coldly remove all nails and then just walk away. Whoever did
that couldn't possibly be certain when the beam would fall. Or on who.

Could he? Or she?

Her gaze fell on Michael as he wandered away. She believed he had nothing to do with the
accidents. That was another why. Like she'd told him, why she believed she didn't know. She
simply believed.

But did she trust him? Really?

He turned back to glance at her, his face set, but not without compassion. Her breath caught. A
sudden though struck her as a roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. What if the accidents had
nothing to do with her or Huntington House?

What if someone wanted to kill him?

Chapter 10

"Bother it all," Maye Anderson muttered aloud as she stood on the sidewalk corner beneath a
wide green umbrella determined to turn the wrong side out. "Straighten out, you useless thing."

She sighed when the umbrella finally righted itself beneath her persistent shaking. She should
just break down and buy a whole new one. She spun, intending to go back into the store she just
left.
Instead, she crashed headlong into a man attempting to cross the street. Her umbrella caught the
one exposed area of his neck beneath his trench coat. His wide shoulder, in reflex, knocked
against her head. They both tumbled to the slick, wet cement.

"I do beg your pardon ma'am," he said, all gentleman courtesy as he untangled himself, got to his
feet and bent to assist her. "I'm afraid you caught me off guard. I do heartily apologize."

"It's all right," Maye assured. She bent to collect her umbrella. Not broken, thank goodness. It or
her. She held the green vinyl back over her head to stop the flow of rain, then tilted it slightly to
see him.

Her eyes went wide.

She fled down the street as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

Sloan MacKenna stared after her with resigned amusement. Seemed he could still send women
fleeing in the opposite direction.

What a shame. She seemed the only person out and about on this rainy day. He wanted to ask
about this Rose and Maye Anderson Mic wanted him to investigate.

His gaze drifted back to the sidewalk and landed on the strewn objects. His very last ones. His
babies. Almost.

With a sigh, he bent and retrieved seven sopping cigars from a pool of water. Ruined.
Completely ruined. Every last one. And it'd take at least eight weeks to import more.

"Nuts and hell on earth," he muttered as he tossed the wet tobacco into the nearest trash can. His
ex wife Janet had always hated that expression. Naturally, it quickly become his favorite.

One good thing had come from the twelve years of torture they'd termed marriage: his son,
Devon.

Good boy. Fine son. Keen intelligence. Fast becoming New York's finest psychiatrist. Devon's
closest friend, Michael St. Lawrence, kept Sloan in business. Kept Janet in alimony too, before
she married that whatever-his-name-was from that foreign country.

Sloan glanced at his watch. He hurried back to his hotel. Much needed to be sorted out before his
report to Mic. He could search for Ms. Knock-A-Man-Over tomorrow. When he found her, she
owed him seven cigars.

He wouldn't mind seeing her baby blues again. He might forget all about the cigars. If she played
her cards right.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Annie's voice was as harsh as sandpaper while she glared
at her partner. "You're too trusting and gullible. That's how you got into trouble in the first place,
if you care to remember."

"Actually, I don't care to remember." Rose folded the last invoices for house materials and laid
them in a bin on the corner of her desk. "Is this all we need to talk about?"

"That architect is worse than that Louis you supposedly took up with. And look what happened
there."

Rose pushed back her chair and stood, her limited patience at a very short end. "Don't start,
okay? I've got enough to worry about."

"You should be worried. All these accidents you say are going on. He's the one making
everything happen."

Rose felt a cold chill. "What makes you say that?"

Annie shrugged. "Nothing ever happened before with Mark's crew. Things started going wrong
only after Larry showed up. I don't call it coincidence."

"I do." Rose went to her door and held it open. "And his name's St. Lawrence."

Annie shrugged again, but didn't move. "Whatever."

Rose pointed at the door. "Come on. If you want to talk any further, we'll have to do it on the
way back to Huntington House. I only met you here because you said it was so important."

Annie still didn't move. "I'm not going back there until I know for sure it's safe. I'll drop those
drapery rods by, but that's it. As long as Larry's there, it's not safe. Not at all."

Rose shook her head. "Why are you so convinced he's trying to sabotage the house?"

"Because he is."

"What makes you think that, though?" Rose persisted. She wanted to make a crack about not
every man in the world had to automatically kneel at Annie's feet to be honest and trust-worthy,
but she knew better.

Annie wouldn't take kindly to teasing. Rose-- and Huntington House-- needed her money too
much for childish words and arguments. No matter how good it may make Rose feel.

"I have eyes," Annie said as she opened a compact to check her make up in the mirror. "I can put
two and two together."

"And what two and two have you put together?"

"Besides the fact we've never had a problem with accidents at a site before?" Annie began to
reapply her lipstick, though Rose didn't see anything wrong with the slashes of red already on her
mouth.

And while her mouth was temporarily out of commission. . . "Maybe we haven't experienced
accidents because there weren't any major repairs that needed to be done on any of our projects. I
mean, really, all we've had are a couple of minor adjustments to a few rooms." Which was a
glorified way of saying they'd changed the color scheme of a den, a living room and one
bedroom.

Annie glared at her. "Are you saying I'm not doing my job?"

"Oh, no. I'm not saying that at all." Rose hastened to reassure. Lord knew, she'd seen Annie's
temper before. And it wasn't pretty. "All I'm saying is we haven't undertaken a project this large
before. That's all."

Annie studied her, then raised the mirror to check her hair. "Well, you've worked with Mark and
his crew plenty on other houses. And no accidents have ever happened there."

"True," Rose agreed and looked at her watch. "Can we please go now? There's a lot I need to do
today."

Annie strolled out of the apartment, yet stopped in the hall. "If you weren't so hot for Larry,
you'd see he's behind the accidents, too."

Rose didn't answer. She wished she hadn't mentioned the other accidents to her partner. She'd
only done so because she thought Annie had a right to know. Now she knew better.

She and Annie parted more than company outside. She drove back to the site, her thoughts
spinning in circles.

Annie was wrong. Michael wouldn't keep risking himself to help her if he staged the accidents in
the first place. And some deep note in his voice as he answered her questions about setting them
up told her without a doubt he spoke the truth.

Plus Annie had been more than a little miffed he hadn't fallen all over her. Were her warnings
simply the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head?

Rose grinned. Annie jealous? That would definitely be a change.

She had nothing to be jealous over. Michael hadn't fallen all over Rose, either. Not purposely,
without a semi-logical reason.
She gripped the wheel a little tighter as she remembered the way his body felt, the heat and
strength of his arms, the thump of his heart beneath her cheek. He hadn't pushed himself on her
at all since that very first night. He'd had ample opportunity this morning too, while she lay in his
arms like some helpless damsel waiting for a shining knight to save her.

She sighed and turned into the drive leading to Huntington House. Why hadn't he tried to charm
Annie when she made it more than clear she'd hop in bed with him any time, any where?

And why should she be glad he'd ignored Annie?

Rose parked her car and got out. It had, thankfully, stopped raining, though the sky remained
overcast. She started sloshing through the mud towards the house. Whatever Michael's motive
was in ignoring Annie's obvious invitation, she didn't care.

Or rather, she shouldn't care. She had bigger things to fret over. She'd almost died this morning.

Again.

Michael stopped her before she took more than two steps into the house. "Stay here in the hall.
The crew's checking the ceiling joists across the entire house."

"Have they found any more loose ones?" Rose allowed a brief glance at his hair's shinning halo
and equally glowing blue eyes before she looked back at the floor.

Looking away did no good. His magnetism remained hard at work on her senses, bombarded her
with awareness. His scent. His hard body as he casually leaned against the wall next to her, his
strong voice.

"No. Only that one." He ran a long finger up her arm to her shoulder and back down again. "Are
you all right?"

It felt like he'd touched her with a live wire. Her skin had goose bumps on top of goose bumps.
For more reasons than one. Rose swallowed. "It wasn't an accident, was it?"

"You tell me."

"I don't want to think someone deliberately wanted that beam to fall."

He leaned a bit closer. His head brushed hers, his lips soft against her hair as he spoke. "It was
either rigged by parties unknown or. . ."

"Or?" she dared when his words trailed off.

"You're the prettiest walking disaster I've ever encountered."

Her breath ceased. She definitely couldn't look at him now. He remained Michael St. Lawrence.
A man who promised to see her leave the project first. Who disputed nearly every word she
spoke and didn't take her designing ideas seriously.

His warm breath caressed her face. His hands slid over her hair as if she was the frailest of bone
china. He'd saved her life at least three times in the last twenty-four hours. He affected her as
none other. He might actually be honest, sincere and caring.

Or he might be exactly like the man who ruined her life and career not so very long ago.

Rose stiffened and drew away from his touch. "I need to get to work. If you'll excuse me."

"Is this how you're going to continue to handle it?" he asked as she pushed past him.

Rose began to walk away. "Handle what?"

"This attraction between us."

She felt rooted to the floor, her feet too heavy to lift. He acknowledged it. Admitted it. He'd also
crept up behind her, his warm breath so close if she stepped half an inch, she'd be in his arms.

A quivering, going-to-be-sick vibration flared in the pit of her stomach. Her hands balls into
fists. It was a game. A simple game. Nothing more. At least, to him.

"I'm not a toy St. Lawrence," she forced the words out, wanting to turn into his arms so much she
ached with the restraint not to.

"Did I say you were?" His hands rubbed lazy circles on her shoulders.

"No, but you consider all women a conquest." Rose bit her lip as his grip became almost painful.
"I don't want to get lost in the shuffle."

He let go. The air around him snapped, crackled and popped with electricity, anger. . .
Disappointment? In himself? Or in her?

Rose wasn't sure. She wasn't about to turn around and analyze it. She marched up the main
staircase without a backward glance.

Chapter 11

Michael cursed silently. He watched her straight-as-a-level back disappear. Good God above.

She was driving him crazy. Physically. Mentally. What more did she want? His blood?
He shook his head and walked out the front door. His fingers idly touched the scratches nicking
his face and neck. Someone had already drawn that.

But he'd be damned if anyone else would be hurt on one of his projects.

As his feet moved to his rented car, they scattered wet dead leaves along the dirt turned to mud
driveway. He made a note to check on the company bringing new gravel and got into his car.

He dialed a number on his cell phone, waited for an answer then asked, "Well, Mac? What have
you got?"

"You owe me seven cigars."

"Thought you were trying to cut back."

"I am. These were ruined in hot pursuit of your requests. I figure you should pay for them."

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "Put ten on my bill."

"And Devon says you can be a real pain in the butt. I'll have to talk to him. Anyway, both your
Rose and her aunt are clean as birds in a birdbath. Not so much as a parking ticket. Well loved,
well respected. Model citizens. Descended from Aberdeen's original founders. All that."

"But?"

"Know me pretty well, don't you?"

"That's why I pay you so much."

"Oh, by the way, she double majored. History's her other degree. American history, primarily
antebellum South."

Which explained why she believed she knew so much more than he did about Huntington House,
Michael thought wryly. She probably did. "What else?"

"She was a brilliant student. First in her history classes. Second in interior design. 4.0 average."

Michael picked up on that, as Mac no doubt meant for him to. "She had a 4.0 grade point average
yet she graduated second? Why?"

"There was a student ahead of her."

"No sh--" Michael caught himself as Mac began to laugh. "Ok, I fell for that one. Now what's the
deal?"
"This other student was male. They were both hired by Richards, after graduation. You recognize
that name, don't you? That firm you used to own."

Michael gritted his teeth. Did she know this? Good God, no wonder she didn't trust him. "The
same firm that fired her then blacklisted her."

"Right. There was some sort of dispute on your Rose's first project. Something about stolen
designs and the restoration of the Governor's mansion. All very hush-hush. Apparently your
Rose demanded an apology and acknowledgement of credit for ideas she claimed were hers. Led
to a near court battle and a huge stink."

"Yeah." Michael wiped a hand over his face. He remembered that part. It had gotten quite ugly,
especially for Rose.

Insane jealousy clawed his gut as he spat the words out. "Was this man, this male who graduated
ahead of her, the same one she was involved with? The one who claimed she only wanted credit
for his ideas because he broke off their relationship?"

"You still have to pay me whether you think you know all the answers or not."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then yes to both. Why? You jealous?"

Michael fought for control against a blind urge to crush into dust the nameless, faceless man
who'd hurt and nearly destroyed her. "Are you kidding?"

"Not at all. I'm serious as a heart attack."

He took a breath, another. "Let's just say it certainly explains a lot."

"All right. By the way, I spoke to this guy."

"Oh?" Michael sat up straighter. "And?"

"He tried to deny even knowing your Rose. He changed his tune quick enough when I revealed I
knew how to read a newspaper."

"What was his response?" Murder replaced the jealousy coursing through him as he put all the
pieces together. She fought their attraction not because of him, but because of the scum bag
who'd abused her trust.

He felt even more honored to have gained her faith in him.

"Typical my word against hers and yours. With Richards' backing, he feels safe."
"He won't when I get done with him."

"And you say you don't care."

"Where was this. . . person the last couple of weeks?"

"Sorry, Mic. He's got an alibi for every night this month."

"Female?"

"Lucky guess."

"She lying?"

"Possibly. I've got a friend keeping an eye on them for us."

"Good. How does Rose's crew check out?"

"Clean, almost. A few misdemeanors. DWI, traffic, that sort of thing. No hard stuff. All of them
your basic hard working Americana type. Several women, I noticed."

Damn. There went his theory Mark the foreman was responsible for the accidents. "Yes, there
are several women. Hard workers, no slackers. So?"

"Nothing really. I just noticed. Melinda, Sophie, Ariel, Marcie. Glad your Rose is an equal
opportunity employer."

"She's not my Rose."

"Sure she isn't. What's next?"

"Got anything on Annie Swain?"

"Not yet."

"Work on that. I'll call you tomorrow."

Michael replaced his car phone. The sun had come out. The air smelled fresh from the rain. Birds
sang in the distance. It all seemed so peaceful.

Why would someone want to disturb this peace? Who had reason? Motive?

He could think of only one person. At least, for now. Guilty or innocent, he'd correct an injustice.
He retrieved his address book from his second briefcase. It listed all the designing firms, large or
small, he'd ever worked with. He flipped through the pages. Two years ago, he'd invested in a
small firm named after the man who founded it. The business was struggling.
One project with Michael St. Lawrence had changed all that. Richards become so busy, literally
overnight, the senior associate was able to buy Michael out. A fact both of them profited from,
emotionally and financially.

Then an unknown named Rose Anderson shook the firm to its very foundations with her claims
of bias, thievery and unfair treatment.

Michael had ignored most of the rumors, except to be glad his name was no longer linked to
Richards. He hadn't paid much attention to the blacklisting secretly, yet devastatingly, done with
a phone call here or a word spoken over drinks there.

Until he agreed to take on Huntington House and learned he'd work with Rose Anderson herself.

Now he was glad he had. He knew the truth behind all the rumors.

There were times, he mused as he punched in the number and grinned as he anticipated what he
was about to do, when his reputation was helpful. And he'd acquired this name recognition all on
his own. Without any help from the Judge who'd fathered him.

Then forgot him.

Michael crunched that thought as a pleasant-sounding voice came on the line and gave the firm's
name. "Who do you need to speak with, please?"

Michael named the senior partner and founder.

"I'm sorry, he's unavailable at the moment. If you'd care to leave your name and a message I will
be certain to see--"

"This is Michael St. Lawrence. I wish to speak with him. Now." He said the words calmly, kept
his voice firm, yet level.

"I'm so sorry, Mister St. Lawrence! Please hold while I connect you immediately."

Richards was on the line seconds later. "Mike? How the hell are you? It's been ages since we last
talked. You have some more business to throw our way? Though, I must admit, we've been
pretty swamped lately, but for you--

"I've just finished a closer examination of a situation with one of your employees," Michael cut
in. "Now, I don't know about you Tom, but I don't associate with thieves."

"Now, now, Mike. Nothing was ever conclusively proven with that nasty business. And the
board of inquiry completely cleared Louis of all the charges against him. God only knows why
that girl felt she had to try to smear a very talented--"

"Probably because he was the thief who stole her designs. I want him fired, Tom. Immediately."
Tom paused. He cleared his throat. Once, twice. Three times. "I can't do that, Mike. It's a board
decision. Besides, we really have no reason to and--"

"Fine. Then tell your board until that man is dismissed from your firm, I will no longer require
any of your services. And I'll make certain my fellow architects and business contacts follow my
lead."

"Are you threatening to blacklist us? Over a single employee?"

"Why not?" Michael bit out, disgusted at the shock and outrage in the other man's tone. "Isn't that
exactly what you did to Ms. Anderson?"

"Mike, come on. You aren't being reasonable."

"I am, under the circumstances, being very reasonable. And no, I'm not threatening."

"Well, it certainly is good to hear that. I was afraid for a moment--"

"I'm not threatening a blacklist. I'm promising one. Starting today. You have until five this
afternoon to dismiss him. Otherwise your firm is finished in this business."

Satisfied, Michael replaced the phone, leaving Tom sputtering and hopefully in complete
turmoil. He grinned. He didn't often throw his name around, but this case was an exception.

He had Rose's faith.

He needed her trust.

Or he couldn't complete the job he'd come to do.

And he knew just how to speed things up a little. . .

A few hours later, she entered the ballroom and froze. Her eyes flared wide as she stared at the
floor.

"Can't take your eyes off it, can you?" Michael purred in his deepest, most throaty tone.

She slowly raised her gaze to his, shook her head just as hesitantly. "It's just so. . . so big. Bigger
than I thought."

"I guess it's all in who's looking at it. I want to know how it got into the state it's in. Do you
know?"

"You don't? I thought you were the expert."

Michael sighed. This wasn't going as smoothly as he'd hoped. "Let's call another truce. Ok?"
He could almost see the questions whirling in her mind. "All right. Truce. What do you want to
talk about?"

"It's fairly obvious the mishaps going on around here aren't accidental. They're warnings. To one
or both of us. I want them to stop."

"Like I don't." She eyed the beam again, her eyes so large they resembled twin bottomless lakes.
"We both swear we're not behind them. So who is?"

"Got any enemies?" He regarded her steadily. Would she tell him about that creep who had
obliterated her trust in men?

She flinched. "This isn't the first time you've asked. And it's still not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be. If these incidents aren't stopped someone is going to end up dead."

Her gaze went to the stained spot visible around the wood. He could have kicked himself.
"Something already died."

"Some human then, is going to be hurt. I'd rather it not be you." He moved nearer, close enough
to smell the scent of wildflowers that always clung to her. Perfume? Or his imagination?

"Why?" Her gaze briefly lit on his.

"Too many people will think I set you up." It wasn't his imagination. She smelled fresh, clean.
Even after a hard day's work. And she had such beautiful eyes. Like the sea on a calm, sunny
day. They gave him a sense of tranquility out of place with this serious conversation.

"You've had plenty of girlfriends. Maybe some husband finally discovered he should punish you
instead of just his wife. Or maybe some woman is mad because you played and then dumped
her."

He gritted his teeth. She certainly didn't have a high opinion of him, did she? "There's no
vengeful husband or crazed female stalking me."

"Are you sure? I've only known you a few days yet sometimes I've wanted to--"

"Kill me? Make me appear a murderer by killing yourself?" he let sarcasm leak into his tone.
"Sort of drastic, isn't it?"

She bit her lip and turned away. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "Accepted and returned."

She glanced at him again, yet he got the feeling she wasn't really seeing him. "But what if it is
someone from your past?"
"Or yours," he said and watched her intently. "Like Louis?"

A wall went up, invisible to the eye, yet an unmovable barrier all the same. "It's not Louis."

"What makes you so certain?"

"He got what he wanted," her voice was as flat and dead as the dry leaves blowing outside. She
wrapped her arms around her waist.

Part of him longed to go to her, hold her, stroke the silk of her hair. The part he almost hated for
coldness, but blessed for numbness, knew the worst was yet to come. "Rose. . ."

She shook her head. "Don't, St. Lawrence. Anyone else you want to accuse before I get back to
work?"

"Annie." He watched her spin and braced for the explosion the blue-green fire of her eyes
suggested.

Her body shook, her face a glorious flush. "Just because she doesn't cling to you like ivy the way
most women do doesn't mean she's sabotaging Huntington House."

"I don't want her clinging to me," Michael tried to interrupt and control his grin. "Hell would
freeze first."

Her voice rose over his. "You arrogant, conceited beast. I should have known you'd suggest
Annie. We southerners don't--"

Michael grabbed her shoulders. He had her in his arms before she finished. He fastened his
mouth upon hers. Hard. Hungry. Deep.

It wasn't his imagination. She tasted like warm honey. If she'd only yield . . .

She closed her eyes with a moan that allowed him to part her mouth. Her body melted like ice
cream under hot fudge against him.

Yet she gripped his hands and arms hard enough to cut off his circulation.

Michael took that as a signal to stop. He'd proved his point. Definitely much better to kiss than
strangle her. He wished she'd argue more. He'd have an excuse to do this again.

However, he didn't want to need an excuse. He wanted her to desire him as much as he did her.
And she did.

She simply wouldn't admit it.

Slowly he withdrew his mouth from hers. He took a deep breath and continued to hold her
shoulders and gaze. The depths flashed stormy, more passion than anger. She made no move to
draw away.

He couldn't handle more or he'd take her on the filthy floor. Doubts, suspicions and all. That
wasn't what he wanted.

Really.

"Well Miss Anderson," he drawled in his best nasal tone, "do you slap my Yankee face and retire
in feminine pique? Call me a cad? Swear never to speak to me as long as you've breath in your
body?"

She let go of him and stepped back. Red color fired through her neck and cheeks, yet her chin
tilted up. "You're wrong. Annie couldn't be sabotaging the house. She's my partner. I trust her."

She switched to business so fast Michael needed a second to follow. Maybe he should strangle
her. If he did, he'd still have this barely controlled desire. He could be in a coma and still want
her.

What had she done to him? He'd never desired any woman this way. Of course, he'd never
wanted to strangle a woman, either. Not right away.

"Did you hear me? It's not Annie."

His ration and reason returned. Sluggish at first, then in full force. "Where did you first met
Annie?"

She tossed her head and glared at him. "She came to me and asked to be partners."

He narrowed his eyes. "Right out of the blue?"

"No." She paced a few steps away, indicating she wasn't going to say anything more on that
subject.

He let her go. Mac would discover what he needed. And then some.

"Why are you a designer?" He already knew, he thought, after her speech about giving
Huntington House the love it deserved. He wanted to hear her voice with that respect and awe in
it again.

Wanted to keep her near was more like it.

Her forehead wrinkled as if she was trying to figure out what prompted his question. He let
nothing but genuine interest show on his face, which must have convinced her to answer. "I love
to fix things. Give beauty, charm and elegance to places that deserve--" she stopped when he
grinned. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I guess that sounds corny to you, St. Lawrence."

"Actually, it sounds very familiar." And it did.

"That's why you're an architect?"

"Partly." Good God. He wished he could explain how she drew him out, made him tell things he
never told anyone else. "I like restoring old mansions. I'll never forget my first project."

"Beau Pleasure?"

He nodded, pleased and flattered she knew. "It was built around 1750, yet abandoned then
neglected for years and years."

"You restored it in six months. Accurate. Perfect."

"Thanks. The first time I saw Beau, it called me." He injected tenderness into his smile. "As
insane as that sounds."

"It doesn't sound insane," she insisted, as he'd known she would. She understood. Truly
understood. He'd never met anyone who did. "Not to someone who also experiences it."

"Here?" he gestured, encompassing the entire house and grounds.

"Aunt Maye brought me here often. There's this old oak in the corner of the garden. . ."

"The trunk resembles bear paws and has all the huge branches."

She nodded, her face so soft and dreamy he felt something inside him melt. "I'd sit under it for
hours making plans. Colors. Furniture. It's like the walls whisper and tell me exactly--"

"What they want," he finished for her. "What they need to be whole again." Their eyes met.
Gentle understanding flowed between them as easily as twigs on a slow stream. "I've heard them,
too."

She let her gaze gradually fall.

"Rose?"

She seemed to hold her breath at his soft whisper. "Yes?"

"Don't compare us. I don't like it. I'm not him."

She stared at him for an endless minute. He almost kicked himself for pushing too hard too fast.
Then she spoke. "Don't act like him then. Don't treat me like a bubble-headed belle. Given a
chance I can prove I know what I'm doing."

"Given a chance I can make you forget him. Completely." He tried to keep the hunger, the need,
buried.

But it must have showed on his face anyway. She backed up a step and shook her head. "I won't
discuss personal matters. Not with you."

"Why?" He followed her, determined to make her confront and not deny whatever this was
between them.

Her chin angled. "Let's talk about your accusations regarding Annie. I know she's not
responsible."

"Why won't you talk about him?" He refused to let her change the subject. And he had to touch
her. God forgive him, because she probably wouldn't. His fingers skimmed her hair in its short
ponytail. "What else did he do to you?"

She backed up again, disengaging his hand. "It's not Annie."

"Are you running away again?" He matched her steps.

She licked her lips. He nearly lost control then and there. "I'm not running away. Southerners
have much more--"

"Backbone. Or so you've told me." A devious plan began to take shape in his mind. "These
accidents will continue. Annie or someone else close to you has something to do with them. Give
me another suspect. I'll try to change my mind."

She was silent.

"When you admit someone you know, or thought you knew, is responsible, you'll spend an entire
evening in my sole company without complaint." His lips curved more when she gasped. He had
her. She'd confront their mutual desire head on or they'd solve the accidents. Together.

Either way he won.

And once again, she surprised him. "If you prove Annie is behind the so-called sabotage, I'll not
only spend an entire evening alone with you, I won't offer another argument over anything in this
house. Unless it's truly justified and backed by at least one other person."

He threw back his head and all but roared with delighted laughter. Good God, but she was the
cutest thing. So smug, yet covering her butt all at the same time.
Damn, he was glad he'd taken on this job.

"Oh Rose," he said when his laughter finally faded. He let his gaze swept her thoroughly, leaving
no doubts exactly how they'd spend their evening alone. "You have a deal. A foolish one on your
part, but a deal all the same."

She marched over to shake his hand, her grip firm and confident. "I'll enjoy watching you eat
humble pie. Do you a world of good."

"For your sake I almost hope I'm wrong." Michael stroked her wrist with his thumb before she
jerked away. "But I'm not. Soon you'll know it, too."

"Then it's a deal." She turned to walk away.

He called her back. "And, Rose? That's not all you'll know."

"Really?"

"Truly."

She sighed, an irritated sound if ever he heard one. "What else will I supposedly know?"

"You'll know the difference between an ambitious creep and a man who's interested in you. . .
and all your various charms."

She shuddered and he felt a matching ripple down his own spine. But her voice was rock steady.
"Good luck, St. Lawrence. You're going to need it."

"I don't think so." He knew so. He was right about the saboteur being close, someone she knew.

He had to be.

Chapter 12

Michael wandered aimlessly through his hotel suite. He finally opened the balcony doors and
settled against the railing to ponder Raleigh's skyline. Few lights remained, a direct contrast to
the always bright Manhattan sky he knew so well. The wind blew soft and easy. Even a few stars
were visible in the midnight sky. He loved the odd sense of peace the quiet darkness gave.

Yet his content didn't last. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This fear he experienced
every time she left his sight simply wasn't rational.
But then, what about Rose Anderson was? Certainly not her views, her actions or the way she
carped one minute and fell into his arms the next. She made the contrast between Raleigh and
Manhattan seem minuscule.

He snorted as the soft breeze blew against his cheek. Rose. The name fit her. Sweet smelling,
beautiful to look at and full of nasty thorns if not handled carefully. Good God. He hated
opinionated, stubborn people. Especially female ones.

He rested his arms on the cool railing. He didn't dislike her, though. He didn't know what he felt.
It wasn't simple lust. He recognized that. He didn't recognize this uniqueness springing between
them.

He looked up at the cloud-filled sky where the stars now hid. He didn't feel this way about
women. He didn't feel this way about anyone.

Life could be termed survival. The strong survived. The weak didn't. Everyone made their own
choice to live or die. To be successful or not. To care or not. Simple as that.

Why did he fear for her, then? He'd never known a more determined survivor. She'd throw
defiance in the face of the Almighty if she thought she needed. She could handle a mere
saboteur.

Couldn't she?

Damn, damn, damn. His hand raked through his hand again. Why had she betrayed her
vulnerability with that speech about what she wanted for Huntington House? Why couldn't she
keep her sensitivity and normality hidden? Why couldn't she remain some unfeeling, bitchy ice
queen instead of a compassionate, sensual woman?

Why did it matter she not only trust him, not simply desire him, but actually felt the same. . .
something he felt for her?

Felt? Michael snorted and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He sounded like one of his friend
Devon's neurotics. He didn't hold feelings for anyone. No one.

Except Devon and Mac. They were all he had. All he thought he needed.

Until now.

The telephone in the room behind him peeled with irritating loudness. Michael left the balcony to
answer it. "Yes?"

"Hello to you too, Mic. Not disturbing you and your Rose, am I?"

Michael grinned and sank onto the bed. "What'd you find, Mac?"
"Ah. Your Rose still holding out, ehh? Good girl. Always wanted to meet one who'd give you a
chase for a change."

"Mac."

"All right, all right. Gees, you're touchy. Afraid I can't ease that, either. Only going to make it
worse."

"Worse? Then that bastard Louis definitely isn't the one?" Damn. There went his excuse to
murder the bastard and have it justified.

"Not unless he knows how to be in two places at once."

"His alibi is solid?"

"Definitely. His little lady friend bought him a brand new position in her Daddy's firm once
Richards fired him. There's even talk of an engagement, grand scale wedding, the whole nine
yards."

Michael sighed. "Damn. Anything else?"

"Remember that Annie Swain you asked about?"

He stiffened, almost held his breath. "What about her?"

"She doesn't exist."

"What?"

"She doesn't exist. No records whatsoever. No birth certificate, school registrations, doctor's
notes, credit cards, DMV, criminal records. Nothing. No paper trail at all."

"None?" Michael repeated, certain he couldn't have heard his friend correctly.

"Weird, ehh? I've been a P.I. in one form or another all my life. Never seen anything like this,
though. There's always some kinda paper trail somewhere proving a person exists under one
name or another. But there's nothing on Annie Swain."

"Surely there's something."

"I checked everything, Mic. Called in a bunch of favors, too."

Michael shook his head. This didn't add up. He'd gotten a strange feeling from Rose's partner,
but nothing like this. "Still you found nothing?"
"Nope. She's been completely wiped out of existence. Sure Annie Swain isn't a cover name? Or a
stage name, maybe?"

"No, I'm not really sure," Michael admitted, his mind trying to buy this explanation. "Did you
check on all of Ms. Anderson's--"

"Classmates from college. Yep. No missing links there."

"Try a year or more ahead or behind."

"Did that, too. Five years before and after your Rose's graduation. No one remembers an Annie
Swain. No one remembers any Swain at all. Not even the instructors."

"You asked all of them?"

"Every last one. That's what took so long. No Swain ever graduated from an interior design
college, or any college, in the entire state. I don't know who this woman you say your Rose's
partner is, but she isn't Annie Swain. At least not legally."

Michael got up to pace as far as the short telephone cord would let him. "What about the
business license Rose uses? Who was it issued to?"

"Your Rose."

"Stop saying that," Michael snapped. "She's not my anything."

"Yet."

"Mac."

"All right, all right. Don't take that St. Lawrence aristocratic tone with me. Not my fault this
person doesn't exist."

Michael sighed. "Ok. Sorry. How could she be a partner and not be listed on the license?"

"Silent partner, Mic. You should know that. You're sliding. Your Rose really has you in knots,
huh?"

Michael ignored the question. "And?"

"And, whoever this woman is, she went to a hellva lot of trouble to wipe herself from existence.
This is big, Mic. Either illegal or. . ."

"Classified," Michael finished, understanding what his friend, a former police captain, was
saying. If there was no identifying info on Annie Swain, it could only mean she was involved in
something illegal or classified by someone much, much higher than Mac's sources could
penetrate. "So, for whatever reason, something's up that shouldn't be. Right?"

"Really now? Well, that's between your Rose and you, but I suggest you handle it in your own
way. So to speak."

"I'm talking about the case, Mac."

"Sure you were."

"How do we find out who this Annie really is?"

"Perhaps your Rose might give you her partner's real name. That's the only road left. If it's
classified. . ."

"You won't get a thing without crossing a line." They both knew Michael wouldn't ask him to do
that. Unless absolutely necessary.

"If you're really determined, I'll find a way."

Michael stopped pacing. "Thanks, Mac. But I'll handle it. One way or another."

"How?"

"Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Michael grinned as his friend burst into laughter. He
had to lighten the moment. Neither of them liked brick walls. "You forget, I was trained by the
best."

"Should be some interesting weeks ahead, then."

In more ways than one. "Get some sleep, Mac. And thanks."

"I'll start back fresh in the morning. We'll get to the bottom of this, Mic. I promise."

"Thanks." Michael replaced the phone.

So Annie Swain didn't exist. If Mac couldn't dig up anything on her, there couldn't be anything to
dig. What the hell was going on? Who was she? If he hadn't seen her with his own eyes, he'd
think Rose dreamed her up.

He usually loved to be proven correct. Why should he hate it this time? Because there were now
more questions than answers? Or because whatever was going on definitely pertained to Rose?

Annie had to be hiding something. Was Rose helping her? And how much did Rose know?
Could Annie be an illegal alien? Involved in criminal activity? Something worse?
Rose. Rose. Rose. The more he learned, the less he knew.

He strolled back to the balcony to think and plan his next move.

Rose sat at her desk. She glared at the accounting books and continued to fight the temptation
just to throw them out the window. Stubborn pride wouldn't let her admit being beat.

She reached into a foil wrapper beside the books. Her fingers closed over emptiness. She glanced
over. Her chocolate was gone. No way would these books balance now. Not without the sweet
energy she needed to keep going.

She slumped in her chair. Fatigue poured over her like warm maple syrup over a steaming stack
of pancakes. Had she an ounce of sense she'd already be snuggled beneath her covers. If she
wasn't so unnerved by the thought of the dreams she'd been having she'd already be in bed.

Her gaze fell on the framed degrees hanging above her desk. Four years of hard work. Honors in
both majors. Two framed certificates. A career that looked so promising nearly snuffed out
before it began.

"That's certainly depressing," she murmured. "Like it matters now, anyway. It's way too late to
change and I'm way too stubborn to try. St. Lawrence, darn him, is right. I'm too prideful for my
own good."

Great, her mind cut in, agree with the man. Next thing you'll be in his bed.

"Oh shut up," Rose stretched her arms above her head. "You sound just like Aunt Maye. And if
she even suspects something more is wrong, she'll be here faster than I ate all that chocolate and
I'll never get any sleep."

She glanced at the muted television in the corner. An old black and white movie played. Rose
idly watched a young screen actress rise from her bed and glide across the floor to stand by open
balcony doors. A black cloak entered and materialized as an actor in a vampire get-up. He
strolled to the woman, bent over, bared long pointed teeth and bit into her neck.

"Stupid," Rose muttered. "Don't just stand there like some helpless victim and let him do
whatever he wants. Slap him and run!"

But didn't she do the exact same thing when Michael St. Lawrence kissed her? Hadn't she stood
like some willing victim waiting for him to do whatever he wanted? She was no better than that
ninny on t.v.

T.V. Ah, that was it. Rose roused herself to walk over and flip off the set. Her mind was dreamy
and blanketed with fatigue. Michael St. Lawrence was a vampire. Of course. He hypnotized her
with his unearthly charm and made her do things she never did before laying eyes on him.

Yeah, right. A vampire who enjoyed the sunlight.

She walked into her bathroom. "I'm more tired than I thought." She flipped on the light then
gazed into her vanity mirror.

And screamed.

Her image didn't gaze back. Only shattered pieces of her face stared back. A wild, horrible
jumble of multiple wide eyes and distorted noses.

Rose closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. Several deep breaths. She cautiously looked again.

The mirror, although still in the frame, was crushed into a hundred pieces. Her forehead wrinkled
as she stared at the broken mess of glass. How could it have broken? Nothing had hit it. There
wasn't anything around or under it. It hadn't fallen. The frame was perfect and still bolted to the
base.

Yet the mirror was shattered. Why?

The telephone rang. Rose screamed a second time then got a shaky grip upon her composure.
She was tired, it was late and she'd just seen a scary, somewhat, movie. Now wasn't the time to
be speculating on what was probably nothing more than a simple accident with a simple
explanation.

Maybe if she told herself that enough she'd begin to believe it.

The telephone rang again and she walked over to answer it. It was, no doubt, an irate neighbor.
At this rate, they'd commit her to Dix, the state mental hospital, as soon as the men in white
jackets could get here. "Hello?"

"Be at the house early. We have some things to discuss."

That deep tone soothed her nerves whether intentional or not. Even sounding abrupt and
demanding. "All right. Six?"

"Fine." The line went dead.

"Such wonderful manners." Rose hung up and went back to her bathroom. She gazed at the
broken mirror a final time. She should clean it up, she guessed. Try to find out what broke it.

She striped off her clothes, showered quickly and tumbled into bed instead.

Maybe Michael broke the mirror so she wouldn't know he was a vampire. After all, they didn't
cast reflections. She giggled softly as sleep began to steal with welcome warmth over her. What
an imagination. Michael as a vampire. Ha. Ha. Ha. Everyone knew vampires were dark-haired,
not blond. And they came from Romania, not Manhattan.
Although there had been that movie. . . what was the name of it? The one about a vampire in
New York? A comedy, she thought. Real funny. Lots of laughs.

She fell asleep before she could remember.

Miles away, in a small historical house in the town of Aberdeen, Maye Anderson jerked awake.
Her screams filled the slumbering town before they were abruptly silenced.

Chapter 13

"All right. I'm here," Rose said with complete ill grace the next morning as she glared at him.
"What do you want?"

He couldn't help it. He had to have a little fun first. "You know exactly what I want."

"Do I?"

"Don't you?"

One fine brow arched. "Should I?"

He hid a smile. "Shouldn't you?"

"Will you please just--"

"Will you?"

"I'm not in the mood for your games."

"Believe me, this is no game." And it wasn't. Not anymore.

She lay both palms flat on the desk. "Oh really?"

"If you'd simply relax, take things as they come and let me help you, we'd both be-- and feel-- so
much better."

She blew out an exasperated breath and he grinned. "Look, St. Lawrence--"

He touched her hand as it lay between them on the desk. "I prefer Michael."
She jerked her fingers away and crossed her arms over her chest. "I prefer business to these
teenage word games."

"I thought you liked games." Her withdrawal bothered him more than it should. He tried to shake
it off.

She straightened her shoulders, her eyes the color of a midnight sea. "You called this meeting.
What's so important?"

He sighed. Time to get serious. He hated doing this, asking these questions. He really did. "I
need your help with Annie."

She backed away, her voice shrill. "You want me to help prove my partner is a saboteur? Right. I
suppose you want me to quietly back off the project while I'm at it, too."

"I don't want you to leave. We could make a good team." He leaned over the desk. She stood so
straight and stiff her backbone surely must ache. "Give us a chance, Rose. Give me a chance. I
promise you'll be well satisfied with the results."

She marched away, went to stand by the only glass door that had been replaced so far. She didn't
speak, looking outside instead.

He watched the same scene she did. The sun was just beginning to rise. Would she take the
glorious colors of pink, orange and gold as the sign he did? That with this dawn they could also
start fresh?

Probably not. That would be too simple. And Rose was anything but simple.

And just when did he get all sappy at sunrises?

"What do you need help with? And how does Annie fit in?"

He cleared his throat at her tense questions. "I had her investigated."

"You what?" She spun around to glare at him.

"I had her investigated," he repeated, smiling at her furious gaze. "Don't worry. I had you, your
aunt and the society investigated, too. Make you feel better?"

"No." She pivoted back around. He grinned openly. For all of three seconds. "So where's my
investigation of you?"

"Come on. You didn't hire me without a check on my credentials and past projects."

"That's different. No one inquired into your personal life."

"Would you like to now?"

"How would I know you were telling the truth?"

"You'd have to trust me." He grinned again as her chin arched high into the air.

"Like you trusted me?"

"Frankly, I didn't trust you," he admitted, though he wasn't sure why. "Not when I first started
work here and not when you said you weren't behind all the accidents."

"Then why should I--"

He continued over her. "But I do trust you now."

"Because your investigator no doubt told you each and every detail about my life." He watched
her grip the door handle hard enough to nearly snap it.

"I trust you because I believe in you Rose," he said softly. "Not because my investigator told me
to."

She tossed her head, short bangs flying. "Sure you do."

"You told me to put myself in your place," he reminded. "So I did. There haven't been any
harmful accidents on my projects. Until this one. I had everything new checked out. That's all.
You'd do the same."

She was silent. He wondered what she was thinking. Then her next question told him. "How
much did it cost?"

He hesitated a fraction of a moment. "The investigation?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She turned her head slightly to glare at him from the corner of her eye. "I want one on you."

Michael laughed. Good God, what a delight she was. "I'll have Mac start on it right away."

Her shoulders slumped. She hadn't expected that answer, he was certain. "Everything?"

"Everything," he said, though he knew certain things would be deleted. "I'll even foot the bill for
it, too."

"Your life's an open book, ehh?"

"More like my life's an open newspaper. Or gossip sheet." He hated the bitterness, yet couldn't
prevent it. He grinned and lightened the mood. "Mac can get you anything you want. Shoe size,
old flames, school records, my tastes in the bedroom."

"That's enough," she cut in and turned her back.

"Ah I see," he made the words husky and deep, a gentle caress down her spine. "You want to
discover my tastes all for yourself."

"Your tastes in the. . . whatever don't interest me in the least."

She lied. He knew she did. He felt it as surely as he had his own bitterness a minute ago. "Not
even a little?"

"All I need is everything you received on me. That's fair."

Who said he wanted to be fair? He wanted her trust and body in his bed. Yet every time they
were together, she put up this wall between them. "All right. I'll tell Mac to send one right away."

She turned toward him a tad more. "I want a report first thing tomorrow morning."

He nodded. "Done. Provided you help me."

She sighed. "I knew there'd be a catch."

"Not a big one. Yet. Just answer one simple question."

Her back went that god-awful straight again. "I'm not discussing my private life with you, St.
Lawrence."

"Not yet."

"Not ever."

He let her think she won that round simply because of his next news. "What's Annie's real
name?"

She turned again, a frown on her lips. "Annie Swain is her real name."

"No. Mac, my investigator, couldn't find a thing on her. No birth certificate, doctor's records,
diploma, driver's license." Michael stood and moved toward her. "To the world, she doesn't
exist."

Denial and suspicion lined her eyes. "That's ridiculous. Your Mac person obviously made some
mistake."
"Mac's a former police captain," he held her gaze, his tone firm. "He knows what to look for and
how to get it. He's the best. If he couldn't find her, she doesn't exist. Not legally."

"But--"

"There is no paper trail whatsoever."

"She does have a paper trail. I've seen her degree," she said as she stared at a spot over his
shoulder.

"From the same college you graduated from?" he asked. She nodded and their gazes once again
met. "Then it's a fake. The college itself has no record of her graduating."

She stared at him. He saw doubt, suspicion, anger. But he also saw fear. That more than anything
else touched something deep inside him.

"Rose, sweetheart," he said as gently as he could. He almost touched her, but figured it was too
soon. Though he ached, like he never had, to hold her, to ease her doubt and help her through
this latest snag. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But an Annie Swain does not legally exist. Not without a
paper trail."

"She does," she insisted, her tone frantic. He watched while she took a deep breath, seemed to
calm herself. "She's very healthy. That's why there's no doctor's reports."

"And she doesn't drive, either," he heard his sarcasm and tried to reign it in. "Right?"

"She hates to drive. She'd rather take cabs or let someone else do the driving."

"There'd still be a trace. Annie Swain does not exist."

She simply stared at him. Her mouth rounded and dropped.

Michael walked slowly to her side. Sparkling bright sunlight bathed her hair in a glory of gold. It
also highlighted the paleness of her face, the shock in her eyes.

His shoulders suddenly felt a little lighter. Whatever Annie was involved in, Rose wasn't. No
one, not even the greatest Hollywood actress could fake this kind of surprise, this touching
innocence. "Before you ask, no Mac's not a Yankee. He's from the south. Atlanta. But he's lived
in Raleigh over thirty years."

She almost smiled. Yet her eyes remained glazed and uncertain. "He moved here and decided to
stay, huh?"

"Went to UNC, got married, divorced, then decided to stay when his ex moved to New York to
be with some United Nations delegate," Michael corrected. He stroked her hair, tucked an errant
strand behind her ear. "He's good, Rose. Too good to miss something simple."
She shook her head, her face serious. "But he can't be right this time. There's some mistake."

"I know how hard this is for you. But there is no mistake." He reached out to touch her cheek,
marvel at the softness and perfection of her skin without a touch of make-up.

She shied away from his fingers. "But she does exist! She's not a ghost!"

"I know you're confused." He dropped his hand, oddly hurt she'd rejected him yet again. "I am,
too. She's real, Rose, we both know that. But she's not who she says."

She shook her head more. "Your investigator must be wrong. Too many people have worked
with her, know her. She dated a policeman, for God's sake. If she had something to hide, why
would she risk detection with a cop?"

"Perhaps she simply can't help herself." He certainly couldn't. He stroked her cheek again.

She swatted his hand away, her eyes narrow and hard. "It's a trick. A ploy to win that stupid deal
of yours by making me suspect everyone around me."

"Rose," he interrupted with an impatient thrust of his hand through his hair. "I do have proof of
what Mac told me."

Her chin tilted. "Where?"

He returned to the desk then held out a pile of papers. "Mac faxed these to me. They're reports on
the person who claims to be Annie Swain."

She marched over and snatched the reports from his hands. She flipped through them in quick,
jerky movements. She glanced up. He looked back with all the directness he could muster.

But it didn't do any good. "How do I know these are real? For a price, anyone could be tempted
to sign something that's fake."

He couldn't help his curse. It hung between them with all the frustration he felt. "Damn it! You
said you trust me. Why the hell are you so damned suspicious now?"

"Something died yesterday," she said softly as she stared at the spot where the beam still lay.

His hand stopped in mid motion, hovering in his hair. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"It was a stray. But it was still alive." Tears dampened her eyes. She blinked them away. "I don't
want anyone else to die."

He felt like a first class ass. "I'm sorry. I didn't consider that. I don't want anyone hurt, either.
Especially you. But we have to work together. Please."
The very air came alive, pulsated with undercurrents of charged electricity. He had, whether he'd
admit it openly or to himself, just offered her a choice.

She could place her trust in him, work with him to solve whatever the cause of the accidents
might turn out to be. Plus find out who Annie Swain really was. Help them both.

Or she could continue to hold her bitterness for another man and project it onto him. While the
accidents continued and possibly killed someone. While Annie performed whatever shady
activities she might possibly be pursuing.

Her gaze dropped. So did his hopes for a peace between them.

Then she drew a ragged breath. "Michael, I--"

The front door slammed. Voices filled the hall.

"Let's go where we can talk," Michael whispered, his gaze steady on her, willing her to believe,
to trust.

"Uh, hi Miss Anderson. Mister St. Lawrence." Mark halted halfway into the room. "Are we late?
Were we supposed to come in earlier?"

"No." Rose strode past Michael. He hissed a protest she ignored. "I'm just eager to finish upstairs
and hang some draperies. The house won't look so deserted then. Think we can this afternoon?"

"Of course, Miss Anderson. Anything for you. We'll have you hanging before lunch." Mark
smiled and backed up to let her pass in front of him. "Just show us what you want to do first and.
. ."

Michael listened to their voices filter away. "Anything for you Miss Anderson," he muttered in
mockery of Mark's adoring tone. Damn. He'd nearly convinced her. He could read it in her eyes.

Then they'd shuttered and closed him out. What else must he do for her to trust him? Eat nails?
Chew wood? Be reborn southerner?

He snapped his fingers. He'd provide Annie's true identity. Rose would certainly trust him then.

He hoped Mac was awake. Otherwise he'd have to add ten more cigars to his bill.

Chapter 14

"I would have liked to have known her. Since Aunt Maye was her identical twin, having her is
almost like having my mom, I suppose."
A few hours later, Michael stood outside the bedroom, listening to the sound of her voice. Soft.
Dreamy. Natural. Good God. He wished she'd show this side to him. Him alone.

"And your father?"

Michael stiffened, hearing the second voice. Damned nuisance. Had that. . . person not
interrupted twice already, things wouldn't still be so unsettled between Rose and him.

He sighed quietly and rested more fully against the wall out of their sight. Okay. He could
concede things would always remain unsettled between them. But at least they'd be an enjoyable
unsettled instead of this thinly veiled doubt.

"I never knew him." Her voice hardened a little, obtained a bitter edge. "Aunt Maye won't tell me
anything, either. Haven't I told you all this?"

"I don't mind hearing it again. Your aunt won't tell you anything about your father?"

"Not a thing. His name's not even on my birth certificate."

"And that bothers you, huh?"

"Of course it bothers me! How would you like to have 'unknown' written as your father on your
birth certificate?"

Michael frowned. The same resentment he'd heard when she first spoke of her Anderson family
history was back in her tone. Why? That seemed to be the question of the year at Huntington
House.

"I wouldn't, I guess. But maybe your mother didn't know who he was."

"Oh please. Not know? She died in the same car with him. I just don't understand why Aunt
Maye won't tell me anything."

"She loves you, Rose. And love makes you do strange things."

Michael stared at the door again. Such a profound statement from quiet Mark. But then, the man
did hang around Rose a great deal. Too much in Michael's opinion. He made a mental note to
have Mac check into Mark's background a little more thoroughly.

"If she loves me so much, why can't she see how much not knowing hurts? I need to know about
him. What he looked like, how he lived, what he liked, his name for God's sake!"

She sounded so disappointed, so lost, Michael felt the ridiculous urge to storm into the room and
gather her into his arms. He shook his head. Ludicrous. Lust, that's all. Simple lust.

"What exactly has your aunt told you about him?"

"Just that he loved my mother a great deal. I was barely three weeks old when my parents died
together in that car crash."

"Have you seen their death certificates?"

"No. Why?"

"You could get the exact date of death and which hospital they were taken to then talk to some of
the staff members there, maybe even check the records."

"That's a great idea!" Enthusiasm filled her tone. "Why haven't I thought of that before? Mark,
you're a genius!"

Michael gritted his teeth. Why hadn't he thought to offer her Mac's services? Because she hadn't
trusted him enough to take him into her confidence about her father, that's why.

How the hell was he supposed to gain her trust if she kept herself so damned closed?

"Gee, Miss Anderson. Thanks. But I haven't really done anything."

Michael's teeth gritted more. He wanted to hit the foreman. Damn self-sacrificing son of a--

"You have. His blood runs through me," Rose spoke so softly Michael strained forward to hear.
"I'd like to know what kind of person he was, things he liked, traits I might have inherited from
him. Any medical conditions I should know. Your suggestion at least gives me a place to start."

Of course she wanted all that, Michael thought as temper drained from him. Every child wanted
to know all about his or her parents. Particularly if Dad and Mom weren't around.

Just as his weren't.

Not that he wanted them to be, Michael thought quickly and turned his attention back to the
conversation in the room.

"Have you told your aunt this?"

"Lots of times."

"And she still won't tell you anything?"

"Nope. Weird, huh?" Her tone finally lost that hard edge. Michael leaned forward to catch the
rest of her words. "Especially considering her profession."
Profession? Michael considered a minute. Ah. That's right. Maye Anderson was a genealogist.
Yet she wouldn't tell her niece anything about Rose's father? That was definitely strange.

So why hadn't Mac mentioned this little fact?

"Are you sure he's really dead? Maybe he got your mother pregnant and then just took off."

Michael's hands balled into fists. How could Mark say such a thing to her? He couldn't see her
face, but even he knew from her tone she was in pain. Why couldn't the man in the room see
that?

"He's dead," her clipped note didn't invite further doubt or questions. "Aunt Maye wouldn't lie
about that."

Yet the foreman persisted. "How can you be so sure she didn't?"

"What reason could she have?"

"Well, she hasn't told you anything else. Maybe she thinks if you believe he's dead, you'll give up
trying to look for him."

"No, she knows me too well. She'd know I won't stop until I find him."

"But what do you do now? Give up or keep searching?"

Michael grinned. He couldn't imagine Rose ever giving up on anything. She'd need that
determination now.

Could this unknown father have something to do with the accidents at Huntington House? Dead
or not?

"I'm going to check those records like you suggested," she said and drew his full attention. "If I
ever get this design business off the ground, that is."

"By the way, if your parents were married and all, why isn't your last name different from your
aunt's?"

Rose laughed. Michael stared at the door frame in utter amazement at the light, airy sound. "My
aunt adopted me after my parents died. She gave me her name to make things less confusing. Put
your hand here, please."

"Sure."

Michael waited for them to continue. After a few grunts and muttered curses, all of which nearly
drove him insane wondering what the hell might be going on beyond his sight, he heard Rose
give a satisfied exclamation.
"There! Finally. I couldn't have held that up much longer."

"You're doing a really good job. Fantastic."

"Thanks, I--" her sentence cut off with a startled scream.

Michael dashed into the room and halted in mid stride. His eyes narrowed.

Rose lay in Mark's arms, face away from him. Her slender body draped his. Her UNC sweatshirt
bunched at her waist, revealed a strip of bare back.

Staring at that glowing patch of skin, imagining what it might feel like made Michael swallow
hard before he could speak. He ignored the foreman altogether and addressed her. "Working
hard, Ms. Anderson?"

He had the satisfaction of seeing both of them jerk with surprise. Then Rose pushed against the
arms holding her and jumped to her feet. She turned then, her face composed into the icy mask
he wanted almost more than his next breath to shatter. "Yes, actually. I am. And you're
interrupting our work."

"Then I'll leave you to. . . whatever." Michael stalked from the room, furious at her flip reply and
with his own burst of inane jealousy.

However, he went no further than his former place in the hall.

"You really shouldn't rile him like that Miss Anderson."

Rose shrugged, pretending a nonchalance she in no way felt. "I'm not afraid of him."

"Maybe you should be."

Mark's serious tone shocked her into gaping at him. "What?"

"Strange things have been happening 'round here. To you, mostly." Mark bent his dark head and
refused to meet her gaze.

"And you think he's responsible?" Rose laughed, hard, short. "You sound just like Annie."

"Maybe you should listen to us, then. We're only thinking 'bout you. That's all," he muttered.
"You have to admit, it's all strange, what with us never having any trouble with accidents on a
site before until he shows up."

Rose was silent as she walked to the newly decorated window. She couldn't explain to him,
anymore than she could to Annie, what made her believe Michael St. Lawrence was not the force
behind the sabotage here at Huntington House. She only knew, deep in her heart, he was as
innocent as she in the accidents.
But until she could definitely prove who was. . .

"You like him, don't you?"

"What?" Startled, she swung around and nearly collided with him. "I like who?"

His dark eyes looked deep into hers, his face tight and pinched. "St. Lawrence. You two dance
around each other like cats in heat."

Her mouth fell open at the hate, the vehemence of his statement. Mark had never been the typical
crude construction worker. This was a whole new side to him. And not a side she particularly
liked. "I beg your pardon?"

His head dropped. "I'm sorry. That remark wasn't very nice. But it's true. I've watched the two of
you. It's like you enjoy fighting or something. And I don't like the way he looks at you."

Michael looked at her? When? How? Why? Rose bit her tongue to keep from asking. This wasn't
the time or place and Mark certainly wasn't the person she should discuss all this with.

She reached out and patted Mark's arm then tried to change the subject. "Thanks for all your
help. Especially catching me when I forgot I stood on a ladder and fell off. I think these new
draperies are perfect, don't you?"

"Sure." Mark lifted his head and smiled, once more the friendly foreman she'd known for so
long. "Makes all that cleaning you had us do worth it, I suppose."

"Oh, come on, I helped, didn't I?" Rose grinned, glad they could still tease each other even after a
very tedious past couple of hours. "I washed the window inside and all the wood work and part
of the floor."

"Yeah, well, you didn't do the outside."

"Only because I'm terrified of heights. You guys wouldn't have let me hang from that roof
harness anyway. And since the porch up here hasn't been fully strengthened yet, there was no
other way for me to clean the outside of the window."

"Excuses, excuses." Mark walked to the door. "Melinda and the others have probably finished
the rest of the windows and will finish the porch now. Are you going to get those rods?"

Rose left the window where new shades, lace panels and draperies now hung. "Yep. I need them
to finish. I want all these second story windows covered before I leave tonight."

"Need some help?"

Rose shook her head and joined him in the doorway. "Y'all have done enough. The rest is my
job. Thanks, though."
"Miss Anderson?" he said as she moved by.

"Yes?" Rose glanced back at him.

His smile seemed off center, almost sad. "I hope you find out about your father real soon."

The simple statement touched her. "Thanks. I hope so, too."

Mark brushed past her. Rose followed, yet moved only a few steps before she saw Michael. Her
eyes widened. What was he doing just standing by the door like that?

Then it hit her. Her temper stirred. She'd defended him, more or less, to friends she'd known a lot
longer than she had him and he repaid her like this? "I should have expected you'd eavesdrop on
conversations that are none of you business."

Instead of the sharp retort she expected, his hands cupped her face and brought their gazes
together.

"Two men have hurt you, haven't they?" he said, his tone incredibly gentle as his fingers stroked
her skin. "First the father you never knew. Then that Louis bastard. I'd like to help you get over
that pain, Rose. Please let me help."

She did nothing but stare at him, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth, her throat much too
blocked to let words come out.

His fingers reached up, touched her ears, skimmed her nose. His eyes were so blue, so very, very
blue. And so full of genuine emotion, of compassion and--

Sympathy.

Rose threw off his hands and brushed past him. She didn't want his pity, damn him. Not to
mention her heart had stampeded through her chest at how close to the truth he'd come.

"Is that why you run every time we begin to get close?"

"I'm not discussing this with you." She placed a firm hand on the stair railing and proceeded
down, glad to escape the memorizing power of his gaze.

"What happened to your father? Do you know where he died?"

"If I tell you," she stopped and glared at him, "will you go away so I can finish my work?"

"Perhaps." He stopped a stair above her.

Deliberate, she thought, so she'd have to look up at him. Her hand dug into the smooth, nearly
refinished barrister. She took a deep breath. She hadn't told many people. Why she was telling
him she didn't know. "The accident occurred near Chimney Rock. They'd just been to tour
Biltmore, or so Aunt Maye tells me. The brakes failed and they went over the side of a
mountain."

More compassion entered his sapphire eyes, gave them an added brilliance. "I'm sorry, Rose. I
didn't know."

"Your Mac didn't tell you?" She tried, oh how she tried to hide the bitterness and underlying pain
under a mask of rigid control.

But his eyes softened even more, revealed how she failed to hide from him. Why couldn't she
hide from him? How could he know her so well? "No."

She tried sarcasm. "Something he missed? My. Slipping, is he? He's probably wrong about there
not being any paper trail on Annie too, then."

His hand covered hers on the railing. "I didn't ask for family history, Rose. Only a brief
composite."

"Gee, thanks." Her tone belied what the word usually conveyed.

"Want to tell me about him?" He reached down, smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"About them?"

Rose blinked at his continued gentleness. What sort of game was this? "I don't think so."

"Good." He pulled her up a step, smack into his arms.

They fit together like perfectly measured and cut molding.

His lips took hers as she parted them to continue speaking. His gentleness stayed, the kiss soft,
lingering, a tease of mouths brushing.

And utterly, utterly impossible to resist.

She didn't even try. With a tiny moan she surrendered. Her arms encircled his neck to bring her
jello like body closer to his hard warm length. Thoughts of accidents, death and mistrust
scattered like dry autumn leaves on a strong brisk wind.

Electric desire flooded her every pore, her each inch. So strong, so undeniable. Unexpected and
so beyond pleasure it nearly toppled her with its force.

But it was more than desire. More than anything she'd ever dreamed possible. And she had no
choice but to give herself up to it.
He took instant advantage of her surrender, deepened their kiss to a depth of untamed, raw
passion mixed with such swirling emotion she'd never felt before.

She didn't think. She simply responded. Again. She returned all and gave back even more. She
did trust him. On this level if nowhere else.

Too soon, she thought, he lifted his lips from hers. He gazed at her wordlessly before he eased
her back down the step, placed her shaky hands firmly on the supporting railing.

"Thank you for your trust Rose," he whispered while his gaze all but burned a hole through her.

She stared back, incapable of something as ordinary as speech.

She continued to gape long after he stepped past her and disappeared into the ballroom.

Finally she drew a ragged breath, resisted the impulse to follow him and raised a hand to her
tingling lips. Had she just given him her trust?

Of course she had. And they both knew it.

She drew a shuddering breath and headed through the unattached kitchen toward the old cellar.
She kept her mind blank and focused on nothing except getting the drapery rods she needed to
finish the upstairs windows.

She didn't dare dwell on what just occurred. Her mind remained too mushy, her body too
unsteady. What a kiss.

What a man.

She giggled like a giddy kid as she reached behind a row of cabinets to swing them forward.
Compared to Michael's kiss, Louis didn't even exist. Had never existed.

What a marvelous feeling. She felt lighter, freer. Like singing, shouting, jumping in sheer
delight.

Until she remembered who Michael was. What he wanted. Not just from this project. But from
her.

He wanted control. Complete and utter control. Which she willingly just gave him.

Yeah, but look what you got back, her mind taunted.

"Oh shut up and get back to work," Rose muttered. She pulled on the iron rung embedded in the
cellar's wooden door. It opened with a creaking groan of protest. She left it open while she
proceeded inside.
After a quick glance around, she frowned. Where were those blasted rods? She moved further
into the tiny space. It was too little to be called a room. Too dusty to stay long and still breathe.
Definitely too dank, damp and dismal for soul-searching or speculating on what his kiss had
meant.

And where exactly they went from here.

Where could those darn things be? She pushed several cardboard boxes aside and still didn't find
them. Annie and Mark swore they'd placed those rods in clear sight. Obviously their idea of plain
sight and hers suffered in the translation somehow.

Rose signed in frustration and went to search some boxes stacked against the far wall. If the rods
weren't there, she'd have to go round up a flashlight and come back.

"I hate to waste time," she muttered and kicked at a box which promptly tumbled over. She
sighed and bent down to shove the items back into the box. "Darn it, I've got a trillion things to
do. I don't need this. Especially when that infuriatingly handsome great kisser and I have finally
reached some sort of understanding."

The door slammed.

She blinked in complete darkness. No light. No window.

No other way out.

The heavy stale air closed around her like a suffocating blanket. Had she released the lock on the
door? She'd be trapped in here if she hadn't.

The walls were thick and solid. The kitchen and this cellar were a good distance away from the
main house. Several power tools were no doubt running. No one could hear her if she called for
help, at least not anytime soon. How would she get out?

"All right, all right," she spoke aloud and winced at the loudness of her voice in the enclosed
space. "Find the door. Worry about how to get out only if it's locked."

Her feet slid cautiously over the dirt floor. Her arms waved from side to side like a windmill
gone berserk. She managed a weak grin. She probably looked like a complete idiot.

She didn't care. As long as she got out into fresh, sawdust scented air.

Two steps. Three. Four. Two more and she'd reach the door. One.

Then she heard it. Or rather, heard them.

The darkness took on a more demented, threatening feel with the hum. An usually harmless
drone associated with summer and brightly blooming flowers. Honeysuckle. Baseball. Lazy days
by a pool.

But this noise wasn't harmless or lazy for her. The unmistakable sound meant only one thing.

Death.

Rose stumbled. Waves of anxiety crashed into her, swept all rational thought away. She had to
get out! She must!

Her foot hit something and sent it spinning. The hum instantly grew louder. Angry. Furious.

Predatory.

The door. Rose stumbled again, hit the solid wood panel hard. Tears poured like molten lava
across her cheeks. She had no conscious thought. Only a desperate need to survive.

She pounded on the door, her screams not audible to her own ears.

The first missile struck her with an annoyed buzz. She fought. Slapped. Kicked. Cried.

The next missile hammered her harder, enraged, more determined to seek vengeance in a swift,
steady mass. Her maddened attempts to escape merely egged them on. Made them more angry.

More determined.

She screamed one last time with her last breath, unable to draw in any more air.

With a moan, she became one with the darkness.

Michael ran. He didn't think. He felt nothing but the desperate need to find Rose.

She had screamed, had called him. He heard her. Her voice echoed terror and pain.

And unbelievable agony.

Sweat gushed down his face. His heart pounded, his chest tight and aching. Her screams had
stopped. He couldn't hear her any longer.

Good holy God above.

He skidded into the kitchen, slammed into a wall. He ignored the immediate pain which set his
shoulder aflame and glanced around like a madman.

"Where's Rose?" he bellowed to the people standing near the wooden door.
Mark spun around. "Down there. She--"

Michael bolted past. He wrenched the wooden bar away. Some distant part of his brain registered
the oddness of the bar and the inactivity of the people around him. He ripped at the iron ring,
nearly dislodged it.

The wooden door howled and finally gave way. It opened to allow a dense black cloud of flying
insects to swarm out.

Michael brushed them from his head and arms. He didn't feel the stinging welts. Didn't see Mark
crowd beside him. His eyes scoured the claustrophobic little room. Searching, searching, seeking
for her.

An eternity of micro milliseconds later, he saw her.

She lay in a crumbled heap inches from the door. Her arms wrapped tightly, in a death grip,
around her head.

Michael bent to her. Her arms fell limp as he gently raised her into his embrace.

"Good holy God," he breathed, gaping at what those arms revealed. Her face. Or what passed for
her face.

The swollen, fiery skin resembled nothing similar to the petal softness he had stroked mere
minutes ago. Her eyelids swelled grotesquely. Her lips protruded outward, each vein visible. And
her throat. . .

Anxiety surged inside him. Could she breathe? Was she breathing? He looked at her chest. He
couldn't detect any movement. Not even the slightest stir.

His hand hovered over her neck. He detested touching such skin, but he must know. Must help.

If he could.

He delicately probed her swollen skin. Nothing. He probed again, refused to believe, to consider
the unconsiderable.

There! The slightest of flutters, like a butterfly wing against his hand. But a flutter all the same.

She was alive.

He intended she remain that way.

"Call an ambulance!" he shouted. He didn't recognize the harsh, hoarse sounds coming from his
throat as his own. "Breathe for me, Rose. For God's sake, don't give up! Breathe, damn it! Live!"
He watched her chest closer, finally saw the movement which signaled breath. But as swollen as
she was, was her breathing doing any good? And how the hell could he help her?

"Move over," a soft tone said from behind him.

Michael jumped, startled. He looked up but he didn't move further.

A gray-haired lady dressed in powder blue pushed him aside. The force of her shove belied her
small frame. Her touch was firm, neither gentle nor cruel, but just as determined to reach Rose as
he was determined to let no one save himself touch her.

He resisted her pushes. She persisted. For a minute, they engaged in an almost tug of war over
Rose.

Then with a last, nearly brutal shove, she knocked his hands away far enough to let her grip
Rose's arm.

Michael watched her, as motionless as the form in his arms. She whipped a syringe from her
pocket, pushed up Rose's sleeve and injected liquid medicine deep into the bared vein.

Michael barely contained the urge to snatch his Rose from the gray-haired stranger. "Who the
hell are you? What did you give her?"

"Predisone." She skimmed Rose's throat, her fingers light on the swollen skin. Her sigh matched
Michael's when Rose took a clear, visible breath an unending second later. "Rosy's allergic to
bees, hornets and yellow jackets."

He eyed her with mixed suspicion and hope. "How did you know?"

"I'm her aunt, of course." She smiled. "Maye Anderson. Nice to finally meet you, Mike. Of
course, the circumstances certainly aren't the best, are they?"

He wasn't certain how to respond, so he did nothing but watch Rose breathe. What a beautiful,
beautiful sight.

"Bring her into the main hall now," Maye Anderson said softly a few seconds later. "The
ambulance should be only a minute or two away. Do you need any help?"

Michael cradled his Rose close and shook his head. With slow steps and utmost care, he made
his way out of the tiny cellar and up into the kitchen.

Tomorrow, he'd have that damn room sealed off.

He refused to answer the barrage of questions thrown at him as he carried her precious weight to
the main front hall. Mass confusion reigned, but for once, he paid no heed.
He had eyes only for her, for making sure she was still breathing, still alive.

He didn't want to know what this fear, this relief might mean.

The ambulance attendants arrived right after he set foot into the hall.

"Let me take her sir," an EMT said the moment he spied Rose.

Michael's reluctance to release Rose to anyone, even the EMT, became obvious to him then. His
grip tightened, relaxed only when she stirred in pain. He swallowed, not taking his gaze from her
face.

Dead. Good God. She'd been so close to death. Was she still?

"Let them help," Maye Anderson said beside him. "She needs their attentions. You can see her
later."

He raised his head to stare at the older woman. He blinked, suddenly realized where he stood and
what was going on around him. He glanced at the attendant then lowered Rose to the transport
gurney. He couldn't speak.

Dead. She'd almost died.

"She'll be fine," her aunt assured.

He heaved a vast sigh and tried to believe her. "I hope so. I'd miss all that arguing she does."

"She'll want to be back hard at work here tomorrow. You and I must talk, Mike."

He regarded her in silence. There was something about her, something that went beyond her
calm face and powder blue eyes. Something intense and matching in him.

Someone had tried again to murder Rose. A few more seconds and-- He shuddered and buried
his head in his hands.

"She'll be fine," Maye assured as her thin arms slid around his waist. "We won't allow any other
way."

No, they wouldn't, he realized as he stood stiff and still in her embrace. They would do their best
to make certain Rose was secure and safe.

But would it be enough?

"Load her in," the EMT commanded.

Michael glanced up, saw the EMTs beginning to load Rose into the ambulance outside the front
door. He looked back at Maye, opened his mouth to ask if she wanted to go with her niece.

She shook her head, cut off his query before he even voiced it. "You go. I'll stay here and hold
down the fort."

He hesitated, confused, his emotions and thoughts all a jumble.

"All right ma'am," a policeman said as he stormed in the door and up to Maye. His face was
severe, his voice and manner immovable. "You were right about having a niece who needed you.
Now let's talk about those traffic violations. Right now."

"Mike go," Maye urged. "I have to stay and clear all this up and Rosy needs a protector. Please.
She needs you."

Rose did need him. It snapped him into action.

"I'll handle any charges this lady has incurred," he told the policeman as he started to walk to the
door.

The officer shrugged. "Okay. But there are some hefty fines, possible life threatening emergency
or not."

He waved his hand. "Whatever. I'm Michael St. Lawrence. I can be reached at Carriage Court
here in Raleigh." He turned to Rose's aunt. "Thank you. I'll call you soon, Miss Anderson."

She nodded. "I know, Mike. And please call me Maye."

He nodded, walked out and leapt into the ambulance beside Rose.

***

"I've always tried to tell you Mikey," Devon MacKenna said through the telephone and across
the miles. "Didn't you ever listen to me?"

"No," Michael answered and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced back. She hadn't moved.

Good God but he hated these places. This room, tastefully decorated in warm earth tones and
almost friendly in a clinical sort of way, was still a hospital room.

And Rose still hadn't awakened.

He cleared his throat and glanced back out the window at the wide expanse of rolling green lawn
which composed the hospital golf course. "Cut the crap and just tell me if you know where your
father is. I can't reach him at the hotel."
"This about your Rose?"

"There are times I wonder why I continue to be your friend." And what madness had made him
spend the last thirty minutes telling Devon all about Huntington House, accidents, mysterious
partners--

And Rose Anderson.

Devon laughed. "Really? You shouldn't. I'm about to give you, free of charge, mind you, what I
charge other more unfortunate, yet equally wealthy, souls one thousand dollars an hour to hear."

"Your father's whereabouts?"

"Ah Mikey, come on. I did my entire college thesis on this very thing. Least let me tell you 'bout
it."

"Again?"

"If you'd remember, I wouldn't need to keep repeating myself."

Michael sighed. "Get it out of your system then. I've got time."

"Until your Rose wakes up anyway."

"She's not my Rose," he lied, though he recalled, now, thinking the exact same thing as he
cradled her close and prayed for her to live.

Devon ignored his denial. "What you're experiencing are the manifestations of classic early
childhood abandonment. When this occurs, the patient, that's you, does one of two things."

"Which are?" Michael pretended to play along, already rejecting what he knew his friend would
say.

After all, he'd heard this from Devon what? Ten, twenty, million times?

"The patient either takes what he can get, no matter how unfulfilling, and runs with it. Or the
patient reaches for the unobtainable. You've been doing both."

"In what way?"

"Women fight to be near you, to sleep with you. You use 'em for a while, then leave 'em panting
for more."

"Like you don't?"

"Sure, I play the field. But I'm looking for Ms. Right. Now that you've actually found yours,
however, you're doing a complete three sixty and displaying the other symptom. Reaching for
what you perceive as the unobtainable."

"People actually pay to hear this crap from you?"

"How else could I afford my six figure lifestyle without my seven figure salary? What you need
to do is--"

Michael decided he didn't want to hear all this again after all. "Spare me your suggestions about
what an unfulfilled child I really am deep down and tell me where Mac is."

He glanced again at the bed. She remained still and unmoving, her lashes dark against her pale
cheeks.

"Answer a few questions first."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

He heaved another sigh when he saw she hadn't moved so much as a hair. "All right."

"Good. Now. Women line up in drones for you, right?"

"No. They line up for my money and the press attention I receive. That's all most of them care
about."

"And your looks and reported prowess in bed. Disgusting, isn't it? I mean, any of 'em could so
easily have me without the frigidness you insist upon afterwards. I'm a handsome guy with a
fairly decent lifestyle, though I admittedly don't get the press attention you do."

"Is there a point to all this?"

"Certainly. The whole reason you discard woman after woman and keep that tiny bit of frozen
tissue you call a heart locked so deep inside is none of 'em seem real. Right?"

"None are. They're all fake beauty and greed looking for some mindless slug with lots of money
to take care of them for the rest of their silicone, shallow lives."

"And they all parrot whatever they think you want to hear," Devon took up where he left off.
"None of 'em dare disagree with a word you say no matter how stupid or lame or--"

"Thanks for the compliments Dev."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to digress. But I'm correct, right?"

"About me saying stupid lame things?"

"Yeah, that too."

"I could say no."

"But you know I am right regardless."

Michael shrugged then flexed his stiff shoulder. "If you say so."

"I do. Now. Your Rose doesn't do any of that. She's natural. No fancy designer gowns or tons of
make up. No airs of sophistication or silicone enhancement. No deep need to constantly be the
center of attention or help herself to your amassed fortune. Isn't that how you described her?"

"I said she wore no make up, jeans, sweatshirts and if she owned anything else I'd be surprised."
Michael gave a shaky laugh. "She must own a shirt from every college in this state. UNC, State,
Duke. You name it, she's got it."

"None from Georgia Tech, ehh?"

Michael frowned. "No. Why?"

"Their mascots are the Yellow Jackets. Then of course there's also the Charlotte Hornets. That's
near you, isn't it?"

"Real funny, Dev."

"Knew you'd think so. So, back to what we were saying."

"Good God, must we?"

"Yes. Okay. Your Rose also argues with you. Constantly. Right?"

"In a voice that puts her infamous beloved Rebel yell to shame."

"See? The completely unobtainable. You want her and you're scared to the tips of those architect
fingers she'll find out and want you the same way."

Michael pulled the receiver from his ear and stared at it before returning it to quip, "Been
drinking heavily so early already?"

His friend wasn't fazed. "You think if you get something going, if you start to care even a tiny
bit, she'll leave you just like your folks did."

The serious note in his tone made Michael wince. Devon knew him well, too well it seemed. "I
really don't have time for this psychiatrist bull."
"I'm talking as your friend. You're going to have to start trusting in a woman sometime. Why not
your Rose?"

"You don't understand." He couldn't. No one could.

Not even a woman as unique, as special, as Rose Anderson.

"I do. She's thawed some of that ice in you."

"That's the most ridiculous thing you've said since--"

"You care for her. I know it. Dad knows it. That's why we call her your Rose. Terrified or not,
you won't rest until she really is yours. Body and soul."

Michael sighed, more with anger for the friend who knew him too well than impatience. "Are
you finished?"

"Almost. It's too late."

"Too late? For what?"

"Not to care. You already do. A lot more than you think, too."

"Certainly, Doc. Whatever you say Doc. Now where's Mac?"

"Mikey."

"What?" The guarded tone of Devon's voice halted any other inquiry or joke Michael might have
made to hide his own unease.

"Don't hurt her."

He was stunned. "Don't what?"

"Don't hurt her by holding on to what's best left forgotten. You'll only destroy what's left of your
own heart if you do."

"You actually think I'm in love with her?" Michael laughed, but it sounded forced and unnatural
even to his ears.

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"No?"
"No!"

"Then why are you at her bedside?"

"Her aunt asked me to be. She nearly died," Michael defended. "And someone is very
determined to kill her on my project. It's my responsibility to be here."

"Bull. Hire a body guard. Hire more detectives to work along side Dad. But quit fooling yourself.
And quit fooling her, too."

Michael attempted another laugh that had less success than the first. "I hardly know the woman
for God's sake."

"It doesn't take long when it's the right one."

"I'm glad I'm not paying you. You're off base with these inane assumptions. Just as always."

"Introduce me to her."

"You must be kidding." Michael laughed, a little more at ease now since what Devon claimed
seemed so absurd. "Think I'll go all jealous and possessive?"

"I do." Devon laughed at his muttered curse. "If she's half the woman you say, I definitely want
to know her."

"Because she yells like a cab driver?"

"No."

"Because she thinks I'm close kin to gum on the bottom of her shoe?"

Devon laughed again. "That and other reasons."

Michael's tone hardened like week old bread. "Which are?"

"Damn, Mikey. You're there. You've kissed her, held her, want to sweep her to the nearest flat
surface. You tell me."

"I'd rather you tell me where Mac is."

"Denial. Another classic symptom of--"

"Devon, it's important I talk to Mac. Immediately."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"I did. Twice. When I told you what happened and where I was. Where is he?"

"I don't know."

Michael cursed, low and with vengeance. "You rotten son of a--"

"Now, now Mikey. That's my mama you're insulting. Even if Dad calls her that, you shouldn't."

"If you talk to him before morning, tell him to call me. No matter what time."

"Sure." Devon sighed. "Look, Mikey, I can hop a plane and be down tonight."

"No."

"Come on. I'm due a vacation. And I hear the fall colors there are simply outstanding."

"No." Afraid his voice and tone weren't quite firm enough, Michael repeated the word again.
"No."

"Not a bit jealous or possessive, are you?"

"This has nothing to do with Rose." What a colossal lie. "I'd never finish this project with you
breathing down--"

"Your Rose's neck like a hungry dog with a bone. Okay, okay. I'm not going where I'm not
wanted."

"I didn't say you weren't wanted," Michael corrected. "Just you weren't needed."

"Sure, I'm not. You want to wallow in your muck some more."

"With a friend like you, I don't need any enemies."

"Sounds like your Rose has enough for both of you. Take care, okay? Watch yourself."

Michael glanced again at her still form. "I can take care of myself. And anyone else. Been doing
it all my life, haven't I?"

"Yeah." Devon let the silence lay a second. "Mikey?"

"What?"

"Good luck."

"Thanks." Michael replaced the telephone. He stood from the leather recliner near the window,
stretched his cramped muscles and walked to the bed.
Rose still hadn't moved. She slept peacefully, or so her doctors said. Lips softly parted, shadows
darkening the skin beneath her eyes. And she breathed. Normal and visible. With no sign of
stopping.

Thank God her face and throat were back to normal. Only a few fiery welts dotted her skin. Her
dark blond hair framed her head. The white hospital gown and sheets made her appear paler than
usual.

Still she was beautiful. In an all natural way.

He sighed and stretched again. He didn't have time to consider Devon's shrink philosophies. Or
his own reactions to them.

Rose could scream and resist all she wanted. Nothing would change his mind. Or her aunt's.
Until this would-be murderer was caught, he'd be her shadow. Wanted or not.

Pray God they both survived it.

He shook his head. This woman was dangerous. She'd grabbed his senses so completely he'd left
his entire project in the hands of a stranger. Never had he left a site with even a foreman in
charge. Yet he'd just run off and left Huntington House.

He mused his hair. Vague wonder at having any left stirred his mind. She affected him like no
other. Devon certainly hadn't missed that. She had him so inside out he didn't know a blueprint
from a newsprint. What had she done?

What more could she do?

He sighed for the countless time. Devon. His best friend. More like a brother. Knew Michael
better than anyone. Better than he knew himself. Could he be right? Would she tear out his
heart?

Would he let her?

"Ah hell," he muttered to no one and everyone. He bent to take her limp hand. "I should have
asked if he had any appointments this weekend. Then offered to beat the price if he said yes."

He should leave. Take Devon's idea about a body guard for her seriously. Leave this project.
This state. This country, if need be. He hated to feel so. . . so out of control. Simply wasn't
natural.

Like her. Like being with her. Being with her seemed as natural as breathing. Or eating. Or
needing someone to share things, especially his life. As natural as all the emotions he kept locked
deep inside so he wouldn't experience them.

That was unnatural. Having no one special was unnatural. Being lonely was unnatural.
But being vulnerable around her was. . .

"Crazy," he said, releasing her hand. He strode to keep vigil at the window where he wouldn't be
so close. To her.

And to all the impossible ideas concerning an endless future for just the two of them.

He wanted to run from the knowledge it wasn't lust keeping him around. It wasn't Huntington
House or his reputation.

She touched something deep inside him. Something he'd believed long dead. He couldn't ignore
the persistent undertow any longer.

He had to stay and find out what made her so irresistible. Her stubbornness? The chase? Her
seeming naturalness? This ridiculous urge to protect and not be lonely?

Until he found out and laid it to rest, she'd haunt him. One way or the other.

He glanced at her and sighed. Why did he feel that would, regardless what happened, always be
the case?

Rose moaned at the pain in her head. It felt somewhere between having her head crushed in a
vice while fifty people with huge feet stomped up and down on her forehead.

She groaned again and opened her eyes a mere slit. Her gaze fell on a figure leaning over her. An
angel, she thought, her mind drowsy and dreamy. A golden haired, blue eyed, drop dead
gorgeous angel.

She'd died and gone to Heaven.

"Rose?"

That deep, chocolate voice. The one that sent electricity and tingly little shivers all through her.
Oh yes, she was in Heaven.

Now if only it didn't hurt so much. . .

"Rose, wake up and look at me," the voice commanded. "Now."

She moaned again. She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to drift back into that blissful sleep
where she could forget how horribly her head ached.

"Rose, open your eyes. I've waited long enough."

With a jerk, she realized she wasn't in Heaven. Nor was the voice demanding she look at him
that of an angel. Nope. That voice belonged to a suave playboy ready to seduce her any minute.
And that minute couldn't come too soon.

What? Where had that thought come from? She tried to clear the fantasies from her brain as she
blinked a few times and finally forced her eyes to open.

However, the look on his features was so gentle and concerned she had even more trouble
concentrating on reality.

"Do you want some water?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Y-yes," she croaked. Something cool would surely take away this heat in her blood as his voice
continued to suck her into a whirlpool of dreams and wishes that came true.

He held a cup to her lips. One hand supported her neck while she drank. Their gazes met. Rose
could swear she saw relief in his bright blue eyes. Relief and something else. Something she'd
almost call. . . .

Drat! Her head hurt too much to figure it all out. She pushed at the empty cup. He removed his
hand and sat in a chair beside her bed while she took in her surroundings.

Ah. A hospital room. Or at least, she thought it was a hospital room. It looked more like a typical
bedroom. Except for the hospital bed, that was. And the IV in her arm.

"Some date with the hornets, huh? And this isn't even Charlotte."

Rose would have winced at his attempted humor had it not hurt so much. Her head, she slowly
discovered, wasn't the only thing which hurt. Her entire body felt like someone had steam-rolled
her. "Why are you here?"

He waved a hand, his gaze somewhere above her head. "Your aunt wanted me to stay with you
awhile."

Why did she feel disappointed? Because he didn't want to be here and only stayed because her
aunt asked? She'd hoped, for one crazy, stupid moment, he was here because he wanted to be.

The disappointment hurt almost as much as the miniature Marks and Melindas pounding away
with happy glee inside her head. She raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the noise. "Maye
found me?"

"She administered the injection which saved you, yes." He covered her hand with his, held both
on her cheek.

She stopped breathing. Lord, his touch felt so warm, so alive. So wanted. She shivered.
"Don't worry," he said as he stroked a finger tip over her face. "There's no permanent damage or
scarring."

He honestly thought she'd be vain when she'd almost died and her aunt had discovered her? "I'd
never worry about something that silly." She pulled her hand from his. Her mind was clearer
now, even if it did still throb. Time for all fantasies to die. "Is Maye all right?"

"You're worried about her? Not your face?"

She frowned at the amazement in his tone, the way his eyebrows raised and nearly disappeared
into the lock of hair falling over his forehead. Lord, he really had been around the wrong sort of
women.

And why couldn't he tell she was different?

She sighed. "I don't care what I look like. But Aunt Maye must have been terrified when she
found me."

"I found you Rose."

The odd, unfamiliar edge in his tone threw her more than his ridiculous questions about looks.
She stared at him. "You found me?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Color touched his cheekbones. "I heard you call me."

He blushed? Please. That would be a fantasy! "The walls were so thick. I didn't think anyone
could hear me."

"Well, I did." He shrugged as though the matter were unimportant when the answer meant the
world to her. "How do you feel?"

Rose sighed. So he wouldn't talk about finding her. Fine. She didn't want to know what he was
feeling. Really she didn't. "Aunt Maye's okay, isn't she?"

"Yes." A frown pulled his thick brows together. "Although. . ."

"What?" Rose grabbed his hand. "Tell me! What's wrong with her?"

He glanced down at their joined hands. She felt the potent touch of his gaze nearly as much as
the warmth of his fingers. "She called me 'Mike' with this almost reverence in her tone. Is she
that big a fan of my work?"
Rose couldn't help it. Though it hurt like the very devil, she grinned. "She thinks you're the
namesake of the Archangel Michael."

When he grinned in return, she wanted to kick herself for her foolish words. "I've never been
called an angel before."

He hadn't? He should be. His profile was perfect except for one strand of hair on his forehead.
She reached to brush it back yet jerked her hand down before it raised.

Of course he'd never been called an angel. He acted like a devil all the time. Most of the time.
Some of the time.

Well, actually, not recently. Especially when he kissed her on the stairs and made her knees go
all weak and her mind all numb.

Had that kiss really been only a few hours ago?

Exactly what time was it now anyway? And when could she get out of this place? She detested
hospitals with a passion equal to Maye's distrust of Yankees.

"Well, your last name has 'saint' in it, so that must have something to do with it too," Rose tried
to dismiss. "So she really is ok?"

He entwined their fingers. "She's fine. Why all the concern?"

She debated a brief moment, then told him. "I had a similar attack to this when I was eight. It
terrified her. I almost died." Now why had she told him that? Weakness from the drugs, no
doubt. Ahh! That's what all this tenderness was. Side effects from her medication.

She was seeing things she wanted to see, like any good fantasy.

"You almost died today, too." He massaged the top of her hand. His attention seemed to be
focused on their fingers.

"I know." The way her body ached, the pressure in her head, her general weakness all told how
close she'd come to death. Funny how the body remembered a traumatic episode, even after
twenty years.

Now if only she could figure out why he was acting so nice.

"Do you?" His grip turned painful as his head jerked up and his gaze drilled into her. "Do you
really know, Rose?"

She tugged at her hand and looked away from the blue flint of his eyes. Hut oh. "Yes, I do."
He leaned forward until they were eye to eye. "Who knows a sting from a yellow jacket or hornet
could kill you? I certainly didn't."

"Lots of people." She couldn't keep her gaze from his. That blue fire scorched, furious yet
concerned all at the same time. And above all, hypnotizing.

"Lots, huh?" He moved even closer, until she could feel his breath exhale on her eyelids. "Any of
those people want you dead?"

She shook her head. He couldn't be serious! Surely it wasn't-- "It was an accident. I disturbed the
nest where the hornets were."

His forehead touched hers. She could count every line straining his face, feel his breath now hot
and fast on her cheeks. "Hornets build nests outside, not inside."

"So a few decided to come in." She finally summoned enough strength to close her eyes. Lord,
she was so weak, so defenseless against the smell and feel of him. He had to know, too. Her
heart was hammering loud enough to hear.

And now he was implying someone deliberately tried to kill her.

"The door was locked." He pushed away, released her hand and a breath all at the same time.
"Whoever barred that door knew you were inside. With the hornets."

Nausea churned her stomach. "The door was barred?"

"Yes the door was barred. Damn it, Rose!" He pounded both fists on the bed beside her. The
mattress shook with the force of his anger. "Of all the asinine, brainless things! What the hell
were you thinking going to that cellar all alone?"

She didn't know which hurt more, her shock or her anger. She choose anger. "Well, duhh, St.
Lawrence. I sure didn't see you offering to go with me. You couldn't wait to leave after you
attacked me on the stairs."

"Attacked you?" His lips clamped into a thin line. "You responded to a kiss that was long
overdue. Don't deny what we both wanted." He glared at her, an iron man with an iron will. "And
stop trying to change the subject. You were a fool. You know--"

"How dare you--"

"Someone's trying to kill you. Still you go alone to an isolated, windowless room. Why the hell
didn't you send Mark or Melinda or any of a dozen of the other workers?" His words and gaze
drilled holes into her, shredded her. "Do you want this killer to succeed?"

Fury, combined with bitter hurt, made her ask, "Don't you?"
His eyes narrowed with something beyond contempt. "That doesn't even begin to deserve a
reply."

Silence lay between them, tense, vibrating.

Rose finally took a deep breath and looked down. Her hands had twisted the sheets into tight
knots. She released the material, tried to get a grip instead of her emotions and the situation. "I
didn't think I was in--"

"You sure as hell didn't think," he interrupted in a low, taut voice. "You were a breath from
death. A breath! If your aunt hadn't arrived when she did. . ."

"Well she did arrive," Rose cut in, raising her chin. So he was mad. Big deal. She was, too. At
whoever barred the blasted cellar door so she couldn't get out. At the stupid hornets for being in
that room where they had no business to be. At him for yelling at her.

And most of all, at herself for the silly hope his presence, his anger, might be an indication of
something more.

She gritted her teeth and charged on. "I'm safe. Your name's safe. I'll sign a paper saying if I die
on the site not to blame you. Will that make you happy? Will it?"

"No!" he shouted as he gripped her shoulders.

She held her breath, almost, yet not quite, afraid of the wildness in his eyes. The violence, the
despair, the need. Would he shake her? Keep yelling at her?

He'd never hurt her. That thought stayed utmost in her mind.

And sure enough, he hauled her against his broad chest to hold her. His arms, his hands were so
tender, so gentle, treating her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Why?

He wrapped both arms around her as she tilted her head to stare with challenge into his face. She
pushed at him and he crushed her even harder. "If you ever risk your life in so ludicrous a
fashion again, I'll. . ."

Michael stopped and simply held her close. Her eyes were wide, startled. But not afraid. He
didn't want to frighten her, but she had to know, had to realize all that had almost happened to
her. His head reeled. His heart pounded harder than when he'd found her on that dirt floor,
lifeless as a rag doll.

Good God. Devon could have a new, loaded BMW from this alone.
She nearly died. He should be able to hold his temper after all she'd been through. Most men
would. But then, most women would be worried about their looks and other such nonsense.

But not his Rose. Hardly awake, she thought of her aunt before herself. Then she seemed ready,
willing and able to take on whoever was trying to kill her.

But he saw the panic, the lingering pain and hurt rising like the tide in those sea eyes. He hadn't
meant to yell at her, let alone call her brainless. Regardless of her thoughtless actions.

Damn it. Why couldn't she understand he'd been terrified? He wanted, needed, her safe, as
vibrantly alive as she was right now.

Good holy God. How could she understand when he didn't?

"What?" she whispered an eternity later, her lips soft and sweet against his neck as she spoke.
"What will you do?"

"I'll wring your damn fool neck." He pulled her head further into his shoulder. It allowed him not
to drown in her eyes, into her. Reveal things he wouldn't reveal to himself.

It also brought her intoxicating fragrance to his nose. How could she still smell like a field of
wildflowers after all she'd been through? And how could he desire her so much knowing what
she'd suffered?

"You won't, you know," she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

"What?" Her heart beat against his. Strong. Vibrant. Alive. What a beautiful feeling.

"Wring my neck. We're too good a team."

He felt his chest constrict, his breathing stop. Had she actually conceded that? "What?"

She took a deep breath, pressing her heart further into his. "Help me, Michael. Please."

She seemed so damned vulnerable. It softened him, took away his anger. "Please? You do want
my help, don't you?"

Her shoulders sagged. He wanted to shoot himself. He'd hurt her again. Good God, he felt like a
kid around her.

A four-year old abandoned by his parents.

He shook the image away and concentrated on her. He refused to let her that close, let her make
him feel things he'd spent a lifetime denying.
He released her and moved away, physically and emotionally. "I've begun an investigation into
everyone connected with the project. Mac hasn't learned anything definite. When he does, I'll
gladly impart it to you." He risked a glance at her.

She looked as lost as he felt. A frown wrinkled her brow, showed her confusion and almost made
him soften again. "Why?"

Away, he thought. Make her move away. He grinned and let his gaze roam over her as hungrily
as a starving man finally getting a full meal. "I intend to collect on our deal, Rose. Just as soon as
you're recovered."

Chapter 17

Rose spent a sleepless night. She'd slept all day. Why on earth should she sleep all night? She
didn't feel tired.

Those excuses didn't hold water long.

She remained awake because of what he'd said. The part about the hornets, that was. Her
insomnia had nothing to do with his parting remark. Really. Even if his eyes had turned the color
of natural gas flames and his gaze burned just as hotly.

She shifted restlessly in the narrow bed. Why did she still have this stupid urge to be held by him
again? To find out if the second kiss could possibly match the first?

Because she was an idiot, that's why.

Rose threw aside the blankets and left the bed on nearly steady legs. She sank into the chair by
the window. It was pitch black and a constant rain fell.

Her mind drifted to Huntington House and her last brush with death. How long had it been
raining? All day? Had the hornets, like that poor stray dog, only sought shelter from the weather?

She shook her head. Thank God the headache had finally eased. She breathed deeper, pushed
back her hair and considered. The hornet hives hadn't been in the cellar two days ago when she'd
last been in the cellar. And then--

Her hands shot out to clutch the windowsill so tightly pain raced through her hands and arms.
"Oh dear Lord," she whispered as the week's past events reeled thorough her brain. "Annie and
Mark were in there. They know I'm allergic to hornets. Wouldn't they have told me if those bugs
were down there? Or even gotten rid of them?"
Or did they both want her dead?

A wrenching shiver swept her. They were her friends. They wouldn't hurt her. She'd known them
for years.

Well, she amended as she released the windowsill and rubbed her arms. She'd known Mark for
years. They first met on the Governor's Mansion project. Her very first job.

And so nearly her last.

"No," she shook her head, watched her vague reflection in the window also do the same. "Mark's
stood by me. He wouldn't hurt me."

But would Annie? Her own partner?

"I've only known her barely eight months. She has no past supposedly," Rose said to her
reflection. "She's hiding something. But what? And why would she want to hurt me? I'm the
reason we even have a design firm. Sure, she provides all the money, but I do all the work. If
Annie hurt me, she'd really only be hurting herself."

Still. . .

She curled deeper into the chair. She could be dead right now. If not for Michael St. Lawrence.
Her own guardian Archangel. A choked laugh bubbled in her throat. Guardian angel. His hair did
resemble a halo. And that body. . .

No human deserved such a perfect body. Or such deep summer sky eyes. Any woman alive
would consider him an angel.

Saving her life countless times made him her guardian angel.

She frowned, pulled one knee up to support her chin. Hers? He didn't belong to her. She'd
thought he didn't belong in the south. Her part of it, anyway. Wrong. He fit wherever he went.

And Lord, had he ever fit her. . .

She closed her eyes as she remembered the warm feeling of security she'd felt when he held her.
He stopped a perfectly good argument to hug her, too. What had he been trying to tell her?
Gratitude she hadn't died?

"It can't be anything else," she murmured. "That first night, when he'd tackled me, I knew. Lord,
how I knew. He's a man of experience, accustomed to constantly changing women." A lump
settled in her throat. "Beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated women. He goes from one to another
like a bee in a field of flowers."

What an image that brought to mind.

"Good one," she mumbled into her knee. "A bee in flowers. And I all but toss myself at him on
the stairs yesterday. Then he just walked away. He couldn't have made it plainer. He wants me
all right, but not for anything permanent."

She didn't want anything less than stick-by-me-I'll-stick-by-you. She'd had do-everything-for-
me-I'll-do-nothing-but-hurt-you. She never wanted it again.

Not even from someone as genuinely talented as him. Not to mention gentle. Sexy. Intelligent.
Confoundedly able to match her wit for wit.

Rose sighed and tucked her other leg beneath her. Dreams on the rain. Both slid into oblivion
outside the dark pane of the window.

Why did she want to cry? She hadn't cried because other kids had parents, especially fathers. She
hadn't cried when the bee stung her and the doctors stuck her with a million needles.

A yawn spilt her face. She hadn't even cried when Louis performed his nasty stunt. She'd been
too thankful they'd never slept together. Too busy putting her shaky career back together. So why
this stupid desire to bawl her eyes out now?

She yawned again and closed her eyes. She was tired, that's all. People always felt weepy when
they were exhausted. She snuggled into a curled, nearly fetal position. "Think about it
tomorrow."

***

Several hours later, she awoke to a gray morning and the soft feel of a blanket covering her. Not
to mention cramps from her position.

She stretched, glad side effects from yesterday hadn't followed her into today. Even if the rain
had. She stood to shake out her aching legs. She needed to shower, see if Aunt Maye had brought
her some clothes. There was a lot she needed to do at Huntington House today. Especially since
she hadn't finished all she needed to yesterday.

She turned. Her mouth gaped open like a swimming fish's.

Michael St. Lawrence lay on her bed. As if he had every right to be there. As if he knew she'd
dreamed just such an image.

Almost.

In her dream she, not a newspaper, lay on top of him. She blinked. Once. Twice. He remained.
No dream, then.
She shook her hair back. Great. She probably looked like something the cat dragged in. She
cleared her throat and waited to speak until he looked from the newspaper to her face. "Why are
you here?"

His gaze traveled every inch, from her mused hair to her bare feet. Too late, she snatched the
blanket against the too thin hospital gown. His lips slowly parted. She held her breath, waiting
for some response she couldn't begin to name. "I've come to take you home."

"Oh," Rose murmured as if she understood perfectly when she didn't have the foggiest idea why
he'd come instead of Maye. He made no move to leave her bed. Still confused, she made no
moves, either. "Have you been here long?"

"Long enough to know you shouldn't sleep in chairs." His flat tone revealed none of what he
thought or felt.

She hated how he could reveal nothing when she wanted to reveal everything. "I couldn't sleep
last night. Watching the rain helped."

"I wanted to fire the nurse for letting you stay there like that all night," he growled, his voice
rough, yet held in tight check.

That infamous control, Rose thought. He must be in control of everything and everyone. At all
times. Well, two could play that. "If I want to sleep in a chair, I will. She covered me with this
blanket so lay off."

"I covered you."

That stopped her. He covered her? Watched her? She bent her head. Thank God she didn't talk in
her sleep, even if she did often talk to herself.

Her heart jerked. Or had she talked in her sleep? Was this why he was so standoffish this
morning? So cool, composed and distant? Had she said to embarrass him? Revealed something
she normally would rather die than admit?

She felt a flush creep its way up her chest, neck and face. Her dreams had been fairly. . . uhh,
well, erotic. Had she called out in real life as she had in the dream?

And he'd heard her?

"Your aunt sent you some clothes."

Rose glanced up. Not at him. To where he pointed. She couldn't look at him if her life depended
on it. Not until she had some idea why he was acting like a stranger this morning when he'd held
her like a lover yesterday afternoon. A small suitcase sat by the bathroom door.
She cleared her throat, tried to be as calm, cool and collected as he was. They were, after all, if
nothing else between them was clear, working together on the same project. She could be
professional.

She hoped.

"Why didn't she come?" She forced herself to look at him, to meet his gaze without flinching or
hesitation.

His gaze raked her, as if in challenge. "Call her and ask."

What was his problem? She stood undecided only a moment before she took a few steps and
reached for the telephone beside the bed.

"No," he cut in, halting her. "On second thought, don't. We'll settle all this much better face-to-
face."

She stared at him. What was this? "What's going on? What did she tell you?"

"Oh, quite a number of things, actually." He sat straighter to swing his long legs over the side of
the bed toward her.

He looked tired, Rose thought, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the aggravated set of his
jaw. What had gone on while she spent the night in the hospital? She didn't have any deep dark
secrets or skeletons cluttering the closet of her life.

And besides, any she might have had his investigator would have revealed to him. Right?

Unless it was about Annie. Or Rose's father.

Her heartbeat picked up. "Is this about Annie? Or my father?"

He stood, towered over her, his eyes unreadable. "Get dressed. We need to talk and I refuse to be
interrupted by doctors, nurses or other curiosity seekers."

She refused to be put off like some child. She shook her head. "Oh no. I'm not doing anything
until you tell me what's going on, buster."

"We'll talk back at my penthouse."

"We'll talk here. Now," she insisted.

He moved forward to catch a strand of her hair. He tugged it gently behind her ear and stroked
her cheek. "For once just do as I say, okay? You'll understand why soon enough."
She searched his face, his eyes, for some scrap of information. He wouldn't meet her gaze. He
didn't even look at her after that one glance.

Why? What was so terrible he either wouldn't or couldn't look at her?

All sorts of wild possibilities raced through her mind. Her father and his were the same man. She
was the daughter of a Mafia king. Elvis' love child. An alien from Mars.

Or Annie was the daughter of a Mafia king. An alien from Mars. The President's love child from
a tawdry affair. The lost heir to a Russian fortune.

Or had her doctor told him something horrible? She had an incurable brain disease. She'd soon
lose all mobility in her arms and legs. Her ability to draw and design and work.

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Not if he had reacted this way.

She wanted to fight, to make him so angry he'd tell her what was going on. She glanced at him,
prepared to launch into an attack such as he'd never seen.

Yet he simply stood there, tall, unmoving, his hair impossibly blond, his eyes impossibly blue.

And she found herself sighing and agreeing to wait. "All right. No more questions. For now.
You'll tell me what's going on as soon as we leave here, though."

He smiled and strode to the door. "You wouldn't be Rose if you didn't demand at least that
much."

Chapter 18

That comment stayed with her all the way through the slow process of her discharge, doctor
admonitions and out to his car.

He never spoke directly to her again. Never looked at her. Never touched her. He resembled a
polite stranger. Someone hired to fulfill a job to the letter without added benefits.

She hated the change. She hated herself for hating it.

Neither of them spoke until they arrived at his hotel.

"This isn't my home," Rose said as he prepared to surrender his sporty two seater to a waiting
valet.

He didn't even take the time to look her way. "We'll talk here."
Was he trying to punish her? That'd be silly. She followed him, stood to the side as he collected
his room and elevator card from the front desk. She almost snorted. She wasn't impressed. Of
course someone with his reputation would have an entire floor accessible only by a thin plastic
card for his own personal use. Big deal.

She wanted to know what was going on, darn it. Enough stalling.

They emerged from the elevator to bedlam.

Maye, her bright red dress and gray hair flying in all directions, pushed at some man wearing a
gray trench coat while screaming at the top of her lungs. Rose gaped at her, beyond amazed.
Maye screaming? She never screamed. Ever. She was the epitome of composure. Usually.

The man she pushed screamed and shoved right back. Rose turned her attention to him. His dark
gray eyes were narrowed and furious. The battered hat atop his head looked like an elephant had
sat on it. Their combined voices were too loud and muddled for anyone to make sense of what
either said.

They reminded her of Abbott and Costello. Maye so short and indignant, the man so tall and self-
righteous. Rose had the strongest urge to simply sit in a corner somewhere and laugh until her
sides ached.

Michael allowed the exchange only half a minute more before he held up his hands and stepped
between them. "What the hell is going on?"

Maye and the man fell silent as they turned to face him. The man spoke first. "Kindly inform the.
. . lady here who I am, Mic."

"He's Sloan MacKenna," Michael said. "My private investigator."

"Private investigator?" Maye squeaked. Rose suppressed a giggle as a horrified expression

crossed her aunt's face. Just as suddenly, a calm one settled in its place. "Oh. Well, excuse the
assumption you were a hoodlum, then."

The man glared at her and smashed his hat further down on his head. "Excused. For the
assumption, that is. Not for the behavior."

"Let's continue inside, shall we?" Michael said as a gleam grew in his eyes.

Rose didn't dare continue to look at him. She'd burst into laughter if she did and her aunt would
never forgive her. She sided up to her aunt and concentrated on something serious. "Why didn't
you come to the hospital?"

"There wasn't time." Maye collapsed on the nearest sofa.

"What was more important than coming to see me--" she started before the decor distracted her.
Posh, elegant, obviously designed for the very wealthy. Oak parquet flooring. Sunken living
space. Velvet-covered furniture. Glass topped tables. Marble counter tops. Passively nice
paintings. Probably silk sheets and down comforters on the bed.

Bed. She frowned as she looked down a narrow hallway. This was a two bedroom suite. Why did
one man need so much space?

"Rose, this is Sloan MacKenna," Michael interrupted her thoughts. "Mac, this is Rose
Anderson."

"It's nice to meet you," Rose said automatically and shook hands with the man. He'd removed his
coat and hat to reveal a plain dark suit and hair which matched his salt and pepper full beard.

"The pleasure's mine." His twinkling smoke-colored eyes laughed. "Mic speaks highly of you."

Before Rose could ask exactly what had been said about her, Mic, a.k.a. Michael, jumped in
with, "I don't need to introduce you to Rose's aunt, do I Mac? You seem to know each other
fairly well."

"Touche," the older gentleman murmured. He took a seat on a chaise lounge across from Maye.
"She ruined my last fine cigars."

"You bowled into me and knocked me flat," Maye's sharp tone made Rose stare at her. Maye
was usually as placid as a frozen lake.

Of course, she'd been screaming at this man not five minutes ago, too.

"You still owe me seven cigars," he said as he crossed his legs and leaned his arms against the
head rest.

"You can hold your breath waiting for them," Maye snapped. "It's a nasty habit you should have
given up long ago. Just like that silly name you call Mike."

"I've known him almost all his life. I've always called him Mic. And what business is it of yours
what I call a man I consider a son? You don't see me calling your use of 'Rosy' silly. Even if it
is."

Maye's back went ram-rod stiff. Rose caught another giggle just in time. "I didn't ask for your
opinion on what I call a member of my family."

"No, you didn't. I'm giving it to you for free."

Rose watched in fascination as her aunt flushed and sputtered. She'd never known anyone to get
the better of Maye. Perhaps this Mac was just the man to finally liven up her life a little. "So you
two are friends. How nice."

Maye turned on her like a spitting, clawing cat. "We most certainly are not, Missy!"

Rose arched her brows and plopped down beside her aunt. "What's wrong, Auntie? I only
thought perhaps. . ."

"Say one word further along those lines and I'll--"

"What?" Rose muttered. "I'm a little big to send to my room. I don't have one here, anyway."

"You do now," Michael cut in.

She swung around to stare at him. "What?!"

"Until this would-be murderer is caught, you'll stay here. With me." He matched her steady stare.

"You must be kidding." Rose turned back to her aunt. "Tell me he's kidding."

Maye shrugged and wore a smug expression. "I can't. And I won't. It was my suggestion."

"Yours?" Rose shook her head, horrified. A hotel room alone with Michael St. Lawrence? Oh
good Lord, no. She snatched the first excuse she could. "What will the society think of your
unmarried niece sharing a hotel room with a complete male stranger?"

Maye shrugged again. "I don't care what they may think so long as you're safe. Mike will
guarantee you are."

"Oh come on," Rose fused her voice with sarcasm and scorn. "You can't possibly believe just
because his last name has 'saint' in it and just because he also happens to have the same name as
an Archangel in the Bible he's one, too."

"Why not? Haven't you?" Maye returned dryly.

Rose flushed, hating that her aunt knew her so well. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"If you two are finished," Michael said as he took a seat on the chaise longue beside his P.I.

Rose turned to glare at him. "Okay. We are. Now what's all this about? Why the secrecy?"

His gaze briefly touched hers then he glanced at her aunt. "Maye, would you like to start?"
Maye closed her eyes. A deep, deep sigh escaped her. She sank lower into the sofa. "Rosy, you
know I've never told you about your father. Or any of his family."

It was about her father. Rose took a breath and braced for the worst. "No, you haven't. Do I
finally get to learn why now?"

"Yes." Maye's eyes stayed closed, her body slumped as if in defeat.

Which worried Rose even more. She glanced at Michael. He had his hand on his P.I.'s arm as if
warning him not to interrupt. And he wouldn't meet her gaze. Not at all. "Aunt Maye, I don't
understand. What could be so bad that--"

"Please. Just listen and try to understand." Maye opened her eyes. Her face took on a pleading
expression Rose had never seen. "It won't be easy to hear."

Rose hazarded another quick peek at Michael. His features hadn't altered in any way. Hut oh.
Definitely not good. She turned back to her aunt. "All right. Explain. The way you explained it to
him."

"You know she has?" his voice was as cool as the rain still falling outside.

She nodded but didn't try to make him meet her gaze again. "Something's different. Either I
grossed you out by blowing up like the Goodyear Blimp yesterday or Aunt Maye told you this
mysterious news about my father."

"I'd like to hear this news again too," Sloan MacKenna added.

Rose did stare at him. "Why? I thought you investigated me and Aunt Maye."

The older man spread his hands into fans. A slight smile curved his lips when Maye gasped and
also stared at him. "I did. But there is, as you know, nothing about your father listed anywhere.
Your birth certificate says 'unknown'. And since your mother's also dead, it was a dead end.
Although I do have a copy of her death certificate if you ever want it."

"What do you have a copy of her death certificate for?" Maye asked, her tone sharp enough to
carve a turkey. "There's no reason for you to have one. No reason at all."

Rose glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Maye seemed upset. Why? What did it matter?

Of course, Maye didn't like Sloan MacKenna for some reason. That probably had a lot to do with
her sharpness.

He shrugged. "A good detective follows every possible lead." He reached into the pocket of his
sports coat and took out a cigar. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Yes, I mind! The last thing I want while I'm telling my Rosy this news is a cloud of disgusting
cigar smoke clogging my nostrils and burning my eyes and lasting all day and half the night."

"Oh, well, do excuse me." He replaced the cigar in his pocket. "I was under the impression this
was Mic's room, not yours."

"You did ask if I minded," Maye reminded, her voice beyond sharp now. "I said I mind. End of
story."

"Good. Now start telling me about mine. Who and what was my father?" Rose asked in
exasperation, tired of waiting for some explanation.

Maye took a breath and stared straight into her eyes. "I've never told you about your father's
family because of his line, of who he was and what he came from."

"Was Daddy rich or something? Am I the illegitimate offspring all his legal heirs want to get rid
of so they won't have to split their inheritance with me?" Rose laughed but the shaky sound died
as quick as she uttered it.

"Your father wasn't rich and he didn't have any other children," Maye whispered. "You're his
only child."

Rose sighed. With a show of dramatics she in no way felt, she wiped her arm across her
forehead. "That's a relief. I'd hate to think I had a half-brother or sister out there somewhere who
wanted me dead just so he or she could live the life of the beautiful people without me tagging
along messing everything up."

"Rosy."

A shudder went through her. That single word conveyed a million thoughts, a million feelings.
Never had Rose known such grief, such despair, such guilt radiating from anyone. Especially her
aunt. To say it overwhelmed would say the ocean consisted of one tiny drop of water. "Just tell
me. Please."

"Oh my Rosy," Maye said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "How I wish I could spare you
this."

"Spare me?" Rose braced again for whatever her aunt might say. "What about Daddy's family?
What do they have to do with me?"

"Your father's family has been involved in some very dangerous things. They have been for
several generations."

Rose stared at her. Everything stopped. Her heart, breath, mind. It was the Mafia, just like she
joked to herself this morning. Like she'd feared. "Are you saying," she stopped, had to swallow,
tried again. "Are you saying my father was part of the Mob?"
Maye shook her head. Her gray curls bobbed along her face in a picture that would have been
merry but for this serious discussion. "No, he wasn't involved in the Mob, Rosy. This is worse.
Much, much worse."

"What could be worse than the Mob?" Rose asked as she tried to smile. "I thought they were the
scariest thing to hit America."

"Your father wasn't from America, Rosy."

Rose caught her breath. "He what?"

"He wasn't from America. He wasn't a citizen. He was only in this country for two reasons."

"And those were?"

Maye's hands twisted into knots in her lap. "He was supposed to do some research on someone
then he was supposed to. . ."

"What?" Rose prompted, impatience gnawing at her.

"He was supposed to help assassinate President Kennedy."

Chapter 19

"He was what?" Rose asked as something beyond shock and disbelief filled her. "Supposed to
help kill President Kennedy? That's crazy. Insane."

Sadness clouded Maye's features, dulled her eyes. "I know, Rosy. But it's the truth."

"The truth?" Rose echoed. "Is this the same truth you told St. Lawrence?"

Maye nodded, her eyes growing worried. "I know it's not easy to hear, but--"

Rose held up her hand to halt her. She took a deep breath and spoke with biting emphasis on
each word. "You told him my father was involved in a plot to kill President Kennedy?"

Maye nodded again, her gaze steady and unfailingly candid.

"The President Kennedy? The one married to Jackie O? The one Marilyn Monroe had a thing
for?"
A third nod.

The heat and pain of anger scorched her heart and lungs, dripped like suffocating poison into her
veins. She turned with half blind eyes to stare at Michael. "You think she's crazy. It must be
killing you to hide your delight at finally having an excuse to throw me off the restoration for
Huntington House."

His features bore that closed, frigid expression they had all morning. "Listen to her."

"Sure I will," Rose turned back. "A plot to kill the President, huh? And I suppose next you'll tell
me my father was some Cuban dissentient, right?"

"No, Rosy. He--"

"Or a Cold War spy. No, a Russian secret agent. Like James Bond only without the British
accent."

"Just let me--"

"I'd rather you tell me I'm illegitimate. Or that I'm an alien from Mars." She got to her feet, her
body as stiff as Michael's features. "I'm going back to work. Maybe he thinks he can fire me for
having a nutty aunt, but any court will be quick to tell him otherwise."

"Please," Maye begged. Her eyes dripped tears. "You must listen."

"Spare me." Rose hated the harshness. She couldn't help it. "All my life I've wondered about the
man who was my father. Imagined all sorts of horrible things that might have prevented you
from talking about him."

"Rosy, please," Maye said again as her voice began to choke.

Rose shook her head. "This is worse than any insult, intended or not. I feel like you've just
repeatedly slapped me with brass knuckles. Either tell me you don't know who my father was or
shut up altogether."

"Rose." Michael towered over her, a mountain of determination. "Don't speak to your aunt like
that. She's trying to help."

"Don't you dare tell me how to speak!" Rose turned her rage, hurt and disappointment on him.
"You. . . you self-righteous phony. All that talk about being a good team and trust me and deals
and I-want-you gazes. Nothing more than lies intending to fool me into that same sort of fake
security so you could--"
He leapt the two steps between them. He shoved her down beside her aunt, his grip on her
shoulders neither tender nor brutal. Simply determined. Unshakable.

"Shut up and listen," he growled. "Think about someone else instead of yourself for a change."

She wouldn't let him see how those words stung. "You don't honestly believe all this nonsense,
do you?"

"I didn't when she first told me."

"Ha! You see!" She hit at his chest with one balled fist.

"But I do now." He leaned over and placed his forehead against hers. The fathomless quicksand
of his eyes sank her will to fight. His breath fanned her face while his hands sent quivers of hot
awareness down her shoulders and back. "Listen to her. Please."

Rose closed her eyes. Drat. Even that wasn't enough to block the soft, stroking caress of his
voice, the potency of his touch. He could ask her to quit the project right now. She probably
would. Good thing he wasn't the know-it-all she'd once believed.

"All right," she said quietly, giving in with complete ill grace. "I can't fight you both. At least not
right now."

Michael released her without another word and resumed his seat.

Rose heaved two great sighs, tried to regain some control and balance. "Start again, Aunt Maye.
From the beginning."

"It's a long story. One with a great deal of history." Maye also sighed. "One I'd be thrilled to
have. Were it not all so evil."

"Evil?" Rose nodded and resisted the impulse to add she guessed a plot to kill somebody,
particularly a U.S. President, could definitely qualify as evil.

"Your father's family is ancient, Rosy. It's been around for centuries. Your father's name was
Eric O'Neill."

"Eric O'Neill? He was Irish?" Maye nodded and Rose pounced. "But wasn't Kennedy of Irish
descent? Why would an Irishman kill another Irishman?"

"Most wouldn't," Maye agreed. "But the IRA doesn't much care about nationalities or family
ancestry. Especially when they feel they've been crossed."

"IRA?" Rose felt the blood drain from her face. "What did the IRA have to do with Kennedy's
assassination?"
"Nothing," Maye admitted. "President Kennedy was assassinated before this group's plan could
be put into action. But there was a faction, a very extreme, terrorist section, of them who wanted
President Kennedy dead. At their hand."

"Why?" Rose heard the word, felt it come from her mouth. But it was like someone else was
speaking while she simply watched.

"They had asked him to help them, to join their cause. When he refused, they decided to kill him.
Besides, if they murdered an important person, someone very, very highly placed, they would
bring more attention to their fight for freedom from British rule," Maye explained. "And no one
had more visibility in those days, at that time in history, than the American President. Especially
J.F.K."

Rose shook her head. "Aunt Maye, this makes no sense at all. An Irish American president
would do a lot more to help unite Ireland and make it completely independent of British rule if
he were alive than if he were dead."

Maye smiled, but her eyes were sad and full of despair. "Rosy, think. They felt like one of their
own had crossed them. Oh, Kennedy wasn't IRA, but he was Irish. He was President of the most
powerful nation on earth. A nation that had also fought British rule and won. In their minds, he
was a traitor to them, to their cause, to his forefathers' country."

"And my father was part of this?" Rose whispered, so sick at heart she wanted to cry and throw
up at the same time.

Maye shrugged. "He was part of the movement to unite Ireland into a country free from outside
rule, just as his father and grandfather and so on before him were. He wasn't for violence or
terrorism, however."

Well, that was something, Rose thought. Her father wasn't a violent man, yet he belonged to a
violent group planning even more violence. "So what did they do when their plan to kill
Kennedy failed? Turn their attention to the next US President?"

Maye shook her head. "No, Rosy. They turned their attention toward the ones they hated most."

"The British?" Rose guessed as the nausea swirling in her stomach slowly subsided into a more
tolerable level.

"Yes," Maye confirmed in a whisper. "People such as England's Lord Mountbatten."

Rose felt herself pale more at the mention of the man killed by a terrorist attack. An uncle to
Prince Philip, Queen Elizabeth's husband. A man who was also the retired head of the British
armed forces. "But there's almost twenty years between President Kennedy's death and Lord
Mountbatten's."
Maye shrugged. "Years mean little to these people, Rosy. Except that every year Britain
maintains control in Ireland makes the violence escalate more."

Her head spun. She didn't, as a rule, care much for politics. Now she knew why. It was all so
confusing, so violent, so senseless sometimes. "Ok. Wait a minute. Was my father involved in
the Mountbatten plot, too? So he really didn't die when I was a baby?"

Maye's hands knotted so tightly they became bloodless in seconds. "No, he wasn't involved in
that plot. He really is dead."

"How well did you know him?" Rose demanded as another thought occurred to her. "And how
did my mother meet him, anyway? Why would she want to be involved with a man trying to kill
people for political reasons?"

Her aunt sighed long and deeply. "Let me start at the beginning, Rosy."

Rose waved her hands. "Oh by all means, please do."

"Mary and I met your father at college. He was there as an exchange student. Or so we thought."

"Why was he really there?" Rose questioned as dread entered her heart.

Maye's head dipped, revealed the thinning crown of her gray hair. "He was looking for the lost
shipment of Confederate gold."

It was simply too much. Rose stood up to pace. "You expect me to believe my father was a
member of a terrorist group from Ireland then came here to search for lost treasure? In Raleigh?
You must think I'm a complete moron."

Maye sighed and lifted her head. "Now you see why I never told you."

Rose spun, furious. "No, I don't see. This is some ludicrous story, some stupid fairy tale invented
to--"

"Rose," Sloan MacKenna said quietly. "I've checked it out. After Maye told Mic this story last
night."

She turned on him then. "What? Are you trying to tell me you found records proving one Eric
O'Neill was part of the IRA trying to kill President Kennedy and Lord Mountbatten and also
searching little ole North Carolina for lost treasure?"

Sloan MacKenna grinned. "Oh, if only it were that simple. No Rose, I mean a birth certificate for
Eric O'Neill of County Claire Ireland exists. I have a fax of it."

Rose stood straighter. "I'd like to see it, then."

The older man nodded. "Certainly. Also, school records show Eric attended the same college
your mother and aunt did. And I have a copy of his temporary student's visa. The rest of the
story, I'm afraid, is speculation at best and truth at worst."

Michael, Rose saw in a quick glance, nudged him none too gently. "Let Maye finish before we
start second-guessing, again, what she claims is true."

"Well, good Lord," Rose interjected. "How much more can there be? My father's already an
attempted murderer and known terrorist group member."

"She hasn't even scraped the surface." Michael leaned back slightly to stare up at her. Yet he still,
even with all this, wouldn't hold her gaze. "Have a seat."

Rose took his suggestion simply because her legs no longer seemed capable of holding her up.
More? How much more could there possibly be?

And why did he and his detective have to be here for this? Her family history was a private
matter between her aunt and herself. What business was it of his?

Yet another thought, another shock, piled atop her. Were the men here simply because of her
father's political connections? Did they honestly think some Irish extreme faction was
responsible for the accidents at Huntington House? That was absurd. Ridiculous. Crazy.

But, an hour ago, the thought of having a terrorist father had also been absurd, ridiculous and
crazy.

She leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Okay, Auntie. Let's hear it all. Might as well tell me
the rest. Even if none of it can be proven."

"There are other items proving the existence of what I say," Maye maintained and met Rose's
astonished gaze with a steadiness which gave her words added strength and candor. "We'll get to
them later. Right now, let me simply say we were all young and so foolish. So certain nothing
could touch us."

"Who?" Rose asked in confusion. "You and my mother?"

Maye nodded. "Yes, for starters. And your father, once he broke from the group. He had such a
brilliant mind, a kind heart, a giving spirit."

"For what? Devising bombs to murder innocent people?" Rose asked with a touch of sarcasm.

"Rosy, Rosy," her aunt's voice was low and chiding, like an exasperated mother to a cranky
child. "Your father didn't realize, at first, what the members of the group wanted to do. Once he
discovered their murderous plots, he left them completely."

"Did he really? My, what a prince of a guy."

Maye's eyes grew hard. "I know this is hard for you. But I won't tolerate your sarcasm. He was
wrong in many things. But he was also human and he made mistakes. Just like any one. Just like
you."

Shame filled Rose as she bent her head. Maye was right. Whatever else her father might have
been, he was still only a man. However, she'd built him up so high over the years it was hard to
remember that.

Especially now.

"He applied for American citizenship and planned to make a new life here with your mother,"
Maye continued in a soft voice. "He wanted nothing further to do with any of them once he
learned their true agenda. It took so much courage for him to do that Rosy, so much strength.
These men had truly been like brothers to him. His father, his grandfather, great-grandfather and
so on had all believed and fought for Irish Independence. Yet Eric broke away, shunned them,
refused to go along with their evil plans."

So she could be proud of that, Rose thought. He'd made a mistake and tried to rectify it.

"He was originally led to believe the lost gold would be used to rebuild towns, help his fellow
countrymen, feed starving children. Once he learned the truth, that the gold, if found, would be
used to further terrorist activities and buy weapons he gave up his search." Maye took her hand
and squeezed it. "But he loved the history, Rosy. The romance of the Old South. You are so
much like him in that."

Rose looked up at her and tried to smile. "He liked history?"

"Oh yes. It was his major in college." Maye smiled, the same smile Rose had seen countless
times growing up. Gentle, understanding, patient. And filled with warmth and love.

"But how did he know about the gold at Huntington House in the first place?" Rose asked.

"That gold shipment was big news to the troops, both Northern and Southern, when it
disappeared during the last days of the Civil War. I'd wager thousands of people have searched
for it over the years, especially right after it disappeared. No trace of it has, as you well know,
ever been found. Many of the Northern soldiers were Irish. They passed the tale to their families
still in Ireland. Everyone loves to think they'd find a lost fortune."

Rose tilted her head as she considered that last statement. "Every country in the world has tales
of lost treasure. There's plenty of Irish tales about lost treasure and leprechauns and pots of gold
at the end of rainbows. Why come all the way over here?"

"Why not?" Sloan MacKenna cut in. "Lost treasure's lost treasure. I mean, people from all over
the world would love to find the Lost Ark of the Covenant or the Holy Grail or--" he broke off.
Rose glanced over to see what made him stop. Michael had hold of his arm. Even sitting across
from them, Rose could tell his grip was none too slack or gentle.

Sloan MacKenna's words confirmed her suspicions. "Something wrong, Mic? You're interfering
with my circulation."

"Be quiet," Michael ordered, his gaze hard. "Let Maye finish in her own way."

Rose eyed her aunt again. There was still more? Ahh. "So what drew my mom to him? The thrill
of a dangerous man?"

Maye shook her head. A bead of sweat appeared on her forehead, trickled down her cheek. Rose
stared at it, fascinated. Her aunt was one of these 'I-don't-sweat-I-glow' people. Yet she was
sweating?

Why?

"She didn't realize Eric was involved in any sort of terrorism until much, much later. And even
after he told her, it was so hard to believe. He was, without doubt, the gentlest, kindest man she'd
ever known." Maye smiled, her eyes full of tears. "And he genuinely loved your mother. He felt,
in order for them to have a future, he needed to tell her the truth about his past."

"Did it change how she felt about him? Did she love him?" Rose asked, a sense of urgency in her
tone she tried without success to cover. It was important for her, she realized as she waited for
her aunt to wipe her eyes, to know her parents loved each other.

Had loved her.

"Oh yes," Maye whispered, her head downcast and hands trembling. "Your mother adored him.
Knowing his past, the type of man he was to give up the country he loved, his history, his family,
everything because what the IRA wanted him to do was so morally wrong, so repugnant to him,
only strengthened her love for him. You were conceived in that love, Rosy." Maye lifted her
head, her swollen, red eyes dripping a continuous stream of tears. "Never, ever believe any
different. They adored each other and they'd have adored you and what you've done with your
life. The beautiful, wonderful, special woman you've become."

Rose felt matching tears swell and flood her own eyes, choke her throat. Maye had always told
her her mother loved her. But now, this time, for some reason, it meant so much more. Almost
like hearing it for the first time.

Maye turned away, her shoulders shaking and body shuddering. "I can't lose you, too, Rosy. I
won't."

Chapter 20
Rose let her cry while she struggled to absorb all she'd been told. And control her own emotions.

If this story were true, she had a rich family history. An ancient name. Finally she'd know all
about her father.

Of course, it also meant she had much to fear. The IRA? A plot to assassinate the President?
Searching for lost gold?

She still had so many questions. So much she needed to know.

But Maye was in no condition, right now, to answer her. She turned to look at the two silent
men. Sloan MacKenna met her gaze and gave her a reassuring smile.

Michael, however, met her gaze only briefly before he turned away on the pretense of re-
crossing one leg over the other.

His coldness hurt. More than she cared to acknowledge or admit.

"Okay," she said, her voice choked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Okay. I assume you
both already know about all this. Why did the IRA simply let my father leave? Wasn't he a loose
cannon?"

"No doubt," Sloan MacKenna answered. "They wouldn't have just let him leave. And I don't
believe they did."

"What do you mean?" Rose held her breath while he stroked his chin and seemed to weight his
words before he spoke.

"I've found a death certificate for Eric O'Neill," he finally said. "All the information on it,
country of birth, where his death occurred, that sort of thing, seem to collaborate Maye's story."

"Where did his death occur?"

"In Asheville. Near Biltmore Mansion."

She closed her eyes. She'd never be able to hear of Biltmore again without thinking of her father.
"A car accident, right? With my mother? When I was three weeks old. They must have been
visiting Biltmore, maybe on a second honeymoon or something."

She opened her eyes when Sloan MacKenna didn't immediately confirm or correct her
assumptions. He was still stroking his beard, his eyes thoughtful.

He looked, to her, like a man trying to hide something.

But what?
Maye's hardened voice claimed Rose's full attention before she could question him. "It was no
accident. They killed them."

"What?" Rose turned to her, amazed at the acid, bitter note in her voice. And in her face. "Who
killed them?"

"The IRA. They rigged the car, tampered with the brakes. Eric told them he wouldn't go to the
police, wouldn't tell a soul their plans. He'd never jeopardize his child or his child's future."
Maye paused. She took a breath then continued. "But they didn't believe him."

"Why?" Rose whispered. "Why didn't they believe him?"

"Because they knew him. They knew he wouldn't just sit back and let them kill innocent people."
Maye smiled sadly and patted Rose's hand. "And they were right, you know. Your father
wouldn't have let others die. He'd have found a way, somehow, to prevent them from succeeding.
If not the actual deaths, then the lines of weapons or foreign money."

"Are you saying they killed him?" A shiver ran down her spine.

"Yes. Those bastards killed him. And my sister."

Rose just stared at her, speechless. Maye looked like some avenging warrior goddess. Her
usually soft blue eyes flamed with rage. Her usually calm face was closed and pinched while her
hands were clutched into fists so tight Rose almost winced just to see them.

"That's a pretty strong statement," Michael murmured as if knowing what Rose wanted to say yet
couldn't.

"Revenge is a pretty strong motivater," Maye shot back. "Eric tried to leave the group so they
killed him for it."

"How do you know?" Sloan MacKenna jumped in. "Do you have any proof they rigged the car
or tampered with the breaks?"

Maye turned her furious gaze to him. "No, Mister MacHeel, I don't have any positive proof,
beyond my own gut feeling, they tampered with Eric's car. But then, I don't have any proof,
besides Mike's word, you are the best detective in the business, either."

Rose almost laughed but her chest felt too tight, her heart too open and bleeding. She wished she
could giggle. It would break the tension of the moment.

"I didn't say it wasn't a possibility the car may have been rigged to crash," Sloan MacKenna said
quietly, as he stared at her without blinking a single time. "In all likelihood, since Eric refused to
help them any longer plus knew so much about each member and their planned activities, he was
a prime liability and needed to be taken out of the equation permanently."
Maye crossed her arms across her chest and snorted. "There. Even you see the truth of my story."

"But," Sloan continued with his voice as steady as his gaze. "There's no proof the IRA was
involved in Eric O'Neill's death. Just suspicion."

"Of course there's proof!" Maye waved her hand and looked at him with an expression of utter
contempt. "Do you honestly believe Eric was foolish enough not to document what he'd told
me?"

"He documented it?" Rose asked, torn between relief to have some tangible proof of her father's
existence and grief anything so horrible could be true.

Maye nodded. "Yes. In his journals. I also have several family records. I'll show them to--"

"Why haven't you ever gone to the police, then?" Sloan cut in. His tone was no longer simply
steady. It held censure and fury. Rose noticed his face did, too. "You could have possibly
prevented Lord Mountbatten's death. And countless other deaths."

Maye jumped to her feet. "How dare you! Did it not occur to you MacHeel, before you opened
that bottomless pit you call a mouth, I had a child to think about? A newborn who'd lost her
father to an extreme terrorist group and could suffer the exact same fate were her existence
known?"

Sloan MacKenna cocked his head to one side and started stroking his beard again, seemingly
unfazed by her outburst. Rose instantly recognized his expression as one of Michael's favorites
when he and she were arguing over something. "Didn't they already know about her? If they kept
tabs on Eric to the extent of sabotaging his car months after he left their organization, why didn't
they know about his child?"

"You think I'm helpless? That I couldn't protect my own flesh and blood from terrorists?" Maye
shouted, almost spitting the words. Her face was molten red with fury, her eyes narrowed to slits.

Rose had never seen her aunt this angry. She lifted a hand to touch Maye's arm. "It's okay,
Auntie. No one's blaming you for my parents' deaths. Please don't get so upset. You're scaring
me."

Maye glanced down at her. "I had to protect you, Rosy. I had to. There was nothing I personally
could do for Lord Mountbatten or any of the others they wanted to target. But I could protect
you. At least, I have for twenty-eight years."

Rose titled her head to the side and looked at her aunt through the corners of her eyes. "Are you
saying you think the IRA is behind the accidents happening at Huntington House?"

Maye nodded. "Of course. It's the only logical solution."

"No it's not," Sloan MacKenna argued. "It's only one possibility. Why would they come after
Rose now? After all these years?"

Maye kept her gaze on Rose's. "Oh please. Don't you know anything about these people? About
your own heritage?"

"I'm Scottish, not Irish," he replied in so dry a tone Rose felt her lips curve.

Maye shifted her gaze to him. "Whatever. It's about revenge. They would have been furious with
not only Eric, but anyone associated with him. Especially his children. The sins of the father and
all that. If you have time, perhaps you should check the Irish records."

Sloan MacKenna could hold his own quite nicely against her aunt's condescension, Rose saw. He
leaned against the head rest of the chaise lounge and eyed Maye with nothing more than mild
curiosity in his eyes. "And why should I do that?"

"Because you'd find Eric isn't the only O'Neill to have met a tragic, untimely end. Many of his
family did, too." Maye's gaze shifted back to Rose. "In accidents. Very unexplained accidents."

Rose shuddered openly. She glanced at Michael. He stared right at her now, but his eyes and face
were shuttered and unapproachable. She looked back at her aunt, swallowed hard.
"Unexplained?"

Maye nodded and took her hand. "There was no reason for Eric's car to crash, Rosy. It wasn't
raining, the road wasn't wet. He wasn't speeding or drunk. The rental car was brand new. He'd
driven that same section of road several times before."

"It was an accident," Rose murmured, though even she doubted her words.

"It was made to look like an accident," Maye corrected. "Just as yours have been. They know
about you now Rosy. And they want you to die, too."

Rose pulled her hand away. She felt confused, overwhelmed and out of control. She hated that
feeling. Hated it more than she could ever say. "I can't believe all this. My father was a member
of the IRA and when he tried to leave they killed him. Now you say these same people are after
me?"

Maye nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Wouldn't they be kinda old?" Rose said, then held up her hand when her aunt would have
interrupted. "Please let me talk. Haven't they got better people to target? I mean, I have nothing
at all to do with political matters. I'm not some huge name or big star. I can't help or hurt them in
any way. I've never even been to Ireland!"
"It wouldn't matter to them," Maye replied, her voice soft, yet firm. "All they see is who your
father was and that he was a traitor to their cause. That's all the motive they'd need, in their
minds, to kill you."

"Really? How would they know who my father is, huh? Even I didn't know until an hour ago!"
Rose slammed her hand into the cushions, watched her aunt jump. "His name isn't listed
anywhere in connection to me. Not even on my birth certificate! So how do they know about
me?"

"Rosy--"

She got to her feet, not surprised when Michael did, too. "No, don't say anymore, Aunt Maye.
You've said more than enough already."

"You don't believe me?"

Rose closed her eyes at the hurt and disbelief in Maye's voice. But she was hurt and confused,
too. "I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm just saying I don't want to hear talk about terrorists
and mad plots for revenge any more today."

"Fine," Maye replied in a clipped tone. She rose and marched around her side of the sofa. She
half dragged, half pushed a large cardboard box out from the corner and shoved it to Rose's feet.
"Here's all the information your father left."

Rose peered into the box of papers. "What--"

"Journals, certificates, family records. From your father's family. It includes some things on the
IRA, too. The sort of people they were. They killed him, I tell you. Him and my sister." Maye
made her way to the door. "I'm going to your apartment, Rosy. Call me when you realize I'm
telling the truth."

Rose watched her leave. She turned just in time to see Michael nod toward the open doorway in
a quick, jerky motion. Sloan MacKenna grimaced, also stood and with a sigh, followed her aunt
from the room.

She couldn't contain her curiosity. She bent down and began to leaf through the box of papers
and books like a child with a new toy.

Michael sat down on the couch near her. "She's trying to keep you safe, you know."

"Sure she is." Rose muttered absently.

"I hate to tell you this, but there's not really anything in there to prove or disprove her theory."

Rose stared at him, the papers, so fascinating moments before, now forgotten. "You've been
through these?"
"Some of them. Last night," he confirmed, his gaze intensely blue upon her face.

"They convinced you Aunt Maye's telling the truth?" She forced the words out. Oh Lord. His
seductive expression had reappeared as suddenly as it had disappeared. Potent, undeniable,
unforgettable.

But why now? Why when her mind was so occupied with all this jumbled information about her
father?

And when he'd been so cold and standoffish all day?

"No. She did." He stroked her cheek, pushed back a strand of her hair.

"How?" She wanted to tuck her face into his hand and forget all this talk of IRA and revenge.
Lord, she wanted to forget everything entirely.

But him.

He shrugged. "I can't say exactly why I believe her. But I do."

Wonder and awe made her voice uncertain. "You think the IRA is stalking me?"

He let his hand trail through her hair. "The IRA in North Carolina? It does seems too incredible
to believe."

Rose resisted the urge to purr like a contented kitten. "I can't believe such a story, yet I've never
known Aunt Maye to lie. She won't even tell a polite lie."

He smiled. "Must make social occasions very interesting."

Rose smiled back "People acquainted with her know better than to ask her opinion on clothes or
hairstyles. She's too honest."

"She won't say they look marvelous when they don't." Michael continued to smile. "She says
what she thinks. Like you do."

Rose ignored that. "Why would she create such nonsense?"

He leaned down, his shoulders brushing her as he picked up a handful of papers. "These support
her story, somewhat. I'd bet my reputation they're authentic, too."

She shook her head. "Maybe. But Michael, really, do you think--"

"I love the sound of my name from your lips," he cut in, his tone husky, as if the admission were
torn from him.
Flustered, she floundered against the wave of need fostered by his tone. She wanted to cling to
him and pretend everything between them could be perfect.

How could she explain wanting him, needing his touch and the feel of him against her when she
couldn't be certain of anything any more? If Maye's story did prove fake, then who else wished
her dead so much he or she would go to any lengths to kill her?

He thrust to his feet and stalked away from her. She felt almost like he'd slapped her.

"Your aunt's story is one theory," he said while she fought a wave of stupid, helpless tears.
"Someone is trying to harm you. And all we have to go on right now is her word and those
papers."

Rose shifted through the papers. Some were relatively new, some old and yellowed. Her fingers
touched something different, some texture unlike the thin paper. She rooted deeper into the box
and pulled out a sheet of plastic. The older papers had been covered with laminate, probably to
protect them. And by someone who cared a great deal about them.

Had that person been Maye? Or her father?

"Mister MacKenna hasn't found anything else?" she asked softly.

"Nothing conclusive," he admitted as he knelt beside her. He tilted her chin to join their gazes.
"But I know he will, Rose."

She drew a shaky breath. She wanted his touch, but if he pulled away again it might just break
her, on top of everything else which had happened today. "Yeah? What makes you so certain?"

"I'm not about to lose our bet." His thumb traced the line of her jaw and inflamed already too
sensitive nerve endings with the lightest of caresses.

She turned toward him, shoved the box from between them. His fingers slipped lower, trailed fire
down her neck and the hollow of her throat. Lord, how could she fight something she wanted so
badly she ached? How could she not want him?

Deep down, she didn't want to fight with him. Not anymore. She probably never really had.

Her breath quickened as they stared into each other's eyes. Knowledge flooded her mind. His
bed. Hers. Even the floor. It didn't matter. It would happen. They'd make love. Soon.

It was only a matter of time.

"Rose?" His mouth descended slowly over hers.

"Hmm?" She didn't move, couldn't breath, wouldn't do anything to prevent their lips from
touching.
His mouth hovered a hair's thickness over hers. "Let's get started."

Chapter 21

"Pretty incredible."

"I know."

"Sensational beyond all belief, really."

"If you say so."

"An amazing feat of astounding proportions."

Maye Anderson sighed. Her face mirrored impatience and temper. "I don't care whether you
believe me or not, Mister MacHeel, so long as my Rosy does."

Sloan let a smile curve his lips. "The name's MacKenna. Or Sloan. Mac, if you prefer."

"I wouldn't prefer," she replied shortly. She wiped her palms on a scrap of left over drapery
material. "I'd rather you simply--"

"You'd rather I what?" He grasped one of her hands and gently rubbed it.

"Quit."

"Quit what?"

"Quit that." She attempted to pull free. "My hands are filthy."

"My hands are filthy, too. What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," she lied. He knew she lied. He'd been in the business too long not to
know. She was afraid. Deathly afraid.

But of what?

"You're not afraid?" he inquired blandly, as if asking about the weather.

"No."
"Then why is your hand shaking?"

Her gaze shifted from his. "I'm cold. It's chilly in here."

"You're cold?"

"Yes."

"Not afraid?"

"No."

"Let me warm you up then."

"No!" She jerked her hand from his and backed away.

Unfazed, Sloan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. "These will help
you."

"I don't need them."

"Are you certain? They won't bite." He eased toward her. "Mic gave 'em to me last Christmas."

She held her hands behind her back. "No, really. I'm fine."

He shrugged and put his gloves back into his pocket. "I was attempting to be polite, Maye."

She shrugged. "I said I'm fine. How do you know Mike? Besides the investigations you do for
him, that is."

He saw no reason not to tell her. "He's my son's best friend. Has been for a number of years."

"You're married?"

Was that disappointment he detected in her tone? He grinned. "No, divorced."

"How long?"

He turned from her searching gaze. "Not relevant to this case."

"Really? Why? How do I know you or someone with you isn't behind the murder attempts on my
Rosy?"

"Look." He faced her again. Pretty, he thought. Always did like blue eyes in a woman. Trim
figure, too. Not bad for one approaching her half century mark. "I agreed to follow you and keep
an eye on you for Mic. That doesn't mean you can pry into my private life or cast doubts on my
intentions."

"Why not?" she cut in. "Didn't you do that to me?"

"Mic asked me to investigate all those close to Rose."

She tilted her head. "You call him Mic. That's a horrible way to shorten such a beautiful name as
Michael."

"In your mind, perhaps. I've had no complaints from him."

"Of course not." She waved her hands. "He thinks of you as a father, doesn't he? The one he's
never had."

Sloan softened. "It's mutual. He's a great kid. Any man would be proud to call him son."

"Tell his biological father that."

He eyed her. How much did she know about his parents? "I've wanted to. Several times. But it
wouldn't do any good."

"He thinks he's not good enough for them when it's the other way around," she murmured, her
face sad. Her eyes glowed with compassion.

Sloan stared at her. "That must have been some talk you two had last night. He's only admitted
that nonsense to Devon once. Never to me."

"He didn't admit it to me, either. It was a guess you just proved correct."

Sloan scratched his beard. Impressive. She might actually be an asset after all. "He doesn't have
any notion you're aware of his history, does he?"

"No."

"Kinda dishonest not to tell him, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But aren't you hiding something from him, too?"

His hand slowly fell away from his face. "Such as?"

"Oh," she said and avoided his gaze. "We all have things we don't want others to know. Don't
we?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You must too, then."

Her narrow shoulders shrugged. "Perhaps."

Perhaps nothing. She was digging, trying to get him to admit he'd discovered some secret she
didn't want known.

"Shall we leave?" her voice, as bland as clear jello, interrupted his mental note to run a deeper
investigation of her. "I'm not going to find out anything else tonight."

"Else? What have you discovered?"

"You already know, don't you?" She smiled brilliantly and strolled past him.

Sloan stayed rooted to the spot, dazzled by the light of that smile. The woman might be a royal
pain, but she was quite attractive when she wanted to be. He might just start to like this
bodyguard-PI job after all. "Refresh my memory."

She opened the front door. "Certainly. Anything to help."

There was a lengthy pause. "Well?" he finally asked.

"Yes?" She regarded him without blinking, her eyes wide with pretended innocence.

"What did you discover?" He gritted his teeth. If the niece was anything like the aunt, he owed
Mic a big apology for all the razing he'd done.

"You want me to tell you now?"

"It'd be nice."

"Oh. Nothing, really. I spent all yesterday here, too. Met several members of the crew. I still get
no feeling or positive proof of anyone associated with this house wanting to harm Rosy.
Although there has to be."

"What makes you think so?"

"All the accidents have been designed especially for her. Therefore, the would-be murderer must
have some connection to the crew, by member or friendship."

Again, he was impressed. He hid his growing interest deeper. "We can figure out exactly who."

"We?" she echoed.

"Mic's got his hands full finishing this house and handling your niece." Sloan grinned as her eyes
narrowed. "I meant that literally, of course. Not figuratively."

Color flared in her cheeks. "Of course." She walked onto the porch.
Sloan laughed, closed the door then locked it. "Care to follow his lead?"

She rolled her eyes up and down his tall frame. Her calm, relaxed expression gave him no doubt
she wasn't impressed a bit by what she saw. "Do you want me to answer that now, too?"

"No." Stung, Sloan brushed past her. "I'll drive you back."

Maye lingered, catching her breath, pretending to study the way the wide porch wrapped around
the entire length of the house both on the ground and second floors. That little unaffected act was
no doubt the hardest thing she'd ever performed.

He looked like Sam Elliot. The older, experienced Sam Elliot. Like in the movie 'Gettysburg'.
Maye hated that movie, yet watched it, sound muted, simply to see Sam Elliot. Even if he did
play a Yankee.

Years and experience, the good along with the bad, marked equally in the lines around Sloan
MacKenna's eyes, gave him a ruggedly handsome, determined, capable, trust-me appearance. He
was the perfect person for a PI. He'd fit in anywhere, make any situation conform to him instead
of the other way around.

And those eyes. . . Those eyes held secrets, desires and compassion just waiting, just begging, to
be tapped by the right woman.

Unaffected. Ha! She'd been affected all right. Deeply affected. No man had touched her
emotionally like this, not since. . .

She crushed the thought. Sloan MacKenna would find out too much if she let her guard down
even a tad. Way too much.

Some things needed to stay buried.

Chapter 22

She stretched her arms high above her head. He followed suit. They'd been at it for hours. And
they still didn't seem any closer to accomplishing anything.

"Tired?" He lowered his gaze from her arms to her face, searched for any signs she needed rest.
"Has all this been too much for you?"

"Who me? A pampered southern belle?" Her arms dropped. She pulled her bare feet onto the
sofa, tucked one knee under her chin. "I'm fine, St. Lawrence. Just fine."

He gave her his best scowl. The one many a workman cowered under. But she didn't. She never
so much as flinched as she returned her attention to selecting more papers to study.
He took advantage of her concentration. His eyes skimmed each inch of her. Good God. He'd
dated some of the most beautiful women in the nation. In the world, maybe. None looked as
good as she did right now in her non-clinging sweats and sexy bare feet.

He shook his head. Sexy bare feet? He could hear Devon now.

"You're alone in a hotel room with a goddess and all you can look at are her feet? Mikey, you
need help worse than I thought. Make an appointment at your earliest convenience. And be
prepared to pay the secretary on the way out. I'll give you a two percent discount 'cause I once
roomed with you."

Yet Michael had the feeling were Devon here, he'd be entranced with those feet, too. Short
unadorned nails, little bitty toes, high arches, smooth heels. How would it feel to kiss those toes?
To taste them one by one, work his way up the ball of her foot to her trim little ankle then higher
to. . .

He blinked. How could her feet, of all things, turn him on so completely? Make him want to
slide between her silken thighs and lose himself in the tightness and warmth he knew would be
waiting? Her feet, for God's own sake.

She uttered a single sharp a hem. His gaze met her narrow-eyed one, held. "Why are you looking
at my feet? And why are you smiling like that? Something funny?"

For the first time he could remember, Michael flushed head to toe with embarrassment. "No, not
really."

Her eyes darkened, the blue fusing with the green so completely neither color was
distinguishable from the other. Who was this woman who fascinated him so? Why did he want to
hold her so greatly he ached?

"Then why are you staring at me?"

He couldn't help it. "I have this thing for women with beautiful feet."

She flushed now, much to his delight. The Ice Queen melted in that red color heating her cheeks.
Her mouth fell open then closed seconds later with a slight snap. "I beg your pardon?"

Her modesty touched something deep in his heart. Something that had waited years to live. He
entwined their fingers in a warm, steady link. "You have more talents than I imagined."

He could almost see the wheels spinning in her brain as she tried to figure out what he was
doing. She wouldn't, of course. Even he didn't know. "Talents?"

"Bossiness. Pride. Arrogance. Constant interruption of a more knowledgeable person's work." He

hid a grin as she stiffened and pulled away from him.
"You left out the ability to become the Goodyear Blimp when stung by insects," she snapped.
"Along with extreme tolerance for irritating Northerners."

"Sweetheart, I wasn't thinking of those talents."

"Which did you have in mind then?"

"Courage. Compassion for others." He reached out, stroked her hair, slid his fingers down her
neck. "And God help me, stubbornness and a single-minded determination to succeed like I've
never seen in any other person. Except maybe in myself."

She gasped, her eyes so wide and startled they encompassed her face. "But I. . . you. . . what are
you doing?"

He tugged on her hair, brought her closer to him. "I don't want to fight, Rose. Not tonight." He
lowered his lips to hers. She met him, opened for him.

This kiss easily tripled nine point nine on the earthquake scale.

Finally, for the first time, he felt whole. Like he belonged to someone. Like someone belonged to
him. Even if the illusion couldn't last.

Her scent was more potent than any aphrodisiac. The taste of her-- Good God. And the feel of
her body as it slowly began to melt against his. . . .

She moaned as her legs dropped to the floor and welcomed him closer. The tip of his tongue
sought, found hers. He made the kiss deeper, invited her to explore the way he explored.

He groaned when she did just that. Explosive. TNT wasn't this combustible. Nitroglycerin didn't
come close. Urgent. Inciting. Unstoppable.

His hands slid beneath her baggy shirt, skimmed the smoothness of her back. He traced her rigid
spine and trailed around to cup her breasts. Right, he thought as he closed his eyes. She felt so
right in his arms.

She mimicked his movements, sliding her hands beneath his shirt to feel the taut plains of his
back, then lower to the barrier of his belt. She paused. He could almost feel her hesitation, her
reserve.

Then her fingers pushed beneath his clothes to grasp him.

He broke the kiss, but not the contact when her fingers slipped away after only one brief caress.
His mouth rolled back and forth over hers. Her breathing was as ragged as his, her skin as
flushed, her hands as desperate.

But he had to be certain. Wanted to hear her say the words. "Rose."
"Yes, Michael." She said what he wanted, needed to hear.

Yet she wouldn't look at him.

And that bothered him. Gave him pause.

Her body squirmed closer to his. He released her and their gazes met, locked, held. He leaned
away, against the cushions of the sofa. He was, for the first time in his whole miserably lonely,
tightly controlled life, about to do two things.

One, give up complete control to another human. To a woman.

And two, earn his last name in the process. The patience of a Saint was going to be needed to
survive.

Good God. He hoped he survived.

He pulled her with him, arranged her body over his while the papers they spent hours pouring
over slid to the floor.

"I'm all yours," he muttered, and knew, in some far-distant part of his mind, he didn't mean just
physical. "Do with me what you will."

Chapter 23

"You want me to--"

"We've established the want part," he interrupted, pressing her tighter against his lower body.
"Show me what you want, sweetheart."

"Anything?" Her eyes drifted over him. His face. The cleft of his chin. His chest. The belt she'd
slipped beneath to touch his bare, warm skin.

"Anything," he said when her eyes stopped at the juncture their bodies made.

Her breath caught. A kid let loose in a candy store. That's what she felt like. Or maybe a bull in a
china shop fit better. She skimmed him again, tantalizing herself with what touch first. He was
so. . . him. Beautiful, wonderful, masculine him.

She wanted to strip him naked and look her fill. She wanted to kiss every inch of him. Listen to
him moan as he made her moan. Hear his breath grow hot and fast.
She wanted to just smell him. Cling to him. Touch and be touched everywhere by him. Savor
him. Grasp him, stroke him, guide him to her. Keep him inside and never let him go.

She wanted to be one instead of two, joined in every way.

She wanted too much. So she'd take what she could get. As much as he'd give. And she'd make it
be enough.

She buried her face in his throat. Breathed in the heady soap and aftershave smell. Kissed the
scratchy surface of his five o'clock shadow. She let her fingers proceed her lips and stroke him in
an imitation of what she planned later. He moaned, like she wanted. She covered his mouth with
hers.

For the briefest of seconds.

Her lips moved over his nose, his closed eyes. His winged, golden brown brows. Her hips
wiggled with a mind of their own, pushed against his hardness. She settled over him, cradled him
through suddenly thin layers of cotton and jersey.

"Good God." His hands clenched her waist, his grip almost painful as he held her still. "Rose!"

She smiled and brushed back an errant strand of his golden hair. "Yes, Michael?"

"Stop torturing me." He pinched a tiny amount of the flesh over her ribs. "I'm trying to let you set
the pace. But I swear, if you don't speed it up I'm going to--"

"What?" She smiled again. Who was this shameless, uninhibited, experienced person? Not her.
Not really.

Would he be disappointed when he discovered the truth?

She frowned, brought back from the fluffy clouds of forgetfulness. He'd been with others.
Beautiful, fantastically built others. Women who knew the score and wouldn't expect forever.

Women completely different from her.

"Hey." He reached up to smooth away the frown she didn't realize she still wore. "I didn't mean it
seriously. Not yet. It's okay."

"Is it?" She didn't know. Why couldn't her stupid mind shut down so she could love him and be
fulfilled by him?

People did this all the time. Sought forgetfulness and comfort in each other. Then they parted in
the morning and went their separate ways.

So why couldn't she?

Her mouth returned to his, kissed him a tad roughly. More than a tad desperately. Her hands
changed, clung to him the way ivy clung to the outside of Huntington House.

Was this passion? Like he'd known from all his others? Was she doing it right? It didn't feel
right. Not anymore.

He grasped her hands, then her waist. He rolled with her. . .

To the floor. Papers went flying. Bodies went tumbling.

"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered and glanced down. She looked up, trapped between the floor,
sofa, table and him. "Good God. Rose, sweetheart, I'm--"

She giggled and cut him off.

She couldn't help it. This whole seduction scene, pretending to be what she wasn't, this entire
day, converged into one comical series of errors.

Rose Anderson, this is your life.

She laughed until weak tears flowed down her cheeks. She laughed until her stomach hurt. She
laughed until she felt hysterical.

He arched her body to meet his, slid a knee between her thighs. "Are you hurt?"

"N-no," she stammered. She stopped the giggles, but couldn't stop the tears. Not when he cursed.
Not when he lifted her to sit beside him on the sofa. Not when he held her, murmuring silly
words of comfort.

She, Rose who never cried. She made a complete fool of herself. Yet she couldn't stop. She just
couldn't stop.

"It's all right." He rocked her with his strong arms when she told him all this in gasping
sentences. "Let it all out."

She felt him bury his face in her hair and simply hold her while she trembled and sobbed.

It was the most beautiful feeling in the world.

Her sobs gradually abated. She sagged like a bag of sawdust in his arms. "I'm sorry," she
murmured, hiccuping twice, her voice thick and hoarse.

"Think nothing of it." He released her. "It's late. Let me show you to your room."
She took the fingers he held out but avoided his eyes. He dropped her hand and led the way
down the small hall. "This one's yours." He pointed to the room on the right and turned away.
"Good night."

She swallowed, ready to die with embarrassment. "Michael?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right." But he wouldn't meet her gaze, either. Her heart sank like a doomed ship. "Good
night, Rose."

"But," her voice sounded hurt, confused, afraid, even to her own ears. She swallowed and tried
again. "Michael--"

He thrust a hand through his thick hair. "It's been a long day. You need your sleep."

She felt more open, more exposed than she ever had. Great. She'd made him mad by laughing,
soaked him with hysterical tears and managed to ruin what would have been a beautiful
experience. "I look that bad?"

"Good God no," he muttered, walking away. "We share the bath between our rooms but don't
worry. I'll lock my side until I hear you leave. Good night."

Rose stood in the hall long after he shut his door. She sighed. Yep. Definitely another Rose
Anderson moment.

She glanced at her room. It was simple, yet elegant. Something from lifestyles of the people
she'd never be. The tones, fabrics and furniture were made for comfort, but she hated it.

Empty. Quiet. Lonely. She'd never sleep. Not here. With him right across the hall.

She felt her face flame. She'd teased him to near madness by stroking him and grinding her hips
into his so they'd both know what actual joining might be. Only to then go all giggly and weepy.
No wonder he ran from her like people ran from a tornado.

She needed a cold shower. She needed her head examined. She needed him. He made her feel
safe, secure in a world gone batty with stories IRA stalkers.

What would he do if she walked into his room stark naked and climbed into his bed? Not a
giggle or tear in sight?

She sighed and headed for the shower. He'd tell her she was in the wrong room, that's what he'd
do. What a mess she'd made. That seemed her true talent. Making a big mess of things.
Under a stinging spray of water, she realized what she needed to do. She had to make him trust
her again. He said he did before.

Had she forever ruined any chance of that? She sighed, turned off the shower and dried herself
with a huge fluffy towel. In her room sat the suitcase he'd brought to the hospital. She glanced at
the closed door. He'd come in? Was he so disgusted he could be around her and not want her at
all?

She pulled a nightshirt from her clothes and tugged it on. She cracked her door. No sound came
from Michael's room.

She walked to the den and picked up the scattered papers. She'd start here. If she solved the
mystery of the accidents, maybe he'd see tonight had been a fluke. Bad timing. Something like
that.

She curled into a chair. Now. Where should she start?

***

"Are you telling me my Rosy's Annie has no past?" Maye Anderson screeched on the other end
of the phone.

"Doesn't appear to," Sloan grumbled. Dragged him from a sound sleep to spout nonsense that
could've waited? Woman was nuts. "Now can I go back to sleep?"

"You couldn't find any records at all?"

"None. Listen, can this possibly wait?"

"She must be one." Her voice was no longer angry, but scared, desperate. "Dear God. I have to
do something! Stop her! Now!"

Sloan jerked upright. "You don't do anything tonight. You hear? Maye?" But the line was
already dead. "Nuts and hell on earth!"

He slammed down the receiver. "Damn fool woman. Charging in like some half cocked John
Wayne wanna-be."

He flung back his covers. She'd gone to that Blank Sheet's house. Now, of course, he had to go
save her.

Sure as hell wished he knew which one he was supposed to save.

Chapter 24
Rose kissed him. Her aqua eyes filled with warmth and passion as they gazed into his. Sunlight
spilled through the half open draperies, cast her hair in a golden glow, showed the perfection of
clear skin, delicate facial bones and high pink-tipped breasts.

Naked breasts? Michael moaned, twisting under the slight weight straddling his hips. Good God.
What a dream. The same dream, actually, he'd had since coming to North Carolina. Time and
time again. He always woke from it alone and frustrated.

Why even try to fight it? If he couldn't experience the reality, dreams were the next best thing.
And Rose seducing him, even in a hallucination, was better than nothing at all. Much, much
better.

Of course, he didn't help matters by sleeping nude. Against silk sheets. Knowing her body, her
tongue was a hundred times silkier.

He felt that tiny tongue licking a path along his jaw. Felt her slide against him. His body
responded, eagerly surged to touch the apex of her rounded thighs.

And her hands. Ah, those hands. Stroking. Teasing. Running the length of him. As if she had all
the time in the world. Finding every scar. Each hair. Every pore of his body. Good God what
hands. He'd never felt so known, so explored in all his life.

He almost felt loved.

But this was all an illusion. A dream destined to fade. Just as all other non-realities vanished in
the unwanted morning light.

But it felt so believable. The pebble hard brush of her nipples as she leaned over him, caressing
his with the merest nip of tiny teeth. The tight saddle of her hips gripped him, held him as none
ever could. The hot, welcoming wetness as she moved to guide him--

Michael struggled upright and nearly dislodged her. Clear, calm, cold reality burst into his mind.
Clear? Calm? Cold? Good God. Anything but.

He forced words from his throat. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"If you don't know St. Lawrence, I'm not about to stop and tell you. I guess I'll just have to show
you instead."

Show him she did. With drugging, heart pounding kisses. With wet, uninhibited darts of her
tongue. With intimate caresses of long fingered hands. With wiggles and thrusts making cruel
parodies of actual joining.

She drove him insane.

"Rose," he groaned, enjoying himself. Too much. They needed to talk. To trust.
"Please don't tell me to stop," she said so softly he almost didn't hear as her gaze raised to his.

He gazed deep, stunned by the hurt, the fear he saw in her bluish green depths. "We shouldn't."

"You don't want me?" Her hands reached between the micro millimeters separating them. Her
work roughed palms stroked his length, almost made him die right then and there. "Your body
says you do."

Sweat broke out on his brow. "I want you to want me too, Rose. I need you to trust me."

"I do." She released him, swept back the sheets and bared them to the cool morning air. "This is
the only way I could think to prove exactly how much I trust you."

"Rose. . ." He couldn't think, couldn't resist. Yet he knew he should.

She bent to lay atop him. Breast to breast. Belly to belly. Hip to hip. "Do you want to make love
with me or not, St. Lawrence?"

He did. More than he wanted air. Their problems could surely wait an hour. Or two. Or a
lifetime.

Cradling her with his legs around her waist, he rolled them over. He laughed at her surprised
expression. "I meant to roll with you like this last night. Not off the sofa and onto that damned
floor."

"You really want me?" she whispered as if stunned by his admission. Her breath came in short,
strained pants, her eyes wide.

Michael moved off her velvet softness just enough to let her breathe more comfortably. "My feet
are still frozen from that damn ice storm I called a shower last night."

One hand stroked his face, the gesture hesitate and bold all at the same time. She smiled. "I don't
have to do it all myself, then?"

"Never." He slipped one knee between hers. Her eyes flared as her body arched under their hot
contact. Any control he might have retained fled. Only one question remained. "Are you certain
this is what you want?"

She arched tighter, gave him all the answer he needed.

She should be terrified, Rose thought, especially after seeing the size of him. After holding and
caressing him. But she wasn't. She wanted him too much to care.

Or to worry about what would happen after. She'd never be sorry. She only wished he could love
her the way she loved him.
She caught her breath as he bent his head to kiss her. She loved him. Dear Lord, she really loved
him.

She didn't have time to think. His kiss left them both breathless. He tasted her, let her taste him.
His lips ran down her throat to the smooth curve of her breasts. She offered them to him. Her lips
sought his crisp golden hair as he sought her nipples.

Lord, she felt so wonderful under his hands, his lips. She felt beautiful. She felt cherished.

He left her breasts throbbing to nuzzle the flat of her belly and lower. She clutched a fist of his
hair, but he resisted her tugs, took her to the very edge of incredible tension and unthought of
pleasure. She cried out, his name torn from the depths of her heart in lieu of the words she
wished she could say.

He responded to that cry, brushed her lips with a mouth wet from her own desire. He swung
above her and paused, his gaze melting into hers. She stopped thinking altogether as simple,
complicated emotion swirled into her head, her heart, her soul.

He slid into her, thrust once, twice--

And suddenly stopped.

"Good God Rose," his hoarse voice filled with shock. A muscle in his jaw twitched, gave his oh
so handsome features an expression of near pain. "You've never-- I didn't know, didn't think. . ."

She traced his lips, stopped his stammers, as her body adjusted to the astounding fullness of him
deep, deep inside. "Don't talk. Don't think. Don't stop. Please, please, don't stop."

His gaze held hers. She thought, before she closed her eyes, she saw a sheen of tears cloud his.

Then he began to move again, to teach her the rhythm. She met him halfway and more, sped
them both toward some edge, some height, some undeniable, undescribable pleasure of. . .

Paradise.

Rose held on tighter. Her nails dug into his back as she sobbed his name and crashed headlong
into that paradise. He gasped her name in reply before he crushed her as if never to let go,
clinging, shuddering--

Loving. Two halves making the perfect whole.

***

Bells, came his next hazy thought an eternity later. That silly old claim of Devon's was true.
When you reached the omnipotent peak of physical and emotional pleasure, you heard bells. He
held her, let her catch her breath. Her face buried in his neck. His body still buried in hers.

Good God. Bells. No wonder. Better than any and all combined. For her, too? Did she hear
them? That sweet ringing of persistent intensity, growing louder and louder. . .

"Damn," he growled. He released her warmth to climb out into cold emptiness. He snatched up
the shrilling cordless telephone on the desk across the room. "Yeah?"

"Mic, you better get over here. And bring your Rose."

"Why? Where's here?"

"Her partner's apartment. She's dead."

All lethargic feelings he had, all thoughts of a more leisurely exploration of the phenomenal
pleasure between them fled to parts unknown. "What?"

"Annie Swain. Or whoever she was. She's dead. The police want to talk to you and your Rose.
Now."

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "When. . . how, I mean, why?"

"Some time last night. Single gunshot to the head. Police want you to answer that third."

"Me? I hardly even knew her."

"You plural. Get down here, Mic. Call your lawyer first. You're gonna need him. So will your
Rose."

Michael replaced the receiver. Of all the rotten times to get this news. Damn, damn, damn. What
in hell was the woman doing dead? And why did Mac believe he and Rose needed a lawyer?
Surely the police didn't think one of them--

"Michael?"

He turned. She stood by the bed and made him half smile. "Nice shirt." Good God, but she
looked wonderful. Soft, rumpled. Bed-able.

She glanced down. "Think so? I found it crumpled on the floor. I think the owner looks better in
it than I ever will, though."

"Not a chance." He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her and never let go. Never acknowledge
the rest of the world. Anything to spare telling her this. "That was Mac."
"Oh?" She walked forward, slipped her arms around his neck. A grin spread over her flushed
face. "Are he and Maye getting along better? Maybe I should tell Auntie you northerners aren't
bad given half a chance."

"Rose."

She looked in his eyes. She hesitated, took a deep breath. Her teasing grin vanished. "It's not
good."

He shook his head. Damn. There was no easy way to say this. "Annie's dead. Someone shot her.
We need to go to her apartment."

She paled. Her hands fell limp at her sides. "Annie's dead?"

"Yes." He put his arms around her. She brushed him away. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you."

Her hair flew in a wide circle as she shook her head. "No. I talked to her just a few days ago. She
can't possibly be--"

"Rose please," he cut across her denials, tried to draw her close again. "Let me help."

But she backed out of his arms, her gaze wild and frantic. "I'll be ready in ten minutes." She ran
from the room.

Michael whacked his hand against the desk so hard his entire body vibrated with the force. Just
when they'd made headway. Just when they trusted the other.

When they'd both seen, and felt, how incredible it could be between them. Damn Annie Swain.
Would she always come between them?

He turned away to drag on some clothes. He fully trusted Mac to guide them in whatever the
police wanted them for. Mac was, even if he had left the department under unusual
circumstances, one of the police's own. Yet he still took the advice to call his lawyer.

Rose waited at the front door when he emerged fifteen minutes later. She'd taken a shower.
Damp wisps of hair escaped her ponytail and clutched her neck, the fresh clean scent of her
making him curse Annie Swain all over again.

Her face, cleared of passion except the swollen fullness of her lips, revealed nothing. She
remained silent through the hall, elevator ride, to his car.

Her silence made him all the more uneasy. He asked directions to Annie's. She gave a clipped,
flat reply. After several failed attempts, he gave up conversation. There wasn't anything he could
say, anyway. Not until they found out more.
He steered her stiff body past the small crowd of curious onlookers, shouting reporters and
flashing lights to the semi-private corner of the lobby where Mac stood.

"Are they certain it's Annie?" she asked the second they reached him, her voice muted yet firm.

Mac nodded. "An officer she dated identified her."

Rose shuddered. "It's not a mistake?"

Mac glanced from the plea in her eyes to Michael. "No. Afraid not. Sorry to call you down, but
that same officer insisted on talking to you both. I told him I'd need to be present, too."

"Thanks," Michael intoned. He detested being here, having Rose here. But Mac had managed,
somehow, to spare her the horror of seeing her partner's dead body. Another one Michael now
owed him.

"Michael. Rose." Mac inclined his head toward a plain car arriving outside. "The detectives are
back. And in force. Answer only what they ask. Yes or no. Don't volunteer anything."

Michael watched her eyes widen and cursed silently. He should have forewarned her, given her
some notice what would happen. But he'd never been to a crime scene. Let alone have a passing
acquaintance with the victim of a violent crime.

What more could happen? Accidents, violence, family secrets, IRA connections. Rose couldn't
be a normal desirable woman, could she?

He glanced at her, almost willed her to look at him so he could smile and reassure her everything
would be all right. But her gaze stayed glued to the arriving policemen.

He sighed. These malays, unfortunately, came right along with her aqua eyes, stubbornness and
southern pride. And, he realized with a twinge of shock, he didn't mind them as long as he had
her.

The tallest of the officers came over. He nodded politely as another man joined them. Both wore
dark suits instead of traditional uniform, the badges on their belts the only sign they were officers
instead of business executives. "It's good to see you Sloan. It's been awhile."

"Jim Fogle." Mac shook the extended hand. "You were a fresh-faced patrolman when I knew
you. Now look. Not even forty and already high on the ladder. Lieutenant detective, ehh?"

"Second in command," the dark-haired Jim acknowledged. "I've been put in charge."

"Chief too busy?" Mac's voice held a disgusted note.

Jim frowned, for a moment looking sheepish. "Sloan, come on. You know I can't rehash all that
with you."
"Yeah, I know. I also know you dated the deceased. Right?"

"Nice to see you haven't lost your edge," Jim murmured. His gaze traveled to Rose. "Yes. I dated
Annie a couple of times. Seen a few of Ms. Anderson's sketches. Heard about the house she and
St. Lawrence are working on, too. Any problems? Can't have you accusing me of personal basis
before the case has even begun."

"It already has," Rose whispered. "Annie's dead." Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away.
Michael wanted to shove a fist down Jim Fogle's stupid throat.

"If you'll follow us," the second officer broke in. "We'll take you to the scene."

"I'd like to see your identification," Michael intoned, his voice hard and determined as he put an
arm in front of Rose to prevent movement. "Ms. Anderson and I came down simply because we
were asked. The fact Sloan knows you is not as reassuring as--"

"Seeing our credentials," Jim finished as he pulled the badge from his belt and handed it to him.
"Mind if I call you Mike?"

"Not if I call you Jim." Michael glanced at his and the other officer's badges. He allowed Rose
ample time to wipe her eyes, compose herself and do the same before he handed them back.

He put a proprietary, hopefully reassuring hand on her shoulder, felt the stiffness no doubt hiding
the pain. He took her hand, entwined their fingers, tried to give her his strength. "I'm here for
you, okay?"

She looked up at him, her eyes clouded yet braced. "Okay," she whispered and took a step
forward.

Michael walked with her and prayed she'd remember she wasn't all alone.

And now, at long, long last, neither was he.

Chapter 25

Rose had only visited Annie's apartment twice. Once right after they met. Once three weeks ago.
She didn't stay longer than five minutes each time. When Detective Fogle asked if she'd look
around and see if anything was missing, she shook her head.

"I wouldn't know where to start." She waved at the clothing and other articles cluttering the
furniture and floors of the luxury apartment. "You've probably been here more than I have."

Sloan MacKenna chuckled then tried to disguise it as a cough.

Jim frowned, glanced at him then back to Rose. He motioned the second officer closer. "She was
your partner for eight months and you never came to her home? That's odd, isn't it?"

"She came to my apartment. I run our business from there." Rose kept her gaze on his bluish-
gray one, not wanting to see the chalk outline and blood stains a few feet away. It was so real
now. So horribly, terribly real. "She was, as you know, from a much different social circle than
me."

"You never went out together socially?"

"No. Well, once. There was a conference highlighting French Proverbial at the Empire Suites last
month. We attended, but we weren't together the entire time. Only for the opening reception."

The detective scribbled something on the pad he held. "Where was Annie while you weren't
together?"

"In a room with a friend." She restrained a groan. Annie had met a salesman and spent the
conference in his private suite. When this detective asked where Rose was last night he'd think
she and Annie were. . .

"Where were you last night?"

"With me," Michael cut in, surprising her. "In my penthouse at Carriage Court."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

"I am," Rose beat him this time. "Neither of us left."

"You were together in the same room all night?"

Rose shook her head. "Not all the time. But I know Michael didn't leave all night."

You didn't sleep then?"

"No. I stayed in the living room. Michael couldn't leave without me seeing him." She ignored the
penetrating blue gaze that threatened to saw her in half. She'd stayed in that chair all night,
reading papers or trying to figure a way to prove her trust. "He never left his room."

"You know this for a fact?"

"He didn't leave by the only door. His penthouse is several hundred feet up. I'd say he didn't
leave," sarcasm crept into her tone. She fought it, determined not to antagonize the officer.
She wanted to know who murdered Annie more than the police. The attempts on her life and
Annie's murder could be the work of the same person.

"You don't know for absolute certain if he left or--"

"Nuts and hell on earth," Sloan cut in. "What's he supposed to have done? Made a ladder out of
sheets, climbed down, killed Annie and climbed back up all without Rose hearing a sound or any
witnesses whatsoever?"

"Can you say for a fact St. Lawrence did not--"

"No," Rose broke in, heated with anger and annoyance. "But I can't say for a fact you weren't
with Annie last night, either."

"I wasn't," Fogle returned, his voice as mild as hers was hot.

"How do I know?" Rose challenged. "Where were you last night?

"I fail to see the relevance of the question."

"Fair enough under the circumstances," Sloan said softly.

Rose nodded, grateful for his assistance. For his very presence. And for Michael's.

"I was at the station. All night." Fogle glared at him before returning his gaze to Rose.
"Satisfied?"

Rose shook her head. "Were you alone? Can someone vouch you were in their sight the entire
night? You weren't out of vision even a second? To go to the bathroom? To sneak a doughnut?"

His tight expression turned admiring. "Touche, Ms. Anderson. I'm only doing my job. Now. In
the event of death, doesn't the other partner gain the entire business?"

Rose shrugged. "We never considered that possibility."

"Not very shrewd business tactics."

She clenched her fingers around Michael's. His thumb stroked hers, a silent comfort. And
strength. "Maybe."

"You don't benefit by her death?"

"Annie provided much of my capital. I hurt more than I gain." The air smelled funny. Too heavy.
Too perfumery. 'Course, Annie always loved to pour on cologne. The smell often lingered in a
room for hours after she left.
She'd never smell that scent from Annie again. It didn't seem possible.

"You didn't have reason to kill her? Is that it?"

Rose nodded, too choked to speak.

"Can you think of anyone who did?"

"I didn't know her that well." Understatement of the year. According to Sloan MacKenna's
search, no one did.

"Not even St. Lawrence?"

Rose stared directly into the detective's eyes, ignoring the hiss of Michael's caught breath. "They
weren't acquainted."

"That you know."

"I'm certain. He wasn't dating Annie. You were. Maybe you didn't like her dumping you. Maybe
you decided to--"

He held up his hand. "All right, Ms Anderson. We've already traveled that road. So, Mike. She
says you were in your room all last night. Were you?"

"Yes," Michael answered shortly.

"You didn't leave at all?"

"No."

"Not to go downstairs for a newspaper? Smoke? Something to eat?"

"I read the morning paper. I don't smoke."

"What did you have for dinner?"

"We didn't eat dinner."

"At all?"

"No."

"Why?"

Michael shrugged. "We had other business on our minds."

The officer's gaze cut between him and Rose. "Such as taking advantage of being alone in a
penthouse?"

"Such as business, like I said."

"Why did you have Annie investigated?"

"I like to know exactly who I'm working with."

"Then you also had Ms. Anderson investigated?"

"Yes."

If Fogle expected a reaction, Rose thought, he was disappointed. She never flinched, never
turned accusing eyes to the man beside her, never so much as blinked.

The detective turned to Sloan MacKenna. "You called the murder in. What were you doing
here?"

He shrugged. "Like I told you before. I was watching her place, trying to see who went in or
out."

"Why?"

"Can't disclose. Client-detective confidentiality."

"What did you find out? If it won't harm your integrity by telling me."

Rose began to pick up several things. Sarcasm from Fogle. Confusion from the second officer
taping the interview. Bitter resignation from Sloan MacKenna. Why did she have this unshakable
feeling none of these had a thing to do with Annie's death?

Probably because they didn't.

"It won't." His face was as bland as an experienced poker player holding the winning hand in a
high stakes game. "Annie Swain doesn't exist. Run a check. Run ten. You won't find so much as
a fingerprint. You really should have done this before you started seeing her, Jim. I taught you
better than that."

Instead of getting angry as Rose feared, the officer laughed. Not as attractive as Michael. But a
pleasant, easy going sound all the same. No wonder Annie had dated him. He could be charming
when he wasn't grilling a suspect.

He stopped laughing. "Did anyone enter or leave?"

"No."
Rose barely smothered a gasp. Sloan MacKenna was lying. How she could recognize that, she
didn't know. But he'd seen someone. Seen and now covered for them. Which could only mean--

Rose squeezed her eyes shut. Oh dear Lord. No. It couldn't be.

The room buzzed with policemen and investigators searching for evidence. Annie. Was dead.
Murdered.

Could Maye have possibly killed her? Is that what Sloan was covering up? Is that why he lied to
the detectives?

"Rose?" Michael shook her. "You're as white as chalk."

"Chalk," Rose muttered as her eyes opened. She glanced at the rough outline on the floor and felt
her defenses crumble like leaves under a lawn mover. "Oh my sweet Lord. . ."

He caught her close as she started to fall, swung her into his arms. He walked outside, ignoring
the officers' calls and sank onto something, cradled her against him. "What is it?"

"Sloan," she murmured against the solid support of his sturdy shoulder. "He's covering for
someone, isn't he?"

"What?"

"He saw someone here." She buried her face deeper. "Michael, what if it was--"

"You folks okay?"

Rose stiffened at Detective Fogle's voice somewhere close behind her. He couldn't, mustn't
know. Not until she knew.

"She needed some air," Michael's rock hard voice dared the officer to disagree. "Why she needed
to be here I'll never know. Rest assured my lawyer will find out. Any further questions can be
asked in my hotel room. At my convenience."

"Fine. I'll be in touch. You're both free to go. For now."

"Rose, sweetheart, can you walk?" He eased her back, stared deep into her eyes.

She nodded. On shaky legs, she walked to his car. She wouldn't have made it had he not held her,
let her lean and cling to him.

"If you let go a second, I'll drive us back," he intoned when she didn't release him after he
unlocked her door.
Rose felt her face flush, let go of him and slid into her seat. Michael got in, started the car and
drove away.

"Mac's meeting us. He said he'd explain everything."

Rose nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He covered her hands with one of his. "There's a reasonable explanation."

She shook her head, too scared to agree. "Really? I don't think there's anything reasonable
anymore. About anything."

He didn't argue. They drove in silence.

Sloan arrived a few minutes after they did. "Fine pickle we're all in, isn't it?"

"Just what sort of pickle?" Michael asked as he sat beside her on the sofa.

"Nothing we can't handle." Sloan looked into her eyes. "Maye was there. But she didn't kill
Annie."

She knew it. Oh Lord. "Are you sure?" Rose felt like a traitor for asking, let alone thinking it.

"Annie was very much alive when we left early this morning."

"We? You were there, too?"

"That's why I admitted it. Some neighbor no doubt saw me."

"Then he or she saw Maye too." She clutched the hand Michael offered. "Why was she there?
What did she do? Where is she now?"

"Now don't get all huffed up," Sloan said. "Just settle down and I'll tell you. Maye did what she
saw as right. That's all."

"What was that?" She braced for the answer.

"She went to confront Annie about being behind your accidents."

"In other words," Rose said slowly, "she went to ask if Annie was in the IRA."

"That question was asked, yes. Hey Mic, got any coffee? Sure could use a cup right about now."

Michael sighed, stood and called room service. Sloan excused himself and went to the bathroom.
Rose waited tense, her shoulders stiff and mind in turmoil.
She knew Maye loved her. Knew she was protective. But murder? No, surely not. Maye wouldn't
harm a fly.

Unless she thought the person or persons trying to harm her niece were the same terrorists who
had killed her sister and sister's husband.

Michael returned and pointed to the box of papers on the table in front of them. "Read all night,
huh?"

She nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Just as you stayed alone in your room all night."

"Thanks for defending me." He smoothed back a lock of her hair, his gaze warm as he gently
began to massage her shoulders. "No one's ever cared so much for my welfare before."

Rose glanced away. She couldn't deal with whatever this was between them right now. Not until
she knew what role Maye played in Annie's death. "I told the truth. That's all."

"That's not all. Rose--"

She shook her head. "No, please. I can't. Not right now."

He sighed, but didn't push any further.

Sloan returned just as the door closed upon the bell boy. He sniffed. "Ah, good. The real stuff.
None of that fake decaf or cappuccino crap. You two want to join me?"

"Will we need it?" Rose tired to joke.

"You might." He poured them all coffee, waited until she took a sip. "Annie never denied it."

Rose nearly choked. "What?"

He took a good long swallow before he spoke again. "Annie never denied being in the IRA. Nor
did she call it ridiculous or insane. She was pretty secretive about her entire past."

Shock filled her. "But she couldn't possibly--"

"There's more," he cut in. He drained his cup and poured more. "Maye thinks she herself led the
murderer here. She kept telling me last night the entire situation, your accidents, that is, was all
her fault. For still not telling you the entire truth."

"The entire truth? You mean there's more to her story?" Rose asked while her heart almost
stopped.
"She believes she led the same killers to your father and the person in the car with him. The
woman who was not your mother, but your aunt."

"What are you talking about?" Rose asked. Michael watched incredibility chase doubt across her
face. "Aunt Maye didn't have anything to do with my parents' deaths. And she's my only aunt."

Mac set down his mug to reach into his briefcase. He pulled out a photograph and handed it to
Rose. "Look at this. It's your parents."

Michael also leaned in to look. Arms linked, the couple in the photograph were smiling, looking
into each other's eyes and obviously happy and in love.

"My parents? I always wondered what he looked like." Rose raised shining eyes to first Michael,
then Mac. "I always knew what Mom looked like because she and Maye were identical twins.
But my father, oh, wow. He's so handsome!"

Mac gave her some papers. "I found these while conducting my investigation of the IRA story
Maye told Mic. Pay special notice to the date of death."

Michael leaned more over her shoulder, though he already realized what it would say. Good
God. How many more shocks could Rose possibly take?

The light in her eyes faded. "It says my father died. . ."

"Six months before you were born," Michael finished.

He read denial in her face as easily as he read the undisputable evidence. "No. They died after I
was born. They had to."

Mac handed her a newspaper clipping. It detailed the tragic accident. He waited until she lifted a
confused, dazed gaze after reading it. "Your father died with a female. But she couldn't have
been your mother. Not six months before you were born. It's impossible the woman in that car
was your mother."

"Then where is my mother?" Her gaze narrowed when his shifted. Never had Michael wanted to
hold her more. "Mom's not dead?"

"Maye said her sister died for her. I drew my own conclusions."

"And those are?" Rose used a voice so unlike her normal one Michael stared at her. Her face had
twisted into a mask as hard as slivers of glass, like the shattered French doors. Threatening to
tear jagged gouges into someone unsuspecting or off guard.

"Good God Mac," he growled, furious at how this had been drawn out, how painful it must be.
He slid his arm across her stiff shoulders. "Rose, Maye's your mother, not your aunt."
"No!" She lashed out. Her arm caught him across the chest with all the force of the fallen ceiling
beam. The papers and picture went flying. "I don't, I won't, believe it. She'd have told me!"

"Rose," Mac said in his gentle tone while Michael fought to regain his breath. "I drew my own
conclusions, as I said."

"You're wrong." She stalked across the room like a lioness trapped in a too small cage. "Who
died if it wasn't Mom?"

"Your aunt," Michael said calmly enough. The woman didn't know her own strength. Her
backhand could drive a nail through wood faster than any machine. She hadn't seemed to realize
she hit him. He didn't want to receive a blow she actually did mean.

She spun, blazing blue-green fury at him. "What?"

This morning, waking him, she'd been all feminine softness, wiles and boldness. Now. . . Now?
She became another person. A woman of fire so strong her entire body shook.

Or was it hurt? He searched her eyes and saw the truth lurking like the moon behind a dark
cloud. She knew. She had yet to accept.

Good God, but he wanted her. Not only in his bed. In his life. He felt her pain, knew betrayal by
the one you trusted most. Kindred spirits. Another silly term Devon used and Michael called
ridiculous. Until now.

Damn his head for saying he wasn't capable of giving all she needed. That it wasn't fair to give a
quarter when she deserved the whole. That he must back away before he caused her even more
pain.

"Are you going to answer me or not?"

With the battle raging in his head, it took a moment to reply. "Your aunt died with your father.
The dates add up."

She walked to him, stood over him as she'd sat atop him mere hours ago. "You're out of your
mind."

"Am I?" he used his causal, architect tone and hated himself.

She tossed her head, chin pointed high enough to drown her if she walked into pouring rain.
"Maye never married. She--"

"You don't have to marry to get pregnant, you know. Don't you?"

She sucked in her breath. "You despicable bastard. But then, what should I expect from a. . . a. .
."
"Yankee scalawag?" He made his smile even colder than his words. "Maybe. However, instead
of being manor belle you're more like--"

"Mic," Mac interrupted, clear warning in his tone. "Don't. She's got enough to deal with."

She waved a hand behind her back. "Let him finish. I'd be more like what, St. Lawrence? The
illegitimate bastard? The by product of some tawdry affair? Is that what you're going to say?"

"Actually, I believe I was going to--" The solid crack of her hand cut him off. He rubbed at his
cheek while more self-loathing surged through him. "Feel better now?"

She fled and didn't look back.

"Kinda hard Mic," Mac said as she slammed her door.

"Learning you can't trust anyone to always tell the truth or be there for you is a hard lesson." He
didn't realize how bitter the words were until he uttered them.

"You aren't being fair."

He wasn't. Knowing so made the whole situation worse. If it could be. "Life's not fair."

"She wanted understanding, tenderness. Best thing you can do--"

"Is leave things alone." Michael stood, forced his gaze off her door. "I have to be at the house."

"You're making a mistake."

"It's mine to make."

"You'll want to remember I warned you." Sloan left.

He wanted, needed to be with her, Michael thought. But she'd go to Maye, discover the truth,
make things right. Maye did love her, after all. Even if she had lied, for whatever reason, all
these years.

She'd be okay.

But he wouldn't. He'd never recover from this. From her. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

He followed his friend out the door. And away from the one person who might have made his
lonely existence bearable.

Chapter 26
Rose heard the door close. She waited, holding her breath until she nearly fainted. Michael didn't
come to see about her.

Why should he? her mind taunted. You slapped him, yelled like a banshee. Little wonder he took
off as far from you as he could.

It wasn't like he cared.

"I thought he did," Rose muttered to the empty room. "We couldn't have made love like we did if
he didn't care a little."

How would you know the difference between the physical satisfaction of sex and the real emotion
of making love? You'd never done either.

"I," Rose stopped. Here she was like a mental case debating with herself when she should be
apologizing to Michael. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders and marched out to the
living room.

"Michael, I wanted to say I'm sorry." She stopped and looked around. The room was empty. She
checked his room. Also empty. She sighed. "I really did it this time."

Tears filled her eyes. Nothing but cold, empty silence.

She shook herself. Okay, feeling sorry for herself only compounded her problems. She had a job
to finish. She'd stop by her apartment before she went to Huntington House, get some answers
from Maye.

She took a bus to her apartment. Maye's car was parked outside, but she wasn't inside. The rooms
remained as empty as the last time Rose left. There was no sign Maye had even stayed.

Rose frowned. Surely Maye knew she'd want some answers. Where was she? And wouldn't she
drive wherever she went? Unless she took a taxi. Or a bus. Or rode with a society member.

But it wasn't like Maye to just up and disappear. It wasn't like her to lie, either, yet she'd
apparently done plenty of that.

Rose took the picture of her parents out of her pocket. Whoever the woman was, at least Rose
knew from their entranced expressions and adoring hugs her parents had loved each other. Had
conceived her in love.

Did anything else really matter?

She took another bus to Huntington House. Melinda was directing the laying of the new floor in
the ballroom. The crew stopped to ask how she felt, make a few jokes about the hornets being in
Raleigh instead of Charlotte this time, then continued work.

No one asked about Annie. Michael was nowhere in sight.

Rose climbed the stairs to begin her own work. Someone had already finished hanging all the
draperies. The cleaning crew had also been through again, so the air smelled of cleaners and
polishers. She began to sort through numerous boxes lining the hallway. Most of the bedroom
furniture had arrived with various accessories. She had plenty to keep her mind busy and off her
problems. Hours and hours of work.

"Miss Anderson?"

Rose looked up from smoothing an antique white lace comforter over a four poster bed sometime
later. "Yes Mark?"

"The crew and I are really sorry to hear about your partner." He came into the room, leaned
against the doorway, his dark eyes sympathetic. "Do the police have any leads?"

"No," Rose said quietly. She began to line tons of matching throw pillows against the high, dark
cherry headboard.

"Oh." Mark hesitated. "Do you have the funeral arrangements? I thought you'd know so I could
tell Melinda and the others."

Her hands froze. Funeral? She hadn't thought of that. But there was no one else, was there? Lord,
she had decisions to make, services to set. Flowers to buy. A burial plot. A coffin.

Annie was dead. She began to shake.

"Miss Anderson? Is something wrong?"

She heard Mark call, but she couldn't respond. Annie was dead. And Rose wasn't certain
anymore, since her disappearance and regardless what Sloan MacKenna said, Maye hadn't killed
her.

"Can I help? Or should I get Mister St. Lawrence?" Mark's voice was anxious, concerned, yet
also a tad cynical.

At the mention of his name Rose managed to pull herself together. "No. I'm fine. I don't know
the arrangements yet. I'll try to get back to you with them soon, though."

"All right, Miss Anderson. Thanks." Mark turned to leave.

"How many more days do you think it will take to finish?"

He made a sweeping gesture with both hands. "A week. Maybe two. Melinda's in charge
downstairs. And I'm nearly finished up here, as you can see. Is there a problem?"

Rose noticed the puckered worry line between his brows. "There's no problem. I only wondered
how much longer it might take."

"Another week for inspections and final cleanings."

"Thank you."

He shoved his hands into the pockets of the blue jean jacket he always wore. "Why did you
wonder? We'll make the deadline easy enough."

Rose set another pillow into place. "I know."

"You aren't worried about how much longer St. Lawrence will be here or anything, are you?"

She forced herself to look at him and smile. "No, of course not. Thanks for the info. I'll see you
later."

He departed. She looked around the half-completed room. Two weeks. Three at the most. Could
she clear up the mess of her life in that time? Find the answers to all her questions?

She tossed another pillow on the bed. Michael would leave right after the public open house.
Grilled by police detectives, slapped, screamed at, how or why could he want to stay?

Because they made beautiful, wonderful, passionate, joining love? Or had it only been sex to
him? Had he called her talented only because all he really wanted was her body?

"Concentrate on work and nothing else," she told herself in a low mutter. "The police'll catch
who killed Annie. Probably one of her old boyfriends trying to get at her through me with all
those accidents."

She picked up her cellular phone to start making arrangements for Annie's body. Maye would be
at the hotel tonight to explain why Sloan MacKenna thought she was Rose's mother. They'd
work everything out, be a family again.

And what about Michael? The cold way he'd treated her? How could she ever work that out?

***

Hours later, Rose gave a satisfied sigh and arched her back. The bedrooms were done. All six of
them. She'd tackle the sitting rooms tomorrow.
By then the plumbers would be finished with the baths. She'd see how the the claw-footed tubs
and pedestal sinks looked all fixed together. They may not be historically accurate, but to run a
Bed and Breakfast, as the society planned, there had to be toilets and showers and overhead
lights and--

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She jumped, startled by the voice behind her. She forced herself to turn, face him and launch into
conversation. "Nearly finished up here. What do you think? And how's the floor downstairs?"

He waved his hand in a dismissive manner, his features blank and eyes cool. "I'm not talking
about the house and you damn well know it. I'm talking about the fact you--"

"Stop," she interrupted. This wasn't how she'd wanted to do this, but. . . Her gaze drank him like
a person dying of thirst would consume an oasis lake. Even the dust-streaked polo shirt and jeans
spotted with floor caulking didn't distract from his looks.

Good Lord, no. The sky blue color over his chest emphasized his eyes. The black denim molded
his powerful legs. She took a deep breath and continued. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

He inclined his golden head, his features still as blank as unlined note paper. "And?"

"I'm sorry I yelled." She lowered her gaze, hoped she presented the perfect picture of bowed
contrition.

"And?"

Just who was he? Little Mister Innocent? He should share some of the responsibility. "I'm sorry
you said those disgusting things."

His face didn't change. His lips didn't so much as twitch. "I'm talking about you being alone, Ms.
Anderson. While this murderer is still on the loose."

Rose blinked. With everything else, she'd completely forgotten that. Impossible but true. Lord,
did she ever need to regain her focus. "Alone? But I'm not--"

"Damn it all! The last time you were alone here you nearly died. Have you forgotten that?"

"No," she said, repressing a shudder, astonished and more than a little hurt he'd ask such a stupid
question. "To finish what I started to say, I'm not alone. The crew's here."

"The crew left over three hours ago. All of them."

Rose gaped, then lifted the shade from the window. Pitch black. With the lights on, she hadn't
noticed the descending night fall.
And his words. . . the cold, completely flat tone. Ms. Anderson? Were they back to that, too?
What should she do?

He shifted from foot to foot, drawing the material of his jeans tighter across his thighs. She knew
what she'd do. What never failed. The direct approach. She dropped the draperies and turned to
face him. "I'm not alone. You're with me."

Good God. How the hell was he supposed to turn away someone he wanted more than life?
Michael thought as he stared at her. He'd come up here with all intentions of provoking another
argument. An argument so fierce one of them would leave all together. Make a clean, permanent
break.

Then he saw her. Beheld all the work she accomplished. Without asking for any help. Perfection.
Every detail authentic. Rich, yet livable. Inviting warmth and coziness.

Especially that large four poster bed. . .

He thrust a hand through his hair and turned away. He'd seen those feather mattresses arrive. All
he could think of was sinking into one with her. Now they were in the largest bedroom where the
lord and lady slept all those many years ago.

He glanced around. It was beyond beautiful. Even with the faint smells of paint, cleaning fluids
and refinishing oils. From the deep, lace edged canopy, matching throw pillows and double
wedding ring quilt to the Irish lace dollies spread across gleaming surfaces to the mantle objects
and silver-backed brushes on the vanity. There was nothing, not a single detail, he'd change.

And she'd done it all. Made his dream a reality.

Softness and strength. Grit and determination. She'd pushed all feelings aside to concentrate on
something worthwhile. And she'd tried to apologize. Though half, if not more, of their hurtful
words and actions was his fault. Against his will, those two little, yet huge words floated through
his mind again and stuck.

Kindred spirits.

"What if I weren't here?"

She shrugged. "I guess I'd be alone then, wouldn't I?"

How was he supposed to answer? Say she'd never be alone? He'd always hold special feelings
for her as long as breath entered his lungs? He couldn't make promises. Not for her. Not with
him.
"If you don't care about yourself, consider the rest of us. We've put too much time and effort into
this house to see some foolish stunt of yours ruin it all."

"Foolish stunt?" she echoed, eyes wide, confused, full of pain. "That's what you think of me?
That I'm a fool?"

Michael pounded all tender urges into the deepest areas of his mind and especially his heart. "I
didn't say that. I said you being here alone with a murderer on the loose is foolish."

"In other words, I'm a fool." Her eyes narrowed. Her chin raised so high she nearly had to look
down at him instead of up.

He sighed, spread his hands to indicate giving up. He wouldn't fight with her. He couldn't. He
didn't have the strength to fight her and fight himself.

"I don't have to defend my work to anyone. Especially you. Not now or ever." Grand as any
queen, she sailed across the room, past him and out the open door.

He caught up with her on the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"No." He grasped her arm. "We'll discuss this more in my room."

She tried to break free, failed and stared hard enough to bore holes into him. "There's no need for
me to stay with you."

He shook his head. "The killer hasn't been caught."

"Annie's dead. Maybe she was the target all along."

"You believe that?" Her gaze hit him with the force of a runaway train. Good God, how he
wished she could be his.

She tossed her head. "I don't believe she was trying to hurt me any more than I believe the IRA
is. No matter what you say."

She was getting too close, worming into his heart with those aqua eyes and vulnerable air. "You
regret your night with me?"

She paled, her eyes the only slash of color in her now ashen face. He wished she'd slap him
again. God knew he deserved it. "Damn you for that."

No doubt he'd be damned for other things as well. He hated himself. "There haven't been any
other incidents since she died."
"Leave her alone. She can't defend herself." Color eased back into her face. She jerked her arm
out of his grasp.

"She was jealous of you Rose," he surprised himself by saying. "You and your talent. Jealousy's
a powerful motive."

She raised her brows. "My talent? After what you just said not two seconds ago?"

He shrugged, seemingly indifferent, yet delighted to see her chin up. He didn't want to crush her
spirit. Only keep her from getting any closer than she already was. For both their sakes. "I still
say Annie had something to with your accidents."

"If that's true, there's no need for me to stay with you." She marched down the stairs.

"The accidents were aimed at you. We know that." If nothing else. "You stay with me until we
know why and who. Without any lingering questions. End of story. Now get in my car."

She shook her head and slipped out the front door. "My car's still here. It has been for several
days."

"I had the valet come, get it and drive it back to the secured hotel parking lot." He watched her
eyes narrow before he turned to lock the door.

"I'm not going to your room."

He grinned. "Yes, you are. Mac's no doubt found Maye by now. They could be there waiting on
us. Want to keep arguing or go get some answers?"

She glared at him, slammed into his car and tugged on her seat belt. "For God's sake! I'm not a
child. Quit treating me like one."

"I know you're not a child. A child learns from his or her mistakes." And he never did, he
thought as she clamped her lips into a tight unforgiving line.

He had what he wanted. He'd pushed her away. So why did he feel absolutely no satisfaction?

Chapter 27

"I've ordered dinner."

She looked up from her papers. "Thanks. But I'm not hungry."

He shrugged. "Then you can watch me eat."

As the tempting aroma of chicken and vegetables baked in flaky pastry wafted through the room,
she took the place set across from him at the table and dug into the meal.

He'd doubted she'd resist the smell. Such a delight to dine with someone who didn't pick at food
like it contained poison. Pay good money for dinners made by the world's finest chefs and then
have a date who wouldn't eat it. Dieting, not hungry, late lunch or some other nonsense made
him grind his teeth nearly to nubs.

Rose ate like a person was supposed to. Everything she served onto her plate. Savoring every
bite, eyes closed in pure enjoyment. An expression of ecstasy crossed her features as she dug into
the crystal bowl of rich chocolate mouse.

Her little pink tongue slowly licked the spoon clean. Over and over, up and down, backwards
and forwards. She looked as she had when his body entered hers and she tightened and milked
him, drained him with a climax so powerful, so explosive he'd still yet to recover completely.

Michael squashed that thought and its accompanying image.

She wiped her mouth, sighed then glanced across the table. Their gazes met. She flushed. And
good God, how he wanted her.

He shoved back his chair. "Did you find anything in those papers?"

She also left the table. "Nothing useful. Diary accounts, marriages, births. That sort of thing."

"Anything about the IRA?"

"Plenty." She sat in the chair across from him and wrapped her arms around her waist. "So much
violence. And get this. Most of the fathers asked their children to marry and produce as many
sons as possible."

"Human nature to want immortality through children."

"You want children, too?"

He looked straight at her, forced himself to be cold. "No."

"Never?" She shivered. "Why?"

He looked down. "What else did you find?"

She sighed then snapped her fingers. "Hey! Where's that report Sloan MacKenna was supposed
to have for me? The one about you?"

He retrieved a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her. "Want me to leave while
you read it?"
"You were there while I read mine. Stay and answer any questions I have."

He pretended to ignore her as she flipped through papers. There wasn't that much. School
reports. His scholarship to study architecture and engineering at Harvard. Graduated first in his
class. Devon as his room mate and best friend. His projects. His acclaim in the architectural
world. Composites of property, car, townhouse. Charitable contributions. Society functions he
headed.

"Where's the info on your family?

He'd dreaded that, wanted to ignore her, but he wouldn't. Somehow, he couldn't. "Anything you
want can be found in the New York state public records. Ask for info on Judge St. Lawrence.
They'll give you all you want. And then some."

Her head jerked. She gaped at him, as he'd known she would. He hadn't expected her eyes to be
so startled, though. Or so devastated. Devastated? What the hell?

Her voice squeaked like the rusty gate at the back corner of Huntington house. "Your dad really
is the Judge St. Lawrence? The one who--"

"Will become the next member of the Supreme Court." He narrowed his eyes on her suddenly
colorless face.

"Wow," the soft whisper left as a passing breath, strangely sad and final. "You don't have any
brothers? Or sisters?"

He shook his head, wondering at the pain in her eyes. "Why?"

She dropped her gaze. "Dear Lord. No wonder."

Against his will, his heart lurched. His arms ached to cradle her. That sad little face and haunting
voice. "No wonder what?"

She dropped the file on the table and stood. "No wonder you don't want anything to do with me.
The publicity I'd bring would ruin his chances of being appointed." She walked away, head
bowed. "I'll leave right now."

His hands clenched into tight fists. "You don't have to leave."

"Oh yes I do. Murdered partner, strange accidents, questionable parentage with ties to the IRA,
all that stuff with the Governor's Mansion and Louis-- I'm nothing but a liability any way you
look at me."

Michael surged to his feet. "Stop."

She continued. "Dear Lord, this is a tabloid's dream. Your association with me could cost your
father his nomination."

"Rose."

She waved a hand behind her back. "I won't contact you outside the project. And I'll stay far
away from you. Starting right now."

He had her in his arms before she could twist the doorknob of her room. "Damn it. I said you
don't have to go."

She raised her head and blinked at tears. His breath caught at the pain and loss in her eyes. "But
your father. Your reputation."

"You think I care?" He twined her hair around his fingers, tilted her head to look deep into her
eyes. He let her see all the desire he'd held so tight in check.

If she somehow failed to receive that message, he pressed her between him and the door. His lips
trailed over her cheek and nose, delighted in the silkiness of her warm skin. He kissed her other
cheek, released her hair, nibbled at her ear.

"You want me?" it was a gasp, her voice faint and disbelieving.

"You must ask?" He pressed her more firmly, opened the door.

"No." She kissed him this time.

He helped her pull off clothes as he walked her backward towards the bed. They seemed one
person. One body. One mind. Together. Unbeatable as long as they stood united.

His heart thumped above hers. He knew he was wrong but he couldn't stop. Couldn't hurt her any
longer. Heat poured from him into her. Sweat clung as they fell on the bed. No woman could
ever fulfill him the way she did. Or give him so much.

Yet he had only this to give back.

He rose above her, dragged his lips from her breasts to meet her gaze. He closed his eyes as he
read the emotion plain and clear there. Good God, no. Oh no. He didn't deserve, couldn't return--

"Now," she whispered, voice thick. "Please now."

All he had. So little for all she gave. He moved inside her, inch by agonizing slow inch. He took
her lips, thrust his tongue to hers even as she thrust her body to meet him.
Finally, they were one. Joined in the most elemental way in the most elemental of needs. He let
her set the speed, groaned as she caught on so quick he didn't think he could wait for her.

But he did. This morning had been merely a glimpse, a tiny bit of the whole picture. Heaven
found in mingled cries, one torn from him, one from her, as the world vanished in brilliant
patterns and hot sharp nails of pleasure. Of sensation. Of--

Love.

Good God, how he loved her.

He held her long after her breathing evened, long after her limp body told him she slept. What
had he done? All day he pushed her away. Said things he knew would hurt. Behaved as if he
couldn't stand to be near her, as if she didn't exist.

She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer. Her hands curled under his chin. Her face filled the
hollow of his throat. A perfect fit. In every way.

He loved just looking at her. Little brow wrinkled in concentration as she planned exactly where
each piece of furniture should go. Stubborn chin raised high as she battled for some minor point.
Eyes closed in tired satisfaction as she ate cold pizza at the end of the day. Dusty, filthy,
sweating, gulping water after cleaning up sawdust.

Gasping in pure ecstasy as wave after incredible wave crashed over her and made her thighs grip
him so tightly he surfed those same waves.

This couldn't continue. Too comfortable. Too promising of things he knew false. Too dependent.
He was taking her wishes and needs too seriously. He couldn't, wouldn't, commit to anyone.
Even someone as special, as perfect, as fitting, as Rose.

Especially Rose.

She deserved so much better than him.

Michael tightened his arms and stared into the darkness. He'd been her first lover. She, his first
virgin. The freshness would wear off. Go stale. Like all the rest. It always had.

His lips caressed her sweet smelling hair. No. Each time would be new. Each time like the first.
Each time more satisfying, unique. He received gratification from the others. Never the
satisfaction, the emotion, he'd received from her.

He inhaled sharply. Good God. He hadn't-- And by her very innocence she probably hadn't,
either.

He relaxed. No medical worries. Annual physicals, blood work. One problem canceled. If they'd
created another life. . .
She stirred, her legs tangling more within his. He'd never wanted children. He never wanted
rejection again by his own blood.

But deep down, he wanted a little piece of himself. A more innocent part. He wanted the mess,
the clutter, little voices begging for stories, crying for comfort or laughing at some ordinary thing
adults took for granted.

He'd thought that impossible. He could never give anyone, let alone a fragile, trusting child,
anything near the love they deserved. Until her. Until Rose. Everything he forever wanted and
dreamed from life always came back to her.

He shifted, glanced down at her. It was too dark to see more than her profile, but he knew her
features by heart. Would their children be dark blonds with his blue eyes? Or light blonds with
her incredible sea eyes? He hoped they'd all inherit her cute button nose and stubborn chin.

He almost snorted. Was he crazy hoping for a bond to tie them for the rest of their lives? His
own parents made no secret they didn't want him. How could she be any different?

He lifted a hand from her shoulders and thrust it through his hair. He hated to need. No one
really needed him.

Except Rose.

For now. Once they caught the murderer, cleared up the Annie mystery and finished the house,
she wouldn't need him. When the world saw Huntington House and realized her talent, her
business would take off like an airplane soaring from the runway.

Leaving him behind. Alone. Needing, yet not needed. Unless he let her go. Made no claims.
Went back to their General Lee-General Grant attitudes.

Yet, Michael thought with a quiet laugh, wasn't that how he fell in love with her in the first
place?

There was no way to win. And he'd rather hurt himself than her.

The telephone rang a few hours later. He inched away. If just leaving her bed felt this bad, how
the hell was he supposed to leave her forever?

"What?" he barked into the receiver.

"Mikey, I'm on a flight. I wasn't sure if they'd called you."

"Devon?" Michael gripped the phone, barely able to hear the tinny sound of his friend's voice.
"Who might not have called?"

"Dad's at the hospital. Stabbed."

Michael felt as bad as Devon sounded. "Is he--?"

"Damn doctors wouldn't say once I gave verbal consent for emergency surgery. Mikey, could
you--"

"What hospital?" He scribbled the information onto a pad. "Devon, I. . ."

"Yeah, me too. See you there."

He replaced the receiver. What had Mac discovered? Who'd hurt him? A stranger? Or someone
whose entire web of lies was shattered by his unfailingly thorough investigation?

Someone such as Maye Anderson?

"Michael?"

He couldn't face her. Better to cut himself off than deal with all this pain, fear and doubt. He
didn't have it in him to resist if she offered comfort. And he knew she would.

He turned, saw her framed in her doorway, a blanket wrapped around her beautiful body. Her
eyes were soft, aqua pools of tenderness and the lingering effects of afterglow. Good God.

He walked past her. Each step brought him physically closer yet emotionally farther. "Mac's hurt.
I'm going to the hospital."

"I'm going, too." She walked back into her room, started to pull on clothes.

Michael watched half a second, the longest he could endure, before he turned away to do the
same. Mac needed him. Devon depended on him. He couldn't let either down.

He'd sort out the who and why later. God help the person who'd done this. He'd see him or her
pay. Dearly.

Chapter 28

"So you're the infamous Rose."

Rose opened her eyes after a muttered prayer. She'd closed them so tightly she saw stars
moments ago when he appeared, announced his name and told his father's condition. Silvery dots
still flashed before her eyes.
"Hey. You asleep or something?"

She roused and stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"You must be the Rose I've heard so much about." He moved further into the room and laughed
as he sat beside her. "Now I know exactly why Mikey didn't want me to meet you."

Her heart sank. As if it could get any lower. She knew making love with Michael again would be
a mistake, especially after learning who his father was. But when he held her, when she felt the
desire that matched hers, she hadn't been able to control herself.

Sloan MacKenna had fought for his life while they made love. A fight brought on through
incidents related to her. Why his son even talked to her, let alone touched her, wasn't something
she cared to contemplate or explain.

"Did you hear what I said? Mikey didn't want me to meet you."

"I know." She dragged her thoughts back to the present.

His brown eyes widened. The resemblance to his father, except for eye color, was so strong. "I'm
surprised he told you."

"Why?"

"Honey, believe me, if anyone knows Mikey I do. He's never open about his motives." A lock of
dark brown hair swung merrily over his forehead as he laughed again. The sound dispelled the
lingering gloom in the empty room. "Especially jealousy."

Startled, her mouth dropped open before she had the presence of mind to stop it. "Jealousy?
From Michael?"

"Don't tell me you haven't guessed how possessive he is. I'm shocked he left knowing I'd be all
alone with you."

Rose shook her head, as much to deny what he was saying as to humor someone whose parent
had been near death. "I'm glad you told them he's your brother."

"It was worth it just to see that surgeon try to picture me and Mikey coming from the same
parents." He tightened his grip. "I think a nurse is on to us, though. Good thing she's so bowled
over by Mikey's good looks."

A painful lump in her throat made any reply impossible.

"I'd have said you're our sister but they'd never buy that the way Mikey probably looks at you."
Rose closed her eyes again. The ice in Michael's features whenever he glanced her way could
freeze an erupting volcano. "That's all right. Mister MacKenna wouldn't want to see me."

"Yeah," he agreed, unknowingly twisting the knife in her heart deeper. "He wouldn't want any
woman to see him like he is now."

Rose felt the tremble from his hand to hers. Opening her eyes, she patted his shoulder. "The
doctors say he'll pull through just fine, don't they?"

He nodded, all humor gone from his expression. "He's damned lucky. Hit over the head, his leg
nearly sawed off-- God, what kind of twisted manic are we dealing with?"

Her gaze skipped from his haunted one. She couldn't explain. He had enough on him.

"If he'd died--"

"Don't." Rose hugged him without conscious thought, like a mother comforting a discouraged
child. "He won't die. You saw him, talked with him. You even told me how well he looks
considering all he's been through. He'll be fine. Really."

He buried his face in her neck, held her as tight and unintimate as she held him. "I just keep
thinking I should have been here, should have known somehow he was in trouble. In danger."

She stroked his hair. Her eyes closed against the wave of guilt-ridden tears. "There's nothing you
could have done. You're here now. And you love him. That's what matters."

Another shudder wracked him. "God, Rose. I know now why Mikey--"

"Am I interrupting?"

Rose jerked away from his friend at his steel tone. She couldn't make her gaze meet his for the
world. "How is Mister MacKenna?"

"Not nearly as well off as the MacKenna out here."

Devon grinned. "What do you think? Did he say much?"

"He told me to go home. To let him sleep in peace. And we should. He's over the worst."
Michael continued to glare at him.

"No argument there, thank God." Devon let go of Rose and stood, turned back to offer his hand.

She got to her feet yet kept her gaze on the floor. "Thanks."

Devon held her hand even as she tried to pull it from his grasp. "Any time, honey. Mikey got an
extra room in that penthouse?"
"No."

"Yes," Rose corrected, glancing at Michael's set features then quickly away. Blue ice cubes. So
much for Devon's statement about jealousy. "He does now. I'm going back to my apartment."

"Like hell you are," Michael growled, his eyes as hot as they'd been cold. "It's not safe. Mac was
stabbed there."

Rose gasped. "What?"

"Hell of a way to tell her," Devon inserted as he tried to lead her out the door.

She planted her heels and refused to move. She raised her chin. "Why didn't you tell me? What
was he doing there?"

"I'm telling you now. He was waiting for Maye." Michael grasped her other arm, all but flung her
from Devon's side. "This is no place for discussion. Come on."

Devon, Rose found, could hide his emotions as well as Michael. He joked, laughed and related
funny stories the entire way to the hotel. No one hearing him would believe he'd been upset
minutes ago. No wonder he and Michael were such great friends.

"St. Lawrence," Rose said firmly the moment they reached the seclusion of his penthouse, "I
want to know exactly what happened." She sat on the edge of the sofa, hands gripped together.
"And I want to know right now."

"While he was watching your apartment," Michael began, then stopped as Devon brushed past to
sit beside her. "A light came on. He thought it was Maye. He knocked on the door, but didn't get
an answer. It was unlocked so he went inside."

"That's when someone clobbered him on the head from behind," Devon inserted. "Giving him
the concussion."

"How did he get stabbed?" Rose looked to Michael for the answer.

"Mac grabbed whoever hit him when he or she tried to run past. He wouldn't let go. The person
brought out a knife and--"

"Rammed Dad's leg to the bone, almost sawing it off." Devon shuddered. He put an arm across
her shoulders. "The Doc says he'll limp from now on. That he's lucky they could even save his
leg."

Rose looked down. "Thank God he's alive. Does he have any idea who might have hurt him?"

"Dad didn't, uhh, get a good look." He massaged her stiff shoulders.
Rose pushed his arm from her, stared at him with anger, suspicion and fear. "You're lying."

"No, I--"

"You are." She stood, glared at Michael. "You think it was--"

"Rose honestly," Devon cut in, reaching up to clasp her arm. "Dad didn't get a good look."

"Maye," Rose finished, ignoring his denial. "Don't you?"

Michael shrugged, his features blank. "Mac said the form was slender, like a female. The light
was in the other room. He couldn't really tell what gender."

She threw Devon's hand off. "But you think it was Maye."

He shrugged again. "She had to be angry he dug out her secrets."

"How can you suggest Maye would do this?" Rose once more brushed off Devon's clingy hands.
"You've met her. She wouldn't. . ."

"Attack Mac? You denied Annie was shady before she was killed, too."

"Mikey hey, listen."

"You stay out of this." Rose glared at him as she again removed his hand. "Are you an octopus?
Here in the South, buddy, men don't accost women. Get that through your thick Yankee head
right now."

"Good God. Here we go again," Michael muttered.

"No." Rose stomped over to him. "We're not going again, St. Lawrence. Maye didn't stab him.
She didn't. She couldn't."

"You've talked to her?" He lifted one brow in sarcastic inquiry. "You know where she is? What
she was doing last night?"

Her hands clenched. Her chest heaved. "You disgusting--"

"Scalawag?"

"Pig!" She spun, fought to control her temper. "I'm going to Huntington House. At least decent
people are there. Unlike here."

"You mean southerners instead of us northerners?" Michael said.

"I mean gentlemen as opposed to. . ." Rose broke off. Long strides took her to the door.
It slammed with a resounding bang behind her.

"Aren't you going after her?"

Michael glanced at his watch. "The crew's there. That temper of hers. . ."

"Yeah. What a glorious sight. No one would dare mess with her." Devon grinned fully. "She's
quite a woman. Exactly right for you."

"Don't even think it."

"What? I was merely going to point out some more of her fine attributes. Those long legs. Nicely
rounded hips. Tight little bud breasts. And those gorgeous blue-green eyes. Not to mention--"

"Enough," Michael said through gritted teeth. He needed a cold shower as it was. He didn't
believe Maye stabbed Mac. He only suggested it to push her further away. Not get his body
throbbing with wanting to make love to her all over again.

"Not nearly. When she's mad she's even more desirable. Those eyes flare just like they must
when you two are in bed."

"Go to hell."

Devon laughed. "Been there, done that, not planning to ever go back. I'm delighted I didn't miss
seeing the great Michael St. Lawrence thwarted by a woman. Especially a beautiful one he wants
more than life itself who won't play by all his asinine rules. Every time you push her away she
just ends up closer, huh?"

"You've been around unbalanced people so long you're starting to sound just like one. These
crazy theories of yours are going to get you committed."

"Yeah? Keep treating her like you just did and you'll be right there beside me." Devon sighed as
Michael began to pace. "What's stopping you? Go after her."

He paused in mid-stride. "No."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"No I don't." Devon glanced pointedly at his groin. "You're actually going to waste that?"

Michael felt himself flush. "Go to hell."

"Told you, been there, done that, not going back. It's nothing to be embarrassed over. Hell, I got
one too watching that magnificent display of temper. The way those eyes flashed and those
breasts bounced. I bet she's marvelous in bed."

"Good God." Michael thrust a hand through his hair. "Shut up."

"It's that parental thing, huh? Same as in college when I'd go after your latest conquest just to
prove I could get her."

"Back off, Dev. Before you say something--"

"I'll regret?"

"I'd hate for Mac to have to share his hospital room with you."

Devon smiled. "It's like that, then."

"I don't have the faintest idea what you mean."

"Like hell you don't." His tone changed from badgering to clinical. "All those girls you didn't
even try to fight for meant nothing. Rose Anderson does. And that scares the shit out of you."

Michael gritted his teeth. "Back off."

"For God's sake. Don't punish her for something neither of you can change. Allow yourself to be
happy for once in your life."

Michael couldn't answer. He strode into his room.

Devon followed, leaned against the doorway and waited until he left the bathroom fresh from his
shave. "Your bed's not slept in."

Michael discarded his rumpled clothes. "I've been at the hospital most of the night."

"Where'd you sleep before you came there? Or should I just ask where you came?"

"None of your damn business."

"In her bed, right? In her?"

"I told you to let it go."

"Damned good, wasn't it? The best ever?"

Michael closed his eyes and no doubt told his friend all he needed to know. "Dev, I'm asking as
your friend. Let it drop. Please."
"I can't. I hate to see you make such a fool of yourself and lose the best thing that's ever
happened to you."

Michael pulled a shirt over his head to avoid comment.

"Explosive? Satisfying you the way no other woman ever has?"

"Just how do you presume to know that?" Michael tucked his shirt in his pants.

"Are you kidding? The way you two devoured each other when the other wasn't looking? It was
almost embarrassing seeing you all but make love without so much as touching." Devon snapped
his fingers. "So that's why you're so possessive."

"What?" Head down, Michael pulled on his shoes.

"You were her first. Broke her veil, if you will. Took her--"

Michael's head shot up. "Don't talk about it like that."

"Ohh, Mikey. Do you ever think you have a problem."

Michael stood and pushed past him. "Call my cellular if there's any change with Mac. My
specialist will arrive later."

"Let's talk about this."

"Jim Fogle's the detective in charge of the investigation."

"Yeah, I remember. Dad taught him everything he knows." Devon followed him back to the
main room. "About Rose. . ."

Michael gathered up his keys and briefcase. "The other penthouse on this floor was kept vacate
at my request when I first checked in. Mac was staying there just to be on the safe side. . ." his
words ceased.

Good God, the guilt. He felt like he'd stabbed Mac himself. After a moment, he spoke again.
"Tell the clerk you want a key to the elevator. Charge it to me."

"You're paying? Really? Knowing I'm going to do my damnest to take your place in her heart
and in her bed?"

Jealousy surged through him. He beat it back. Devon was joking. That's all. Joking. "The room's
for Mac's peace of mind. He'll expect you to stay."

"She's Ms. Right."

His hand clenched. "I know that." Good God, how he knew.

"Then you won't mind if I give it a shot. All my best moves."

He turned and smiled, but the raw agony in his gut belied it. "Think she'll have anything to do
with an octopus like you?"

"Push her away more and she'll need some understanding." Devon gazed directly into his eyes.
"Friend or not, first or not, I intend to be there for her. She's too good to lose."

Michael dropped his gaze, turned and opened the door. "She's also way too good for you. And
we both know it."

"I know she's more than either of us deserve. Tell her what she needs to hear from you, Mikey.
Or I swear on Dad's life I will."

Michael shook his head and walked out the door.

"Damn," Devon murmured to the empty rooms. "Thought that last line would get you for sure."
He collapsed on the sofa and crossed his arms behind his head. "Now just what else can I do to
further this little plan?"

Chapter 29

Three weeks later. . .

"Mrs. Greenworthy, I'm sorry," Rose said into the telephone for at least the fifth time. "I just
don't think the theme party is a good idea any longer."

"Nonsense!" came the same reply for at least the tenth time. "It was Maye's idea. And since she's
off on her little vacation or adventure or whatever, as Vice-President, it falls on me to make
certain all goes as we discussed last time we were all together."

"I understand." Rose almost sighed, then remembered how this particular lady hated people to do
so in her hearing. "But I--"

"Rose Anderson, we want a costume party. We will have a costume party. The guests have
already been told to appear in period dress. We also expect you to do so. If that is a problem, I
will be more than happy to arrange suitable attire for you."
Lord, that was all she needed. "Thank you, but I've already taken care of my outfit." Actually
Maye had.

"Then I fail to see why you feel you must voice these tiresome objections to an event that has
been planned for some time. As a major historical society in this state, we must do everything in
our power to. . ."

Rose silently blew out her breath, waited through a lengthy explanation of just why the Open
House needed to be a costume party. She'd heard it all before. Why she believed she might
change Mrs. Greenworthy's mind this time indicated just how absent-minded she'd become.

She'd never been absent-minded. Until Michael.

"Did you hear me, Rose Anderson? Are you still there?"

"Yes, Mrs. Greenworthy. I'm sorry. Our connection seems to be going."

"Then I will say good day. And if you see that aunt of yours, tell her I expect a full account on
why she found it necessary to run off before this project we have all worked so hard on and
waited so long for is finished. I will await your final report later tonight."

"Yes, I certainly will. But Mrs.--" Rose stopped. She talked to a dead line. She released several
mammoth sighs and also hung up. She felt like a dump truck had just plowed over her.

Actually, one named Magnolia Daisy Hampton Greenworthy had. Anyone who knew her could
tell she was a 'steel magnolia', heavy emphasis on the steel, in every sense. Had she been around
one hundred and fifty years ago, her speeches alone would have sent Union troops into full
retreat.

Rose sighed again. She glanced around and smiled. The finest achievement in the entire house.
Her greatest accomplishment.

And Michael St. Lawrence's.

The ballroom stretched the entire downstairs length and half the width of the house. The ceiling
beams had all been refinished and secured. The French doors were now sparkling glass entries to
the newly rebuilt verandah and weeded, splendid gardens beyond.

Golden chandeliers, lit by electricity instead of candles, hung from the ceiling on reinforced,
double chains. Electrical sockets, central heat and air conditioning vents were disguised as
golden, filigreed baseboard. A telephone was concealed behind a mock wall.

Her gaze traveled over the mint silk covered walls. Rich cream satin draped above the French
doors. The gold-speckled marble floor, the most expensive of all the restoration costs, invited
dancing.
All the furniture had been custom made by North Carolina crafts people. Graceful curved-backed
sofas and generous cushioned chairs with matching footstools made a semi-circle around the
massive stone fireplace at the far end of the room. Small oak bistros clustered across from the
French doors. A six foot wide oak buffet took up the final wall. Both ends could be raised or
removed to allow servers access.

Her gaze again returned to the wall across from the doors. Gold framed pictures of southern
leaders formed a mini gallery of history. The original owners' restored portraits hung in honor
over the marbled fireplace mantle. A small gold plaque told the story of the Confederate lost
gold.

Natural-appearing silk pastel flowers filled slender, waist-high marble vases standing like silent
guards on either side of the open double doorway. The last perfect touch.

She turned in a full circle, searched for anything out of place or not quite straight. There was
nothing. She described this room as understated elegance. Huntington House's showpiece.

The slightly modernized kitchen and dining room. The covered walkway converted to a gallery
of Southern artists. The parlor, library, conservatory, music room and hallway across from the
ballroom. The gardens, walking paths and driveway. All of Huntington House showed how well
she and Michael St. Lawrence worked together. How great a team they could be.

Her baby had grown up and was ready for the wedding reception to begin.

Rose rubbed her forehead where a dull headache throbbed. While Detective Fogle had managed
to keep reporters from besieging the house, tension from Annie's murder, Sloan MacKenna's
attack and Maye's unexplained disappearance took its toll. Tempers were short, arguments flared.
Everyone worked long hours to finish Huntington House as soon as possible.

Michael slept at the house, claiming he could finish and keep an eye on things at the same time.
The crew worked in shifts. Rose offered to stay at night, too.

His refusal still stung. "You have enough with a dead partner, runaway relative and your own
work."

She pushed back her hair. Only she, Jim Fogle, Mark, Melinda and a few others attended Annie's
small grave side service. Rose hadn't expected Michael to attend and he hadn't.

Every time Rose tried to sleep, she remembered his touch. His scent. His husky whispers. The
feel of his skin against hers. The way his eyes devoured her as he moved inside her.

She crossed to stare unseeing out the French doors. Needless to say, she wasn't sleeping much.
She was bone weary, in both mind and body. The last thing she felt like was a party.
Mrs. Greenworthy had invited everyone. Including Miss NC. A physics major accepted to
Harvard. Who had an architect father and a judge mother. A former jean and swimsuit model.
The type woman the St. Lawrences would happily acknowledge as a possible mate for their son.
Perfect, scandal-free Miss NC.

She closed her eyes. She'd slept on the sofa in his penthouse. If tossing all night could be called
sleeping. She couldn't bear either bed where they'd. . .

She made her thoughts jump to Sloan MacKenna. Physical therapy had helped him. He'd always
limp, but he made such progress his doctors were amazed. Rose smiled, remembering the first
time she'd seen him after the attack.

"Stop," he ordered when she tried to apologize. "It wasn't your fault. Have you heard from Maye
yet?"

"No. Who attacked you?"

"I honestly don't know. Probably the same person who killed Annie. I don't think it was IRA, if
that's what you're asking."

"Do you know why someone would hurt you?"

"I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm glad nothing was taken. I'm even
more thankful you weren't there."

"But--"

"Look Rose. I won't accept apologizes over something you've got no cause to apologize for.
Agreed?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now, don't worry. Stay close to Michael until the police, such as they are, catch whoever
it is."

"What happened to your job at the department? Detective Fogle said you were the best captain
they've ever had. That you rose further and quicker than any other policemen."

He had smiled, but she read the closed look in his eyes. "Did he? Well, well. Why I left is a long,
boring story best saved for another time."

"Was it something very serious?"

"Let's just say I saw something I didn't want to see and the Chief and I had a difference of
opinion on the matter, all right?"
"All right."

"Nice avoidance of the subject of Mic, too."

"I wasn't trying to avoid that subject."

He'd laughed and made her feel so at home with him. "You were. I opened yet another can of
worms for you too, didn't I?"

"You mean more or less proving Maye's my mother?"

"Upset with me?"

"Not at all. I needed to know. From someone."

He'd yawned and she took the excuse to leave. "Tell Devon and Michael to visit more. You come
back, too. Gets lonely here. You're a delightful distraction. And call me Sloan."

Rose opened her eyes. She twitched a drapery half an inch, stood back to admire the effect. At
least one male in her life seemed delighted with her company.

As for the other MacKenna, Devon treated her like a sister. He checked on her every night, asked
if she'd eaten or how the house progressed. They chatted about his father, the brilliant autumn
leaves, the weather. Simple, impersonal things. Never what she wanted to discuss. Never
anything about Michael.

"That's not his job," Rose muttered. Satisfied with the satin's fall, she turned to face the doorway.
"It's yours."

The Open House started tomorrow night at seven, although people would set things up as early
as five a.m.

Sloan had been released. Devon spoke often about booking his flight home and taking his father
with him. There was no reason for Michael to stay, either.

"Ms. Anderson is there a reason you're still here?"

Rose took a deep breath and took trembling baby steps toward him. Now or never. "I suppose
you'll be leaving."

He shrugged, his features as closed and remote as his flat tone. "It's late. Of course I'm leaving."

She shook her head. Her heart thumped. "Are you leaving NC?"
"Ready to get rid of the Yankee, General Lee?"

She nearly melted at the twist of his lips. Slight, sad, wistful. It'd haunt her the rest of her life.
Just like he would. She moved nearer, close enough to touch his arm if she simply stretched out
her hand. "I don't want to get rid of you, Michael."

The half smile vanished. His gaze met hers. Why have pride with her future at stake? She let him
see everything. Nothing held back. "I know you want to put this whole bungled mess behind you.
Still, I--"

"Rose."

"Please, I have to say this. I don't want you to leave. Ever." She took another breath, maintained
his gaze when she wanted to look away. "I want to stay with you. Wherever you are. Wherever
you go."

He was silent. Her face heated under his steady gaze. When he looked away, she knew. Before
he closed his eyes and sighed so deeply it sounded like it came from the very depths of his soul,
she knew.

"Rose, I can't say--"

"Oh, God," she choked, tears filling her eyes at his resigned, tone. "Don't. I'm sorry." She fled.

"Damn it all to hell!" Michael shouted to the rafters, wanting with a dangerous urge to destroy
every stick of furniture in this room, in this entire house.

"Mikey?"

He spun. "What the hell do you want?"

Devon moved further into the room. "I--"

"Came to gloat? To tell me you're glad the way is clear for you to swoop in like a vulture and
take over?"

"Great hell what do you take me for, Mikey? I'm not here for that. Although. . ."

"Good God Devon," the words hissed from him like steam from a dying fire. "Just leave me
alone."

Devon shook his head. His face filled with understanding Michael didn't want to see. "I can't.
Not yet. I have a message for you."

"Whatever it is, take it and--"

"It's from your folks."

Shock wiped all else from his mind. "What?"

"Your parents left a message on my service. I returned it."

"They know you?" They'd never met Devon. Or Mac. Or anyone connected with his life the last
thirty years.

Devon shrugged. "Must. Your mother wanted to know where you were. I told her NC. She
thought I meant north Connecticut."

"She would."

"I told her North Carolina. That I wasn't certain where."

Michael ran a trembling hand through his hair. "If either read more than the finance or society
pages, they'd already know."

"Maybe they want to borrow some money."

Michael laughed hollow, broken. "Likely a reporter connected us. They want a cozy picture of
family harmony to insure appointment."

"Cynical." Devon shook his head. "Course after what I just witnessed, you should be strung up,
gutted, shot, mutilated and--"

"I get the picture." Michael ran a hand through his hair again. He shook. All over. Exactly like
her when she dropped all pride, no small feat, and told him she wanted to stay with him.

He was a total bastard.

"Go after her."

"I can't," voice raw, Michael stared at the man who knew him so well, yet couldn't begin to
understand how he felt. "No advice. I had to say what I did. And what I didn't. You know I did."

"I know nothing of the sort. She offered everything you've ever wanted. Everything any man
could ever want. And you tore her heart out and tried to break her even more."

Michael walked away. "You can try to fix it. She's better off with someone like you."

"No argument about that. Only one problem."

Michael checked the French doors, secured them for the night. There hadn't been further
mishaps. Since Annie was dead, there probably wouldn't be. The police and his newly hired P.I.
were in charge of finding Mac's attacker. He'd also hired a bodyguard to unobtrusively follow
every move Rose made.

Safe to leave. All bridges burned. No turning back. "What?"

"She doesn't love me. She loves you." Devon's voice echoed across the vastness of the room.

"She only thinks so. Once she realizes I can never be good enough, she'll move on. Find some
man who is." She had to. Knowing she'd have all the things she deserved was the only way he
could go on.

Just as long as he didn't dwell on her having them with someone besides him.

"She's got it bad, Mikey. Same as you."

"She'll get over it. And me." All the others always had. It was easier for her this way. But good
God, how hard it was for him!

"Like hell. You're not being fair. To her. Or yourself."

"Damn it! Don't ask me to do what we both know I can't." Michael stormed from the house and
tried to run from the memories, the pain.

And of course, he failed.

Devon watched him and shook his head. "What a shame she loves you. It's too late. For all of
us."

Chapter 30

"What do you want?"

"Is that any way to greet someone?" the man seated on the chaise lounge questioned in a smooth,
cultured voice.

Michael flung his briefcase onto the sofa. The woman there flinched slightly. "What the hell do
you expect? How do you like this weather?"
The man straightened an already aligned silk tie. It matched the gray pinstripe in his tailored suit.
"We are aware you might possibly harbor a few bitter feelings."

Michael might have laughed had he not been so angry. "You had a child, sent him to boarding
school at age four and forgot he existed. You expect that child to feel mildly bitter? Is that all,
you damned pompous--"

"There is no need for such language," the woman cut in. Her voice matched her husband's and
made Michael grind his teeth. "Sit down and discuss this matter with us in a rational, decent
manner. Perhaps we could order refreshments while we chat."

Michael glared at her. "This isn't a tea party. Say what you want and get out. I'll cut all ties this
time."

"We want to make you understand." Fingers teaming with precious gemstones touched perfectly
coffered silver-blond hair.

"It's thirty years too late. I don't even know what to call you. 'Mother' is out since you've never
behaved as one." Michael turned his glare to the man. "I could always call you 'Your Honor' but
since I don't have any for you, that's out too."

The man bristled, no doubt unaccustomed to irreverence. "Such hostility is uncalled. You are
upsetting your mother."

"Do forgive me. I didn't realize statues could be upset."

"I should have realized it was a mistake to come."

"Yes, you should have. Shall I order the elevator for you?"

Judge St. Lawrence scanned gray eyes down Michael's work clothes. "Any adult who
consciously chooses a life ambition of playing in trash instead of--"

"Being a fine, upstanding citizen? A lawyer? Sorry. I wanted to sleep without counting bribe
money or soothing my conscious for getting a guilty, wealthy client off on some trumped up
technicality."

"We do not have to listen while you continue to behave in this insulting--"

"We never thought we would have children," the woman interrupted. "All our doctors termed our
possibility impossible. And of course, in those days, no scientific techniques were available.
After fourteen years, we had become quite accustomed. The discovery you were arriving was not
only a shock, but a--"
"Disappointment?" Michael thought of how Rose reacted with denial hearing Maye was her
mother and the resigned acceptance she displayed as the shock and anger began to wear off.
Could he accept anything these people said? Accept them?

Good God, that look of unbearable hurt and utter rejection on her face. How could he have done
that to her? Treated her exactly like. . . Like these people had him.

What had he done?

Not a single hair moved as she shook her head. "Not disappointment. More a resigned shock."

"Ever heard of abortion?"

"Not thirty-five years ago," the Judge answered.

Michael nodded. "I thought the reason you were such a strong supporter of Choice was because
you wanted the female 18-45 vote. PC and all that."

"I see all the money I spent on fancy schools was entirely wasted." The other man shook his
head. "Swear words, slang, your entire attitude in general is base, common and unacceptable."

"I can write a check for the full amount if you're low on funds, Judge."

"You have no idea what it cost your mother and I to--"

"I reimbursed every dime your solicitor ever gave any school to take me off your hands,"
Michael's tone became as stiff as his. "What I have I earned. Without anything from you."

Disbelief shone on the Judge's face. "I don't believe a word of that. You can't have possibly
raised that sort of capital."

Michael laughed, but it was more of a snarl. "That's why I haven't been hit for campaign funds.
You haven't kept up with me at all. I can afford anything I want." Materially, that was. "I could
buy ten judges like you and still retire quite comfortable."

"Please." The woman gave a twitch Michael assumed was a shudder. "Let us not speak so much
of money. It's quite tasteless."

"Kinda like abandoning your own child, ehh?"

She twitched again. Not enough to muss her hair or silk suit. Just enough to show miffed
sensibilities. "We were not prepared to raise a child. We did not want to be parents. Nor did you
want us. You were more comfortable with your nanny from the very day of your birth. We
assumed such would always hold true."

"You were happier childless is the truth."

"Yes," the judge admitted without hesitation. "Our lifestyle did not include children. You
received the best schooling, the finest clothing, all the food any child needed. Everything life had
to offer. You lacked for nothing."

Except love, Michael thought. He glanced from one to the other. They hadn't looked at each
other or touched. He'd never seen them touch or really look at one another. Ever. In life. Or in
photos.

Cold, business-like. Statues. Both of them. How the hell had they ever managed to conceive
him? Did they even know about passion and warmth? Caring about someone besides yourself?

No. He hadn't known before Rose. He turned and raked his hands over his face. Where was she?
The bodyguard kept her safe. But he'd almost destroyed her. He must fix that, tell her the truth.

He thought it was him. Believed he lacked some critical elements since even his own parents
couldn't love him.

Something lacked all right. But not in him. In them. They didn't, or couldn't, love anyone. Even
each other.

Good holy God. He stared blankly at the wall. Wave upon wave of suppressed feeling surged
through him. He felt he'd just been born. Renewed, restored, made whole. Why hadn't he asked
this of them before? Why had he tortured himself?

Why had he tortured her?

"Michael?"

He turned back, a smile on his face. "Yes?"

Diamonds, rubies and emeralds flashed as she held out her hand, palm up. "You do understand?"

He nodded. Something more important and far better. "Why didn't you tell me years ago?"

The judge cleared his throat. "There is an author doing a biography on me. Unauthorized, of
course."

"Of course," Michael repeated and lost his smile. So this was what had been so important. Must
be a dilly of a bio. "I'll refuse to talk. Regardless what's offered or promised."

The judge nodded. "My personal counselor at law insists upon signed statements verifying such a
fact."

"Fax or courier them at once. Let's not have any upset lawyers."

He didn't answer the taunt. He rose. "Our flight departs soon."

"Then you should go." Michael held open the front door.

The woman joined him and held out her hand. "Do take care."

Michael shook her hand without warmth, two strangers taking their leave during some social
occasion where they brushed against one another. "You do the same. Good-bye."

The judge also held out his hand. Michael took and released it all within a blink of an eye. "I'll be
certain to fax those papers."

"I receive media on my own. Why has this never come up?"

"It really is none of your concern. And do make certain the manager who brought us up keeps
silent about our visit here."

Michael nodded, unlocked the elevator and watched them enter. The glass doors shut. Somehow,
he knew he'd see them again.

But, right now. . . He threw back his head and shouted wordless, joyous sounds of release. Thirty
years of guilt, despair, and self anger. Not him. Never him. He wanted to sing, to shout forever.

He wanted to share this joy with the only person who mattered. Where was she? And was it too
late for her to know the reasons behind his cruel behavior? To understand it?

For once, he welcomed the ringing telephone. He ran back to his room. "Hello?" Be her. Please
somehow be her.

"Thought I heard you. Come see me. Got me a change of scenery."

"Mac? You're here?"

"Right across the hall. Sounds like we have even more to celebrate. Come over and fill us in."

He could leave the door open, listen for the elevator. She still had a key. He'd beg on his knees.
Whatever she wanted. A chance to make it right, only one opportunity. He couldn't risk messing
up. Not this. "I'll be right over."

He hadn't been in Devon's room five minutes when he heard the elevator. He leapt through the
door, prepared to sweep her off her feet and vent everything he felt.

Through drowning waves of disappointment he said, "Yes?"

"Mike. Is Sloan in there?"

Michael stepped back. There could be only one reason the policeman was here. "Do you know
who attacked him?"
Jim Fogle shook his head. "No, but we know who murdered Annie. And why."

***

Rose rubbed her eyes. In the dim light cast by a feeble night light across the room, she glanced
around. So this was Mrs. Greenworthy's Raleigh townhouse. The society vice-president actually
lived not far from Maye in Aberdeen. She kept this place for 'appearances'. Whatever that meant.

Rose finally appeased her by calling every party participant. Caters. Servers. Musicians. Mrs.
Greenworthy made her check and double check each detail down to the smallest thing.

The only thing she hadn't noted was what color underwear the waiters and waitresses might wear
to the party. The woman could, no doubt, scare the very hell out of Satan himself. Especially
when it came to getting her own way.

"It is our responsibility to be certain all is in readiness before any guest steps foot one inside our
house," Mrs. Greenworthy insisted when Rose stopped by to assure Huntington House was ready
for the open house and the press. "It will be the finest gala we, as a society, have ever thrown. I
say without vanity it will be the best our fellow citizens ever attend."

"You will stay here. My guest room is full of costumes, but I'm certain you'll be perfectly
comfortable here on the sofa. We'll go over everything again in the morning. Just to be certain."

As Rose discovered long ago, it did no good to argue. So here she was. On another sofa.
Pretending to sleep. Behaving as if life were one sunny picture and she couldn't wait for the
party.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Michael didn't want her. In any way, shape or form. She'd seen
enough in his eyes. Regret, mostly. Not a grain of sorrow. He wasn't sorry he didn't want her. He
regretted she'd forced an issue he hadn't wanted brought up.

She sighed. She'd be at the party. She hated fancy costumes, crowds and most of all, reporters.
But she wouldn't let Michael St. Lawrence and his coldness keep her away. Even if it hurt like
nothing ever had to pretend it was all right he didn't love her.

Narrow hard sofa. She couldn't sleep if she wanted. But endless muses on her failed love life
weren't conductive to sanity. She'd have to try something else to erase thoughts of him from her
mind.

There had been no word from Maye. Rose had finally broken down and admitted to Jim Fogle
she had no idea where Maye might be. He'd issued an all points bulletin, had every officer in the
state on the look-out, tapped Rose's phone, the works.

Still, not one solid trace of Maye had been found.

She gnawed her lip. Sloan could probably find Maye. But she wasn't about to ask him. Not with
his injuries. And not before she knew exactly who had hurt him. Maybe Michael could--

"And I wasn't going to think about him any more." She pushed at a numerous lump under her.
"Right."

Chapter 31

"A grand smashing success," Mrs. Greenworthy said. "An utterly fabulous Halloween, frivolous
holiday though it is, Open House. I am to be commended at this success. Oh, and you must share
some of that applause, Rose. Such wonderful food, music, all the important guests. And loads
and loads of the Press."

Even, Rose thought as Mrs. Greenworthy swept off, wonderful Miss NC, a.k.a. Miss Scarlet, in
her Gone With the Wind, green and white dress and matching hat. Most of the gentlemen flocked
to her like that barbecue scene in the movie, too.Including Michael. But then, why not? He was
her escort.

Rose didn't care. There was plenty to keep her mind occupied. Really. Her mind, maybe. But not
her heart. Never her heart.

"Positively splendid, my dear Miss Anderson," the NC Governor said as he walked over to her.
He shook her hand with such gusto her arm ached. "It's full of old southern charm and elegance.
Exactly as the designs for my mansion renovation."

Rose saw a glint of remorse in his eyes. "You knew, didn't you?" she whispered for his ears
alone.

He straightened the coat of his General Lee costume and avoided looking at her. "I couldn't
interfere. You understand why."

She nodded. Louis's firm had relatives who were tax payers and voters here. Very important,
influential relatives. Rose wasn't certain whether to laugh or to cry. "Yes, unfortunately I do."

"I thought so." The Governor smiled and motioned a gentleman dressed as Jefferson Davis over.
"Miss Anderson, Senator Helms mentioned last week he needed a decorator. I recommended
you."

Rose just caught her mouth from falling open as she shook hands with the headline making
Senator while the Governor moved away.
"I have several rooms which need attention," Senator Helms said in his deep, southern gentleman
style. "After viewing your work here, I firmly do believe we can come to some agreement on you
redesigning my own. Please give a call to my secretary first thing tomorrow. She'll arrange a
time for you to meet my lovely wife and commence the ball to rolling." He handed Rose a
business card with only a telephone number. "This is my private line. It certainly was a pleasure
to meet you. I look forward to making your acquaintance again in the very near future."

Rose watched him walk away. A bribe. Keep your mouth shut, cause no more scandals, receive
high jobs. She wanted to announce the truth, let everyone know she had been right all along.

She sighed and turned the card over and over in her hand. Another scandal would reveal the
accidents, Annie's death, Sloan's attack. She'd be vindicated, but at what price? It wasn't worth it
anymore. She'd rather have Michael's love.

She tucked the card into the small cloth bag tied to her wrist. Senator Helms' house. She should
be thrilled. Excited. Elated. It was empty without being able to share it. The society members
knew her. Mark, Melinda, the crew. Devon and Sloan. Plenty of people to mingle with. No one
to talk with. Like she had with Michael.

"Come dance with me."

She smiled and gave him her hand. "Why, thank you kind sir."

"You know," Devon said as they waltzed, "I never gave much thought to antebellum South.
What a dope I was."

Rose laughed. "You say that only because all the ladies are dying to dance with you, Yankee."

He grinned. "Thought you'd like the costumes. Told Mikey we'd stand out. The only Yankees in
a Confederate sea. Brilliant, huh?"

"You're behind these uniforms?" She plucked at the gold bars decorating his navy shoulders.

"Guilty as charged, ma'am. Mad?"

"Naw. You're in proper period costume. And you are a Yankee."

His grin faded as he twirled her. "You talk to Mikey?"

Rose missed a step, surprised at his swift subject change. "I've been busy with final details. He
has, too."

"Or busy with his new fan club?"

Rose shrugged as if she hadn't a care in the world. "Whatever."

"You need to talk."

"I'm talking."

Devon held her flush against him then resumed the normal dance pattern. "You need to talk to
Mikey and he to you."

"That squeeze was punishment for ignoring the Doctor's meaning?"

"Nope. I needed to drive a point firmly home, so to speak."

Her gaze narrowed on his. "Drive what firmly home to whom?"

"Talk to Mikey," he said as an answer.

"I've said everything." Too much, really.

"Stubbornness can only be taken so far."

Rose snorted. "I'm not stubborn. I admitted how I feel. You tell him if he can't or won't, he has
the problem. Not me."

"Why not tell him yourself?" He squeezed her a second time.

"I'm never speaking to him again." Rose broke from him, performed the required curtsy then left.

"Maul her like that again and I'll damn well take your--"

"You said you didn't want her. Taking that back?"

"Damned straight. Touch my Rose like a lust starved cretin again and I'll rip off your arms then
stuff them down your throat."

Devon laughed outright. "Okay, okay. I give you my solemn oath as a gentleman never to touch
your woman in lust again. About time you wised up. Past time. Like I've said for years."

"Dev, this is Caroline." Michael ignored the barbs and brought the woman behind him forward.
"Dance with her."

"Certainly." Devon swept the lady away before she could protest at the sudden switch in
partners. "You're Miss NC? It certainly was a grand year in this state."

Michael smiled then searched the crowded room nearly fifteen minutes before realizing she
wasn't there. He fought hoop skirts and side swords to the open French doors. There was no other
place she could have disappeared so fast. He walked further and further into the garden, away
from lights and noise.

Finally he found her.

In the far corner, among towering oak, pine and magnolia trees. Flocked by azaleas, mums and
gardenias. Bathed in moonlight and soft night air. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen.

Her dress was muted lavender silk and creamy white lace. Off the shoulder, displaying the barest
hint of creamier breasts. The skirt, as full as the Liberty Bell, showed off a waist as tiny as any
belle, southern, western or northern, could ever wish. Long white gloves covered her arms and
lent more elegance to her slim fingers. Honey shaded hair swirled around her head in tiny rope
curls. The barest make-up decorated her face.

Good God. So beautiful. All others disappeared around her.

He wanted her in jeans. Or just his shirt. Nothing save silky skin and glowing eyes as he entered
her hot welcoming depths.

He shook the erotic image away and made his voice remote with considerable effort. "Ms.
Anderson. A word with you."

Her shoulders jerked. "Yes?"

"You left several things you need to retrieve at my penthouse."

Her face revealed disbelief and most of all, raw hurt. "I can't leave a party I helped organize.
Especially with Maye not here."

"Either come with me or I'll drag you out in full view of every guest present. Do you want that
reported in the papers?"

She gaped, her wide eyes mirroring wariness and sudden question. His heart twisted. "You have
company coming, huh? My things might take explaining?"

He grasped her arm. "Think what you want. I'll drive."

She glared through a veil of tears and tried to shrug off his grip. He tightened it. "I'm perfectly
capable of driving myself."

His gaze swept her. He held back his admiration. "In that dress? I doubt it." He pulled her to the
back gate.

"I'm sure you can keep Miss Scarlet too busy to notice anything else. She doesn't seem to have
any problem with Yankee scrawl--"
"Cut the snide comments. The sooner we get this over the better." The gate creaked as he opened
it and led her through. His car awaited beside it.

They collected odd stares in the lobby. Michael felt the glances weren't because of their attire,
but because of the obvious waves of hostility radiating from her.

"I'll make this as quick as possible," she said as she sailed into his room. "I wouldn't want to put
you out or anything."

"Wait." He followed, hardly able to keep his eyes on her face instead of the delectable form he
knew the swaying silk concealed.

"Why?" Hands planted on her hips, she surveyed him like a wary mouse with a stalking cat.
"You're the one in a rush to have my papers and clothes gone before your company comes."

"Damn the papers and damn the clothes." He trapped her against the wall. "It's your doubts and
pain I want to take. Your memory and essence is all around me. I won't let you go again. Ever."

She shook her head and braced her hands against his chest. "If this is some game St. Lawrence,
I'm not in the mood to play."

"No game. No lies. No more excuses." He grasped her chin, raised her gaze to his. "I think I love
you, Rose Anderson."

She didn't breathe. For half a second. Then she stiffened and knocked his hand off her chin. "You
think you love me, huh? Well, I think you're full of--"

He grabbed her, saw her immediate wince and just as swiftly let go. "You have to believe me
when I say--"

"I don't have to believe anything. I'm not some silly simpering female impressed by your looks,
charms or money. Saying you think you love me isn't some joke you can pull to get me into bed."

"You think I'm joking?" He captured her hands, held them against desperate struggles to pull
free. "As God is my witness I've never said those words to anyone. Especially a woman."

"Right," she scoffed and tossed her head. "And as God is my witness I'll never be hungry again.
Let go, you. . . you. . ."

He held more firmly. "You will believe what I say."

"When hel--" His lips crushed hers, kissed with all his love.
When she finally began to soften, he lifted his mouth from hers. "I love you. I want to change
your last name. Soon."

Her body went completely still. "What?"

He released her. His hand trembled as he ran it through his hair. Too fast. He was making such a
mess of this. "We have to talk. Please sit down and we'll get started."

"No."

Panic filled him. "Why? Have I been too big of an ass?"

She moved toward his bedroom. "You saw the trouble I had in your car. I can't sit in this hoop."

He followed. Hope thawed his panic. "Feel free to take it off."

"Explain first. I've waited my whole life for this."

Her whole life? Please God, let that mean what he hoped. He took a few steps away yet
maintained her gaze. "My parents didn't want me. I hadn't seen them until they visited last night.
First time we've seen each other since I was four."

"Oh Michael." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. I realized what I should have seen long ago. All these years, I
thought something lacked in me, made me unlovable to anyone since even they didn't want or
love me."

"Dear Lord," she breathed and he knew she understood. "That's why you pushed me away. Why
you treated me like dirt."

"I was a bastard. I didn't feel worthy of you, of your love. Can you ever forgive me?"

She glided to him in a rustle of billowing silk. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why did you hurt
me?"

He smoothed a hand across her cheeks. Her tears spilled like rain across his palm. He felt open,
exposed as never before. "I've never told anyone. Not Mac. Not even Devon. But I want you. I
need you. As surely as I need air to breathe or water to drink or--"

"A site to restore," she finished and cupped his face. "What made you realize it wasn't you?"

"They only came to ensure their unblemished public image. Not out of love. They aren't capable
of love."
Her gaze held his, took, felt every ounce of his pain. Hurting with him, for him. Gave him the
strength to go on.

"I don't want to be like them." He placed fingers still damp with her tears over her lips. "Can you
ever forgive me? Do I have your love?"

"Don't you know?"

"I want you to tell me."

"What did you think I meant when I said I didn't ever want you to leave?"

"Can't you say it? Have I killed it by hurting you so badly?"

She smiled, so soft, tender, understanding. "Let me show you."

He shook his head. "I need you to tell me. With words. Please."

She smiled again, features alive with all her generous heart. "I love you, Michael St. Lawrence. I
have since you tackled me on that dusty ballroom floor. The first time, that is."

Tears washed his eyes. He pulled her tight against him. "Please tell me again. I'll never get tried
of hearing it from you."

She snuggled in as close as her clothes would allow. "Tell me when I make you mad or happy.
And everything in between. Don't shut me out or push me away ever again. Please."

All he'd put her through, the pain, the doubts and this was all she asked? He felt blessed beyond
belief. "I promise not to push you away again. To share everything I feel with you."

"I promise the same."

He swallowed. "Okay. Here's a last confession. I used to own Richards, the firm that fired you.
But this was long before you went to work for them and I'd have never let them blacklist you or
even put you through all that--"

"Shh, I know."

He stared at her. "You know?"

She shrugged. "It's a well known fact. And truth told, one of the main reasons I wanted to work
there. I thought Richards knew quality, since you'd helped them so much. Obviously, they don't."

"You aren't upset? Or mad at me?"

"For what? You aren't responsible for their actions. I don't blame you for what happened to me.
Any other confessions?"

He simply shook his head, too amazed, too grateful to do anything else.

She had none of the same hesitation. "Let me show you how much I love you." She traced his
lips with the tip of her tongue.

He shuddered, yet managed to speak. "There's something else."

She laughed. "I love you. I love you. I--"

He shifted a finger over her lips. "I need to say this."

All joy fled her expression. She pulled back and stared at him with haunted eyes. "You want me
to admit everything don't you?"

Chapter 32

"What?"

Rose took a deep breath. "I didn't love Louis. I only thought I did."

"You don't need to tell me," he said in a quiet, steady voice. His gaze never faltered from hers,
never lost its glow of love.

But she had to tell him. No more secrets, no more things between them. Ever. "Yes I do. We
went out, dinner, a movie, came back to my apartment. He wanted sex. I refused. We argued."
She tried to turn away.

He stopped her. His hands held hers, anchored her in the present instead of the past.

Gave her the strength to go on. "The phone rang. While I answered it, he stole my designs. He
knew I was planning to show them to our boss and the Governor the next morning."

"He claimed them." Rage mingled with disgust on his face.

Rose nodded, so glad those emotions weren't directed at her she almost broke. "By the time I
figured out what he'd done, it was too late. Seems he also had this thing with one of the board
members. Cousin to the Governor, big campaign contributors. I demanded an inquiry, but with
him--"
"Backed by all that, you didn't have a chance." He drew her close. "No wonder you resented me
when I first arrived."

"Not resented," she muttered against his broad chest. "Feared."

"What?" He held her away, stared at her in amazement.

"I was afraid of what you made me feel. Louis told me. . ."

"What did he say? Tell me."

She forced her gaze to his, let him see all fears, all doubts, just as he had with her. "He said I
didn't know the first thing about how to be a real woman or what it took to keep a man satisfied.
That I never would."

Michael cursed and gathered her close. "Then I go and make all these cracks after we made love.
Good God, I'm sorry."

"We both said things we didn't mean. You made me feel all these beautiful things. But part of
me's still afraid he was right." Her gaze fell from his.

"There's something I need to tell you."

She knew it was all too good to last. He might love her, but she couldn't satisfy him. She
watched his face, whole body tensed and braced for the blow. "Just say it."

"Our first time, the morning you were in my bed. . ."

Shame and anguish flooded her soul. "I did something wrong? Something you didn't like or that
hurt you or just plain stupid?"

He locked their gazes. "Not you. Me. I wanted you so badly I didn't stop to think I should use--"

This was it? "Michael?"

"We have no fears besides pregnancy because--"

"Michael."

"I've always used protection and tested fine during annual--"

"Michael shut up! It's okay. Really. I know."

Her shout finally halted him. His eyes widened, searing beacons of piercing sapphire. "Are you
trying to say you're. . ? That we're. . ?"
"No." She laughed then frowned. "At least, I don't think so."

A matching frown touched his brow. "You don't know for certain?"

"Not yet." She shook her head. "I didn't take responsibility like I should have, either. So we're
both at fault. After all, it's my body."

"I'm glad you share it with me." His slow grin held enough knowledge to make her cheeks flush.
"And for the record my darling Rose, there's nothing more you need to know about keeping this
man satisfied."

Amazement filled her. He could say this with all the more experienced women he'd. . . well, had
in his bed? She opened her mouth to ask, but he kissed her instead.

As his lips slowly left hers, he leaned his forehead on hers and whispered, "You'd kill me if you
knew more."

She could barely breathe through the joy flooding her. "You look healthy enough to me."

"Are you?" He trailed a finger down her bare shoulder, over the silk covering her breasts. It
drifted to her waist, drew lazy circles. "No morning sickness?"

She shook her head. Heat sizzled through her blood. "But you better darn well mean that line
about changing my last name. Because if by some chance--"

"If you are I'll be the most delighted man on the face of the earth." He tugged at the long fastener
of her dress.

"You want children? Really?" She shivered as he brushed her spine. "I thought you said--"

"I want ours." He pushed the dress from her arms. "Desperately."

"And if I'm not?" She gave a little twist of her hips. The dress slid to the floor.

He groaned, his fingers clumsy on the strings of her hooped petticoat. "We'll get married and see
what we can do to get you pregnant. Soon." The ties finally came loose. He pushed her second
garment to join the first. "Good God, I love you."

She stood before him in nothing but a skimpy lace teddy and white gloves. His eyes flared and
breath quickened. She shook her head, still amazed she could do this to him, that he could desire
her.

And that he really, really loved her.

"Michael?"
"What?" He pulled off his blue uniform.

She helped, wanting to see him as he saw her. "I love you, too."

He crushed her, his arms silken bands of steel that made her soul sing. "I love you, my Rose."

The rest of their clothing melted like ice cream under a hot July sun. Exactly as their admissions
finally melted the barriers between them.

His kisses, hot, fast, desperate at what they'd so nearly lost poured like hard driving rain over her
shoulders, breasts, hips. She slid her hands over him, too. Searched. Grasped.

Yet she stepped out of arms when he would have laid her on the bed to join their bodies as
completely as their hearts and minds. He stared in disbelief as she picked up his crumbled shirt
and slipped it on. "Rose?"

"No interruptions this time, St. Lawrence. I'm putting the 'do not disturb' sign on the door and
taking that phone over there off the hook."

He laughed. "All right. Just don't be long. I can't stand it."

"Yes sir, General, sir." She saluted smart enough to make any military brass proud. His shirt rode
high on her thighs.

His eyes became bluer than any summer sky. Hotter, too. "You wear that shirt so much better
than I ever could."

"I'll let you wear something of mine sometime."

"I'd rather wear you. Be in you."

She trembled, halted at the doorway to grip the frame and take a breath to regain her shattered
balance. "I'll be right back for you to show me that particular fashion statement."

"See that you are."

Michael lay on the bed to wait. How absolutely beautiful she was. And desirable. And
compassionate. And strong. And forgiving.

Most of all, lovable. And loving.

All he could ever want and yet so much more. So much more than he deserved. He never thought
he'd be this happy. The closest he'd come was finishing a project and even that paled in
comparison. Devon would never let him live this down, never stop saying I-told-you-so.

A minute passed. Then another.

Michael frowned. What could be taking so long? The entire penthouse was silent. If she'd fallen,
he'd have heard. Had she met Devon in the hall? Was he giving her a bad time with his psycho-
abandoned child mess? If so, he'd slug the hell out of--

A muted scream filled the air.

He leapt up. "Rose?"

Only silence.

He refused to take a chance. He dialed the police and jerked on his pants. Fear gripped every
cell. He, Devon and Mac had believed Rose was safe after everything Detective Fogle told them
last night.

She should be safe. Devon and Mac occupied the only other room. Keys, held only by her and
the three of them, had to be used to make the elevator come this far. They were on the top floor.

A new desperation filled him, one stronger even than the need to bury himself in her silken body
had been. Weren't they alone? Wasn't she safe?

He hadn't even told her what they'd learned, what the police had uncovered. Or how beautiful
and perfect he considered not only her body, but her mind, her work, her spirit, her soul. So
many other things.

Would he ever get the chance to say even one?

Sloan MacKenna stopped. He tried to listen over the noise of too many people and too much
music. His wishful mind might be playing tricks. Wouldn't be unthought of, considering he'd just
witnessed a very interesting exchange in the garden.

There! Again. A fourth time.

"Dad?" Devon joined him, his face a study of concern. "Are you feeling all right? You look
kinda pale."

Sloan lifted one hand, fingers spread wide in the classic sign that signaled stop. "I'm working.
Shh."

After a few silent moments broken only by the hub of voices around them, Devon shifted from
foot to foot. "I think you should let me take you on back to the hotel now."

"Dear God. Is it possible?" Sloan ran his hand along the wall of the kitchen. He paused and
listened once again.

His son shook his head and muttered under his breath. "Dad?"
Again, Sloan raised his hand, listened, then limped to a large cabinet. He braced his shoulder
against the side and pushed. "Don't just stand there gawking. Help me."

With a half resigned, half impatient expression, Devon complied, swinging the cabinet forward
to reveal a door with a metal ring. "What are we looking for?"

Sloan pulled the ring. The old wooden door groaned as it inched open. The tiny room was
completely dark. "Give me your pen light."

"Good thing I always carry this, on duty or not." Devon handed over the small flashlight.
"Course I feel like I should do some heavy analysis of your--"

"Quiet." Sloan aimed the feeble beam. The sliver of light touched thick walls, bulky stored
objects--

The still figure on the floor.

Sloan dropped to his knees. He lifted her limp body to check for a pulse, held his own breath
while he waited.

"My God," Devon whispered beside him. "Is she alive?"

"Go call an ambulance." The professional in Sloan took over when the man in him faltered. "And
the police department. Ask for Jim. Tell him to get over to Mic's immediately."

"This is--"

"Maye Anderson. Mic and Rose need to know what's happening."

"You think whoever did this--"

"Will try again for Rose. For God's sake, go! Don't just stand there! She needs help. They all do."

Devon took off at a run. Sloan pushed the tangled hair away from Maye's eyes. "Maye? Come
on, honey. I'm here. I've found you. You're safe. Open those baby blues and say something else."

Maye stirred. A faint moan passed over her bloodless lips.

Sloan shook her. "Come on, Maye. You called out a minute ago. I have to know. Tell me who
locked you up so I can warn Mic and Rose."

Rose's name seemed to revive her. She stirred again, tiny movements slight, yet giving him hope.

"Rose needs us. She's in danger. Tell me how to help her."

"R-Rosy," came her hoarse call. "He's obsessed with her. Rosy."
"What about Rose? Who's obsessed?" Sloan shook her again, a tad harder. "Are you saying a
man did this? A man we know?"

"Rosy knows him so well. He's obsessed. Wants to. . . " her voice trailed away and she fell limp
in his arms once again.

And suddenly Sloan knew. Dear God.

"Help!" he yelled above his own rising dread. "Hang on, Maye. We'll save them. Nuts and hell
on earth, will someone get in here and help me!"

Anger flooded Devon as he ignored his father's calls, ran through the hall and out the door. So
they'd gone back to Mikey's penthouse. How long ago? Ten minutes? Twenty? No matter. He'd
catch them.

Mikey still hadn't a clue.

Michael's eyes skimmed every corner of the den. Empty. The balcony draperies whipped into the
room. He bolted to them, almost stepped through.

"No," Rose said, whether to him or not it didn't matter. Her urgent voice made him stop. He
didn't know what was happening. Charging in like a bull in a china shop could do more harm
than good.

He hid in the draperies. Darkness surrounded them, made it nearly too black to see. The light
from the room behind him was the only illumination onto the hellish balcony scene.

Rose stood by the railing. Her hair and his shirt billowed in the strong, skin chilling breeze.
Someone loomed slightly to one side of her. A figure Michael knew well.

But not as well as he thought.

"You're the one trying to kill me?" Rose stared at him, willed her eyes not to glance where she'd
glimpsed Michael. She'd placed the sign on the door then seen the blowing draperies. The
shadow had grabbed her, forced her out here.

"And you thought Annie was. Fool."

Rose kept her eyes on his despite what she saw, what she could now sense. The blackness of his
soul. The insanity. All this time so carefully hidden behind a mask of friendliness. "Why?"

A foul smirk that couldn't be called a smile twisted his lips. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Your mother didn't tell you?"

Her eyes felt too big for her face as she stared at him. "How do you know Maye's my mother?"

"Any idiot can put two and two together. Except you, of course."

Rose closed her eyes. He was right. She'd been an idiot. About so many, many things.

"That frivolous shit won't work, you know."

She opened her eyes. "What?"

"Your pathetic attempts to pray. It's too late now." He came closer, the gun in his hand huge to
her terrified eyes.

She backed away, pressed fully against the waist-high railing. "I don't understand."

"No, you never did. I used to pray, too. Pray you'd finally wake up and see what was right in
front of you. But you never did. So now I have to make you understand. Then you can die." He
smiled at her, dark eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Oh, and by the way, I certainly hope your
affairs were in order with Maye. But they weren't, huh?"

The pounding nausea brought with his words nearly choked her. "Why? What have you done to
her?"

He shrugged, as unconcerned as brushing away a nagging gnat. "You should thank me for not
killing her outright."

"What did you do to her?" Rose repeated.

"I kept her living in the cellar where I nearly killed you with those bugs. Had to keep her
drugged up and unconscious, of course, so no one would know she was there. She couldn't tell
about me. It's a much better surprise this way. Don't you think?"

Her mind struggled to accept, to comprehend what he was saying. None of it made any sense.
She started with the most important. "Is she still there now? Alive?"

"Yes." The figure grinned, made her shudder at the maliciousness in his eyes and face. "I'll finish
her after I finish with you. And St. Mikey. Make her suffer more that way, knowing she failed to
protect her precious little daughter and the architect she thinks is so angelic. Like I said when
you were first gracious enough to join me out here."

Rose shuddered, remembering how he said if she screamed again he'd shoot the moment Michael
appeared. Shoot to kill. "Okay. Let's talk about all this."

"It's too late for talk."

"But I need to understand. You said so yourself."

He cocked the gun then waved it at the balcony doors. "Yeah, I suppose you do. Okay. What do
you want to know? But make it quick. I have a party to get back to."

"Why did you lock Maye up? What has she ever done to you?"

"She found something she wasn't supposed to."

"Like what?"

His eyes seemed to turn pure black. "Something I made for you."

"Made for me?" Rose gasped. A horrible, crushing sensation surged in her lungs. "Dear Lord.
You planned the accidents at Huntington House. You shot Annie. And you also--"

"Stabbed that PI. Yes. Took great delight in both, too. Annie, little bitch, wouldn't turn her high-
falooting eyes my way again after that one night we spent screwing each other's brains out in her
apartment." He glanced at her, let his eyes trail up and down her body. "I pretended she was you.
Does that turn you on?"

It turned her stomach, Rose thought as she looked away. Oh Lord, oh Lord, all this time. She'd
been so blind, so stupid.

Now Annie was dead. Sloan had almost died. And Maye. . .

He laughed softly. "Nothing to say? Same as her. Not even a see-you-around-babe when we
finished. Course, it wasn't nothing to really brag about, but I'll tell you. She was hot. Made a man
feel like a real man. She even licked my gun when I told her let's play cops and robbers. Dumb
bitch thought it was a game right up to the time I put the barrel in her mouth and pulled the
trigger."

She was going to be sick, Rose thought. She fought the nausea bubbling in her throat, fought to
stay in control. Her instincts told her to run, to scream, to shout at Michael to help her.

Her heart told her this was all her fault and up to her to settle. So many had already been hurt.
She couldn't bear if Michael was, too.

"You were supposed to think St. Mikey shot her and run as far as you could get from him," he
continued. "But you didn't."

She swallowed, willed her knees to stop shaking and her throat to release the words. "So you
stabbed Sloan MacKenna?"

"Thought your mother did it, huh?" He laughed again. It gave her more goose bumps than the
steadily rising cold breeze. "I didn't really want to kill him or believe me, I certainly could have."

"Then why did you stab him?"

He shrugged. "He was getting too close. Like you were to St. Mikey. Putting him out of
commission separated you from St. Mikey. Worked like magic, huh?"

Rose shook her head. "But why kill any of them? What did they ever do to you?"

He laughed harshly, more cold than the dread churning tidal waves in her stomach. "What did
they ever do to me? Without their interference, you'd be mine. All mine."

Rose trembled more when he suddenly stopped laughing, stopped even smiling, her throat,
despite her best efforts, almost too blocked to say anything further.

"Too bad no magic will work for you now. Want to see St. Mikey die before you?"

Chapter 33

"Where are we going?" a Scarlet clone dressed in flaming crimson asked in a giggly, very
drunken whisper. "And what was in that bottle you handed me in the garden?"

Her companion pulled her up the stairs then glanced around to make certain the hall was deserted
before yanking her ahead of him into a dark bedroom. "Gin, of course. Society conscious Mrs.
Greenworthy doesn't approve of alcohol at her parties. Aren't you glad I brought my own?"

'Scarlet' giggled again, so tipsy she swayed when she tried to stand still, her back facing him.
"Yeah. I'm even gladder we're here. Sure my hubby won't find us?"

"Positive." He tugged up her tight red skirt and nudged her towards the bed at the same time.

"But you said that before, that time that police Capt'n caught us at the Governor's--"

"I took care of him too, didn't I? Now shut up and help me lift this damn costume out of the
way."

"And my husband don't know where I am?"

"No one knows. He won't find us. Neither will my wife. No one's up here. Just us."

She squealed when his hands discovered her lack of underwear. "Well, if you're certain-- But just
a quick one. And don't touch my hair. It took forever to get it like this."

He didn't need her hair. He bent her over, ripped down his trousers and showed her all he needed
to touch.
She screamed, clutching at his thighs as he rode her hard from behind. "Ohh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Harder."

He gladly complied, knowing from past experience it wouldn't take long. He'd taken her to the
garden, got her drunk and dragged her here for the excitement, the thrill of having sex right
under all those holier-than-thou, so-called history buffs' noses.

"Ohh yes. Don't stop. I hear sirens you're sooo good."

He wasn't about to stop. Yet he heard the sirens, too. What in the world? Well, whatever was
making all that screeching noise outside the window, it'd wait a couple more seconds. Speaking
of noise. . . "Not so loud. Want someone to come in and--"

"All I want is you to come. Now!" 'Scarlet' screamed, then bucked wildly, finishing both of them
none too soon. He barely had time to shove her on the bed and yank up his pants before the door
behind them burst open.

A policeman stood in the doorway. One hand swatted at the wall until it encountered the light
switch. The other clutched his aimed gun straight ahead as light flooded the room. "What the hell
is going on in here?"

The man tilted his head at a regal angle. "How dare you question me! Explain who you are and
why you have that weapon pointed at me before I write you up and assign you permanent desk
duty!"

His furious tone had the desired effect. The officer swallowed and quickly fumbled his gun back
in his holster. "I-I'm Officer Conn, sir. I-I just joined the force today. Detective Fogle told me
you- you would meet me tomorrow once you returned from you- your vacation. I'm sorry that I--
"

The man waved his hand, interrupting the stammered reply. "I meant what are my officers doing
here? Is there a problem?"

Officer Conn nodded. "Yes sir. Someone named Sloan MacKenna called in an attempted murder
and--"

"Sloan MacKenna?" the Chief of Police cut in. He heard his sharp, edged with hate tone and
quickly composed himself. "He called in what? Why wasn't I informed?"

"An attempted murder, sir. Said get here right away and also send units to some penthouse hotel
suite downtown." The officer shrugged. "I don't know why you weren't informed, sir. My
sergeant told me to come up and check these rooms. When I heard a scream I thought--"

The woman giggled. The Chief shifted so he blocked more of her from Officer Conn's view. "I'm
sure you did what you thought right. I'll accompany you downstairs so I can take over the
investigation." He moved forward.
Officer Conn started to back up, then halted, sniffing the air. "Do you smell something, sir?"

"No." The Chief shoved him from the room.

"What about the lady, sir? Should I send someone to attend her?"

"No, she's just a little dizzy. Tell me more about this attempted murder. You say one Sloan Mac-
-"

"Excuse me sir." Officer Conn darted down the hall to throw open the door. A closet of
smoldering rags and infant flames with thick black smoke poured out, encircled him and rapidly
filled the hall. "Chief! We've got a fire, too!"

Rose's entire body turned to a block of solid, frozen ice. He wouldn't-- he couldn't-- "But why
Michael?"

He spat, barely missed her bare toes. "I hate him, that's why. I'd like to gut him before your eyes,
smear you with his blood and let you both watch me lick it off before I kill you. I kept the knife I
used on your PI. And you know what I did to him."

Panic with deep, sharp claws replaced the dread mangling her insides. Her stomach almost
heaved beneath the onslaught. She had to save Michael. Whether she died or not. He must live.

He laughed again, observing her no doubt dead white pallor. "Sickens you to think of his blood,
huh? You didn't mind screwing him, having him and his seed spread all inside and on you,
though. After that, what's a little blood?"

"No." Rose tried to sound calm and unaffected, yet the word moaned through her fear stiffened
lips.

"No? Sure you really mean that?"

She nodded, unable to reply through her mind's eye of a suffering, mortally stabbed and bleeding
Michael.

"Don't need the blood to want to screw him again, then? Whore!" His face was so close to hers
she smelled his rancid breath. "Do you like doing him? I could show you something much much
better."

Before she even tried to contemplate this latest threat, he laughed and continued his tirade.

"But you're not worth it. A slut off the street is better than you. You probably didn't give the
bastard half what he thought when you finally spread your legs. Frigid little bitch. Always acting
so sweet and innocent."
She couldn't answer, couldn't push him away.

"I hope he tore into you like a Mac truck. I hope it hurt real, real bad. 'Course, he's not half the
man I am. I'd have made you bleed and walk bowlegged for days." He leaned back, watched her
with eyes that seemed to take malicious glee in her unsteadiness.

He laughed different now, deeper, throatier. So very, very insane. "Still nothing to say? Oh, I
forgot. You were saving it. Little Miss Touch-Me-Not. You think you can't be blamed for not
knowing anything about pleasing a man, right?"

Rose stayed silent. She opened her eyes to face him, attempted to block his hate-filled phrases
from her mind. He was trying to make her angry, she realized. Hoping she'd lunge and do
something stupid.

Well, she wouldn't. Not with Michael's life on the line.

"Gonna make that poor bastard die without having a last taste from a real woman, aren't you?"

She took a breath, tried to calm her racing pulse. "Michael dies for making love with me?"

"Making love? How sweet to term it that. How many times was it? Once? Twice? Did you come,
too? Probably not. You just let him shoot off without--"

"Stop!" Rose cried softly, unable to let him twist something so beautiful into something so ugly.
"You can't kill him just because he and I made love."

"Oh, there's more than just screwing you. Although that's really more than enough. There's the
other attempts he stopped."

"What other attempts?"

"Besides the few you were lucky enough to find?"

She nodded. He grinned like a child telling Santa what to bring for Christmas.

"I poisoned your food, rigged the stair railing to collapse, wired a couple of light sockets with
enough juice to shock the life from you-- dozens of other little surprises he stumbled across and
fixed before you had the chance to encounter them."

She shook her head, dazed at the extent. And how Michael had protected her. "I didn't know."

"Didn't think I was capable?" His grin faded. "I'm capable of a lot more. As you'll soon see. I'd
kill you alone for the dog."

"Dog? The stray?"

He nodded, dark eyes bright with madness. "The mutt was rabid. He'd have bit you. You'd have
died a nice, lingering, painful death. Only you killed him first. You. And that damn architect."

Rose shook her head. "Not us. You made that beam to fall."

"Shut up!" He waved the gun mere inches from her face. "Doesn't matter now anyway. I
congratulate myself on the best accident."

You put the hives in the cellar," Rose guessed.

His grin returned. "You told me you were allergic to hornets, gave me the perfect way. Stroke of
genius on my part, ehh?"

"Brilliant. I thought you were my friend. And Michael's friend."

"I'm such a great actor nobody so much as guessed it was me."

"But none of this is Michael's fault," Rose tried to reason, though she knew it impossible.

He shrugged. "St. Mikey still dies. Same as you."

He took a step toward her. Rose blurted out the only thing she could to stop him. "You still
haven't really told me why yet."

He stared at her. "Damn you to hell and back. I stood by you, always made sure to be there. Do
you get it now? Huh? Do you?"

She risked his anger by shaking her head.

He leaned into her face again, sprayed her with spit as he screamed, "I loved you, God damnit!
And you turn to some asshole New Yorker who's not half the man I am!"

He loved her? No, she thought as he stepped back, his face bright red and whole body shaking
with anger. He didn't love her. He was obsessed. She'd never known, never would have guessed.

Now Michael might pay the price.

He shrugged and glanced over the railing to the street far, far below. "None of that matters now."

"I'm sorry," Rose whispered, driven to say something. "I never meant to hurt you or--"

"You're no better than your bitch of a partner. You never gave a damn about me. Now you don't
want me to give you the punishment you so richly deserve. You think saying you're sorry will
make everything okay." His shoulders slumped.
Lord help her, Rose thought as she stared at him. She did feel something for him. She'd
considered him a friend from the first day she met him. She reached out a trembling hand. "I
want to help you. Please let me."

His laughter rang out, filled the dark air with raucous madness. "Oh, so now we're at the 'I'll help
you' stage, ehh? Forget it. As fun as this all is, I really must kill you now. Then St. Mikey."

"How?" The shudder shook her, despite her attempt to control it. She couldn't imagine Michael
dead. Never. She had to save him.

Somehow.

"I'll shoot him, make sure he's dead then call some buddies from the police station. I'll say you
fired at him in a jealous rage because he was dancing with Miss North Carolina at the party."

"How will you explain being here to see such a thing?"

"Lots of people have seen me with you and St. Mikey. Think anyone will question a friend
dropping by to congratulate you both on the house's success?"

"Someone will ask--"

"Why I didn't step in and save one or both of you?" He shrugged. "Police understand not all
murderers can be saved. Especially the insanely jealous ones. No one will question St. Mikey's
death with me telling everyone you killed him."

Rose swallowed. "How will you kill me?"

"You'll throw yourself off this balcony before I can stop you. Anything else?"

Rose took a deep breath of night air. "Let Michael live. Say I jumped on my own. He doesn't
know about you. He already thinks Annie was the one doing all the sabotage. Leave it that way."

His eyes went wide. "You'd die for him?"

"In a heartbeat," Rose whispered. She'd do anything to save Michael's life. It was her fault he
was in danger. She wouldn't, couldn't, let him die.

"Oh what touching devotion," his voice was hard with mockery. "That still doesn't give me a
good enough reason not to kill him."

"With his father and Huntington House in all the papers, his death could bring attention you don't
want. Let him live."

"And just how am I supposed to explain your death?"

Rose shrugged. "You don't. Watch me fall and then just leave. No one has to know you were
even here."

He rubbed his gun along his chin, dark eyes gleaming. "If he doesn't join you in death within a
week, he'll live. What else?"

He didn't fool her. He'd kill Michael anyway. Unless she stopped him. "You're not part of the
IRA then?"

He tilted his head. "The what?"

Rose shook her head, so cold she barely felt her feet. "The IRA. Surely you've heard of them."

He grinned. "Oh, you mean those papers I was reading while waiting for you to come back. Nice
family history. I think I'd get along great with your Dad's friends."

Yes, he probably would, Rose thought.

"We'll throw those papers with you, give the cops another explanation why you jumped. Insanity
in the family."

Her chin rose a fraction. "You didn't answer my question."

He came closer, close enough to nuzzle the gun over her cheek and trench a path through her
skin. "Such defiance. I saw that the very first time I met you. Unlike Annie, you've got guts."

She didn't move, kept her gaze locked on his.

He stroked down her cheek a second time. "I like guts in sluts. Perhaps I should take time to
show you exactly what a whore can receive from someone as magnificent as me."

She shook her head and pushed the gun from her face. She didn't give herself time to feel the
fear. "You won't touch me."

"Too true. Wouldn't want to soil myself with St. Mikey's leftovers." He gave that evil twist of his
lips again. "I hate even to touch your body to throw you off this balcony. Relieved?"

She almost shuddered. "Sure. You won't rape me. Only kill me."

He laughed again. "Sense of humor, too. So certain I won't. . ."

Rose nodded without pause, standing completely still even as he fondled her neck, breasts and
belly with his gun in an obscene mimic of a lover's circling caress. "You won't touch me and you
can't shoot me."
He took the gun away, pointed it back at her head. "Your death would have looked like an
accident if you'd died at the project."

"And since I didn't?"

"I could always say you turned the gun on yourself."

Where were those blasted policemen? "You don't have to do this."

He shook his head, his face a cold sneer. "You're really stupid. That shrink crap ain't gonna save
you. Just shut up and die nice."

Like hell she would, Rose thought even as he cocked the weapon and aimed for her heart. She
fought back a scream. Keep calm and make him talk. Policemen were always late. If she could
just maneuver around a little. . .

"Let's see if you can fly, Rosy Posy. Shall we?"

Chapter 34

"What is the problem out here?" a voice shouted above all the others from the crowd of
onlookers. "Maye Anderson? What on God's green earth are you doing dressed in those rags?
This is an important social occasion. Surely you realize that. Your hair looks like it hasn't seen a
brush, good shampooing or an expert rolling in a month. And--"

"Nuts and hell on earth, woman!" Sloan exploded, a headache forming from her constant
magpie-like chattering. "Shut up!"

She glared at him. Her spine stiffened. Her face hardened into a mask of shocked sensibilities.
Sloan might have chuckled had he not been so worried about Maye. "I'll have you know I'm
Daisy Greenworthy, the vice-president of this society. There are many ladies present, whether in
ear shot or simply here in the house or on the grounds. Kindly watch your tone and foul language
or I shall be forced to ask you to vacate these premises."

"Oh, I'm leaving all right." Sloan stood. He'd never been so glad to leave another person's
presence as he was right now. "Soon as these fine gentlemen arrange transport for this lady."

An EMT who'd probably known this overblown battleax way too long grinned. "She's finally
stabilized enough to transport. Feel free to ride with us, Mister Mac."

"I demand to know what happened before you transport her anywhere," she cut in. "She is an
important member of--"
"She was locked in the cellar," Sloan growled, wishing the rescue people would hurry.
"Anything else?"

He regretted asking the minute she opened her mouth again. "There most certainly is. Who
invited you? I do not recall seeing your face before. I know all my society members, their
husbands and their sons and you definitely do not fit in any of those categories. Nor are you a
state representative. And why are you not wearing a costume? Surely you were informed this
party requires the appropriate attire. Furthermore--"

Shouts and the rustle of dozens of running feet filled the passage in the wake of Officer Conn.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please listen. We need you to leave by all available exits as
swiftly as possible."

Sloan studied his face. A wave of sympathy swept him. The officer was new, scared and out of
his league. Breaking up society parties and going head-to-head with belligerent militants in
matron's clothing definitely wasn't covered at the academy.

"Wait just one minute!" She pushed to his side. "Who are you and by what right do you order my
guests from my house at my party?"

He spared her only one brief glance. "I'm Officer Conn. And I--"

"Have much to learn about manners and how to address your elders!" she interrupted. "No one is
going anywhere until I say the party is over and it most definitely is not anywhere near to being
finished. We have not even made the formal presentation of the dedication plaque."

"Excuse me, but ma'am," Officer Conn broke in. Sloan just had to grin at his persistence.
"There's--"

"Just because Maye Anderson had a tiny little accident and accidentally became locked in a
closet is no cause to come running in here upsetting my party and frightening my guests. I shall
speak with the Governor about you, young man, officer of the law or not. Then I shall--"

"There's a gol darned fire upstairs!" Impatience got the best of the young officer. "We need to--"

The rest of his words were cut off in the wild scramble of people shoving and fighting to get out.
Sloan launched himself over Maye to prevent the gurney from being overturned. Through the
mass, he noticed the Loudmouth's stern expression and determined eyes.

Hut oh.

She marched with all the dedication and purpose of military cadets on parade to the kitchen table
where a huge crystal bowl of punch sat. She hefted it into her arms as if it weighted nothing and
strode with unflappable confidence through the frantic, pushing, screaming crowd lining the
halls. Sloan and everyone else couldn't help but follow her progress up the stairs and toward the
source of the thick black smoke.
Officer Conn watched, his mouth open as wide as it would go, his young face a mirror of
everyone's shock and disbelief.

She threw a steady stream of bright red punch onto the flames that shot into the air. With much
hissing, crackling and defeated sizzling, they subsided until they were almost out.

She turned to glance at the gaping crowd below. "Why are you all just standing around with your
mouths open? Bring me that other punch bowl. Then send everyone back in and have those
overpaid musicians start to play again. This is a party and we're here to celebrate."

No one said a word. No one could. Sloan almost applauded.

"You there," she pointed an accusing finger at Officer Conn. "Causing all this ruckus over one
little bitty fire and a woman accidentally locked in a closet. Redeem yourself and bring up that
other punch bowl. Now. Flora, Thelma and Lucille. You set to work opening some windows and
airing the smoke from these rooms. Well? Quit standing around staring at me like a bunch of
frightened sheep. Move!"

Officer Conn closed his mouth and did the only thing he could. He brushed past Sloan and got
the other punch bowl.

Sloan looked down at Maye. She was so pale he could see every blood vessel in her face and
neck. He'd have quite a story to tell her when she woke up and while she recuperated. Quite a
story indeed.

He helped the EMTs push the gurney out the door.

"There," Daisy said a few minutes later as she handed the empty container to the young officer.
The fire department was on its way, though they really weren't needed. Smoke remained but the
fire was completely out.

"All done. And that is why I do not allow alcohol to be served at my parties. One never knows
when one might need to use the punch for purposes other than drinking." She pulled a lace
handkerchief from the sleeve of her belle-shaped gown and wiped her hands.

The young officer with the deplorable manners simply shook his head and carefully set the
empty bowl aside. "Wow. Incredible. I've never seen anything like that, ma'am. May I shake
your hand?"

"Certainly." Daisy's ample chest swelled even more as she and the policeman shook hands. The
growing crowd applauded with great enthusiasm.

She made a small curtsy, smiled and waved to her new fans. "We Southern woman are not
simply decorative, you know. Let me tell you about my great-great grandmother on my father's
side. She fought off an entire brigade of that devil Sherman's Union soldiers when they tried to. .
."

"Poor lad," the Governor murmured to Senator Helms as they watched her lead Officer Conn to
the ballroom and insist he dance with her. And she never once broke off her story of the brave
suffering her long-dead relative had endured.

"Poor lad nothing," the Senator retorted quietly. "He'll be able to escape soon enough. We're
going to have to listen to that woman and this same tale over and over and over again."

"And her part in it will grow bigger and bigger each time." The Governor smiled. "When I first
heard that story about the Yankees, it was a company her relative fought. Now it's a brigade. It'll
be the entire Union army before this night's over. And mark my words, someone will want us to
make a Daisy Greenworthy day as soon as--"

"Excuse me," said a soft voice to their right. They turned as a gray-haired lady gowned in black
satin executed a perfect curtsy and smiled as royally as Queen Elizabeth. "I'm also one of the
historical society's members and as such, I believe we need to have a day proclaimed by the state
as soon as possible honoring Daisy for her heroic actions. . ."

The two statesmen exchanged a secret look and settled back for a long night of Daisy
Greenworthy Day campaigns.

***

Rose swallowed, wishing to curl up next to Michael and pretend this was all just a nightmare.
"You won't get away with this."

"If you're waiting for the cops or St. Mikey to save you, forget it. He's a poor excuse I could take
one handed. And after you two left, a nice big fire broke out at Huntington House. The cops are
all over there trying to save the Governor and important, to them, people." He spat the words
with contempt.

Rose swallowed, feeling sicker. The beautiful house she and Michael had restored. Huntington
House. Her pride and joy. Destroyed. By this lunatic. He'd said Maye was in the cellar. Mrs.
Greenworthy, the crew, Sloan. Surely he wouldn't kill them all. "You set Huntington House on
fire? Why?"

He shrugged. "I knew it would bug you and keep the police force all tied up."

"But the people at the party may be trapped!" Rose said with desperation. "They could die."

"Some undoubtedly will. I don't care how many."

She blinked. "You really don't, do you?"

He shrugged once more and shoved the weapon into her chest. "Why should I? Long as you're
dead, it doesn't matter how many other idiots go with you."

Rose focused her gaze directly on his. "I won't let you kill me."

He laughed. "You think you can stop me? I'm a man, Rosy Posy. I'm superior to you."

Rose stood straighter. She gripped the railing tight enough to cut into her palms. "You aren't
superior to a fly. Or you'd have already succeeded in killing me."

"Bitch!" He slammed his fist into her face and drove her to her knees. "You'll beg to die before I
finish!"

Rose evaded his grasping, clawing hands and struggled back to her feet almost the minute she
fell. Her eyes widened. "No, Michael! Go back!"

Michael had stepped out when the figure first raised his hand. Witnessing the blow, seeing her
crumple beneath it made him spring forward with a low growl of rage.

The figure spun, gun aimed to fire. He pulled back the trigger.

Rose screamed with near madness herself. She threw up her arm under his.

The small, deadly weapon discharged.

Michael fell, his bare chest streaming blood.

Chapter 35

A policeman caught Michael's limp body, shouted, "Freeze!"

"No!" the figure screamed. He grabbed Rose and slammed the gun in another vicious slap across
her face. "You will die!"

Her head still swam from his first punch. The second, combined with worry, fear and guilt for
Michael, made her disoriented, slowed her reflexes almost to the point of total unresponsiveness.

He flung her against the wall, atop the railing. Off balanced, her body began to fall. Her hand
somehow still grabbed a thin section of railing even as she flew over the side.

She flailed in mid-air with nothing solid beneath or around but the rail she gripped in a frantic
hold tight enough to bend the iron.
He leaned over with a snarl of pure killing rage, hit at her fingers with the butt of the gun. She
hung on despite the pain, her body twisting continually in the cold dark emptiness surrounding
her.

Her hand slipped lower, where iron met stone foundation. Blood poured from numerous scrapes
along her fingers. With all her strength she held then spit in his eyes as he leaned further over.

He cursed viciously, lifted his hand to untangle her fingers--

Another shot filled the air. He stumbled and also tumbled over the edge.

Rose caught the shoulder seam of his blue jean jacket. She curled her knees to her chest, braced
them against the stone wall with numb feet. The wind howled like a living beast around them,
yanking, snapping at them, sapping her strength.

He clawed at her, tried to pull them both free. His jacket seam ripped, lowered him from her
chest to her bare thighs. But she didn't let go. She couldn't.

"Let go, you whore bitch!" Mark yelled, his face a mask of fury and desperation. His body jerked
and tugged with the strength of two dozen men. The hand that still held the gun slowly raised. . .

"No," Rose gasped, felt her strength ebb more under their weight and the fear of being shot, of
not being able to hold on. Of what Michael's streaming blood might mean. "You'll answer. For
everything."

"You'll go to hell with me!" He began to take aim at her face.

"No," she gasped once again and turned her head away. The wind blew her tears across her face,
froze them to her cheeks. She heard the police shouting above and the sound of an ambulance
far, far below. He had to answer for all he'd done. He had to!

But could she hold much longer?

She must know Michael would live. Even if she died. Yet her aching fingers cramped and
slipped off the railing.

"It's okay Rose." Detective Fogle appeared and grabbed her shoulders, his grip tight enough to
bruise. "We've got you. Got you both."

Two other officers helped pull Rose and her attacker back over the railing. Only then did she
release her strangle hold on his jacket. They quickly disarmed Mark and handcuffed him against
his violent struggles.

Jim Fogle helped her stand and dabbed at the cuts on her hands with a handkerchief. "Sorry we
waited so long. We heard him confess to murdering Annie and decided to see if he'd say more. I
had to hold Mike or he'd have broken away sooner." He glared at the murderer.
Mark glared back, not one ounce of fear or repentance in his eyes or on his face.

"Lucky for you the lady doesn't hold a grudge." Jim Fogle shifted again, his hand firm and secure
around her waist.

Mark spat at his face. "That's no lady. She's a whore. I'll kill you right along with her if you
don't--"

"Right. Sure you will." Jim exchanged a glance with his fellow officers. "Halloween always
brings out you loonies. Your case is no different."

"You go to--"

"Just let me warn you up front that being insane won't get you off, though. One confessed
murder. Several attempted ones, including a former policeman, a world famous architect, the
Governor, congressmen. . . Oh, the court's just going to love you."

Mark grinned and Rose shivered. He didn't look at all sorry. He looked. . . . happy. Almost
delirious. "Yeah? The media will, too. Especially when I escape and you can't find me." His dark
gaze turned to her. "Your days are numbered, bitch. Remember that."

Rose shook her head. Even now, knowing all he'd done, that he'd killed Annie, tried to kill Maye
and Sloan and her, and even Michael, she couldn't hate him. She pitied him. Lord, how sorry she
felt for him.

He'd never know love as long as he clung to his hate.

"Why"? she asked him softly, trying to understand, wanting so much for him to be the kind,
dedicated foreman she'd thought. "Why?"

He spat at her. "I hate you, you God damn whore. You think I liked all them orders you nagged
me constantly with? Having to be all 'yes Miss Anderson' this and 'of course, Miss Anderson'
that?" He spat again. "You slutty--"

"Get him the hell out of here before I--" Jim Fogle told his officers. He gripped her arm, tried to
lead her away.

She resisted. "You did all these things, committed murder all because you were angry I couldn't
love you back?" Guilt rushed through her, nearly drove her to her knees. "You could have told
me. We'd have worked something out, made some sort of different arrangements or--"

"You'd have let me kill you?" He gave that smile that wasn't a smile, but a sneer. "Why didn't
you just say so? You'd have saved us all some trouble. 'Course, I'd have still killed that bitch
Annie and your crazy mother. And I hope I've killed St. Mikey, too."
Rose turned away. She couldn't help him. No one could. Not now. Michael and Maye needed
her. She turned and walked away from the maniacal laughter behind her.

Jim Fogle walked by her side. "You okay Rose?"

Rose nodded, barely hearing him. Michael lay in a pool of blood. Blood. His blood. Spilled
trying to save her from a madman she'd trusted. She'd defended countless times.

She bolted the last few steps to his side. Fear stronger than when she faced Mark and almost
certain death ripped her heart into tiny, mauling pieces. "Michael?"

His beautiful sapphire eyes slid half open. He didn't speak or move.

"Please say something. Oh, God. Michael?" Rose knelt at his side, afraid to touch, to move, to
love him. Her fault. All her fault.

"You've got gorgeous feet. They look even better in my shirt," he whispered weakly. The wound
in his left shoulder, gaped and jagged, still bled unchecked.

She cradled his head and began to sob. She hugged him, unmindful of his blood or all the other
people. If he could joke, surely that must mean he'd be okay. "Why didn't you leave? Why?"

"And miss all this?" it was fainter, his voice muffled by pain and her cradling hands. "Couldn't
let you have all the fun without me. . ."

She straightened, looked at him anxiously. Eyes closed, handsome face twisted in pain. She'd
never forgive herself. Never.

"He's in shock, ma'am. That's why he's out," an EMT appeared beside her. "That and blood loss.
Please move over. I need to examine him."

She did as asked, wiped away her tears, waited tensely. The attendant gently probed Michael's
wound. He groaned once, lying utterly still. Some distant part of her mind heard Detective Fogle
read Mark his rights, heard Mark continue to curse her.

Another EMT joined them. She whistled softly and pulled out miles of white gauze. "Went
straight through. Lucky. Little lower, more to the left and. . ." she broke off, hearing Rose's
agonized cry.

She looked back at Michael. "Hey. This is that Architect from the papers. The one who's
restoring that old Hunt house and dating--"

Rose interrupted softly. "Will he be all right?"

The first EMT nodded. "Should be. Barring complications. A thorough exam, x-rays and some
nice new blood from the hospital will fix him up."
"Bravest thing I've ever seen," Jim Fogle knelt beside her, respect and awe open in his tone.
"You saved lives. Yours, Mike's and the one who didn't deserve your selflessness most."

"Michael's saved me often enough," Rose replied and ignored the rest. Her eyes never left
Michael's unconscious, motionless form. He'd never forgive her. He shouldn't. All her fault.

What had she done?

"You will die."

She looked up, watched dark eyes blaze with hate and deep, unforgettable revenge. Madness
beyond madness. She'd trusted him, worked beside him, called him friend.

Mark. The foreman of the construction crew she'd sworn several times could never attempt
sabotage on a project. The man she regarded as sweet with a harmless crush. The man she'd
trusted for years.

Learning how little she actually knew, how truly insane and hate eaten he was, made her feel all
the worse for dragging Michael into this entire mess. The guilt consuming her all the stronger.

She knew exactly what she had to do now.

"It's not over, Rosy Posy. It's not finished," Mark's sinister whisper chilled her already frozen
skin. "I promise you death. At my hand."

"He needs help," Rose whispered and glanced to Jim. The other officers shoved and pushed
Mark through the open balcony doors and out of the penthouse.

Jim nodded. "Lots. He'll get it, too. For the rest of his life." He helped her stand. Michael was
then prepared for a stretcher.

"Want to ride with us?" the first EMT eyed her legs Michael's shirt revealed, his gaze as
admiring as Jim Fogle's voice.

Rose's gaze followed his. The shirt, her arms, hands and legs were stained with blood. Some
hers. Most Michael's. Shed for her.

All her fault.

"I'll take her," Jim offered. "She needs to be looked over, too. Soon as she changes clothes.
Okay, Rose?"

Before she could answer, Devon materialized and grabbed her against him in a hug tight enough
to break ribs. "God, I'm sorry. I tried to get here sooner but--"

"You knew?" Rose stared beyond him as Michael was wheeled out. "It was Mark all the time?"
"No. Only when. . ." Devon released her to stare into her eyes. He frowned, his gaze traveling
from her face to her right arm. "Rose, does that arm hurt?"

Rose glanced down. Her arm was swollen as well as scraped and bruised. Only then did she
realize how much it hurt, the insistent throbbing. "It does now. Some. I didn't notice since
Michael--"

"God, to be loved like that," Devon muttered. "Mikey's one lucky dog." He cleared his throat and
spoke louder. "It's okay. You're safe. I'm here." He patted her back then turned to the detective.
"I'll take her, Jim. Dad's probably already there by now."

Jim Fogle nodded. A faint smile broke his serious demeanor. "I'll check by later, get statements,
clear up last things. Good to see you again, Dev."

Devon returned the grin. "Shame it's under these circumstances."

The detective motioned toward Rose. "Take real good care of her. She's one very fine, extremely
brave, compassionate lady."

"I know." Devon turned to Rose. "Get cleaned up, okay? Wouldn't want ole Mikey seeing you
like this. Might scare him. And be careful with that right arm. Call me if you need help." He
grinned, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. "I promise not to look, either."

Rose tried to smile back, failed and went to her room without a word.

Chapter 36

"I'm so sorry," Rose whispered the second she entered Maye's room.

"You're safe. That's all that matters." Maye smiled faintly, her blue eyes shadowed inside and
out.

"Shh." Rose's eyes filled with tears. "Don't talk. Rest."

"I need to tell you, to explain. So you won't hate me."

"I'd never hate you. You raised me, loved me, and stood by me. The fact you're my mother
instead of my aunt doesn't change any of that." Rose smoothed her gray hair back from her
bruised and swollen forehead. "If I learned nothing else from this whole mess, it's that I shouldn't
take those who love me for granted. Ever. I love you no matter what."
Maye tried to smile again, but the effort just seemed too much for her. "I do so love you, Rosy.
Didn't think you'd understand. About--"

"Shh," Rose urged again and shook her head. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

"But. . ."

"Now, Maye darling," Sloan said as he moved forward. "There'll be plenty of time for all this
later. Rose needs a doctor. Close those baby blues of yours so I can get her to finally agree to
leave you. Then maybe she'll get some rest, too."

Maye's forehead wrinkled as she studied her. "All right. I'll sleep if you promise to let the doctors
look at that arm."

Rose laughed, the first time she had in thirty-six hours. "I'll see the doctor now. I promise. So get
some sleep, okay?"

"I'll take good care of her," Sloan said before he leaned down to kiss Maye's sunken cheek. "I
promise, too."

Rose's eyes widened. When had her mother and Michael's P.I. become such friends? So close he
felt comfortable kissing her? Promising her? She turned to glance at Sloan. He merely grinned
and looked back at Maye.

Umm. What an interesting development this was. "Sleep well."

"I will." Maye proved just how weak she was by not arguing. She closed her eyes and settled into
sleep.

Rose and Sloan tiptoed from the room. She leaned against the wall outside after the door closed
behind them and gave a heart felt sigh. "Thank God she's alright. I can't ever repay you for
finding her in time."

"It's nothing," he brushed off her thanks. "I'm glad I found her too. Now let's go find the doctor
to look at that arm."

"I'm fine. Go back to Michael. He needs you more than I do."

"I don't think so." He took her left arm and led her down the hall to the waiting doctor at the
nurse's station. "Devon's with him."

"But--"

"I don't break my word. Especially when I've given it to a lady. And her daughter."
Rose studied him from the corner of her eye. "And when did you and my mother become such
good friends, hmm?"

Sloan grinned. "Oh, some time ago. She just likes to pretend she's a tough old bird who could
care less."

Rose laughed. "Like you aren't?"

Sloan continued to smile as the doctor motioned them toward the elevator. "She's a wonderful
woman, Rose. Quite unlike any I've ever met before."

"Or ever will again," Rose agreed. "So, I'm here with the doctor. Go on back to Michael now."

Sloan shook his head. "Nope. I promised to look after you and I will. Besides, I don't want to
start off on the wrong foot with Maye. She and I-- and you are going to be around each other for
a long time. With Mic too, of course."

I doubt it, Rose thought as they silently rode the elevator to the doctor's office. Sloan waited
outside while the doctor looked at her throbbing right arm. Unless something more developed
from the friendship he felt for her mother, she'd probably never see him again.

Her heart lifted with delight even as the doctor poked and nearly made her scream with pain.
Maye deserved some happiness. And Sloan was a fine, fine man.

Just like Michael was.

Rose sighed.

"Do you need something for the pain?"

She shook her head at the doctor. "No, it's okay."

"Now don't try to be brave," he admonished with a smile. "It never hurts to admit you're in pain
or to take something for that pain. I'll be right back with a nurse."

Rose didn't argue. No matter what he gave her, it'd never make her pain go away.

Nothing more could ever happen for her and Michael. Not now. Not ever. Her fault. All her fault.

And nothing could ever change that.

"I want to explain about your father, my sister and I," Maye said a few days later. "Why I didn't
tell you the truth as soon as you were old enough to comprehend."

Rose rested her bandage-supported arm on her mother's bed. "You don't have to, but I'd like to
hear the whole story."

Maye gazed into her eyes, sighed and began. "It all started when your Aunt Mary and I went to
college. There was this exchange student majoring in history all the girls were mad for. He was
young, handsome, extremely popular and had this wonderful, irresistible air of mystery."

Rose smiled. "Daddy had an air of mystery?"

"Yes. And he was so," Maye paused, seemed to search for just the right word, shook her head
and continued. "Unforgettable, I guess is the best way to explain it. Full of zest and spirit.
Determined to enjoy life. A logical, brilliant man."

Rose smiled at the fondness in her mother's voice.

Maye looked her dead in the eye. "It was the man behind all that, however, who won my heart.
Just as Michael won yours."

Rose looked away and swallowed. She hadn't seen Michael in days. Once she knew he'd be
alright, she just couldn't bring herself to face him, to see all the blame he must hold for her in his
eyes. "Go on with the story."

Maye opened her mouth as if to argue, shrugged and continued. "Mary and I decided we'd create
a woman so perfect Eric would have no choice but to fall for her."

Rose held up her uninjured hand. "Hang on. Create the perfect woman? How?"

Maye bent her head. "We had just arrived at the college. Only a few people knew we were twins.
We started hanging out where we knew he'd be. Never together, of course. And since there were
two of us, we never got tired and could argue any point without weariness."

"You've lost me again."

"Eric loved to debate. Anything. Issues. The meaning of life. Why the South lost the War." Maye
smiled and shifted against her hospital pillow. "You take after him in that."

Rose grinned then sobered. "So he thought you and Aunt Mary were the perfect debate partners
because you never got tired?"

"That-- and we could add fresh viewpoints after a bathroom break. That's when we switched off.
Eric thought Maye Anderson was a single, tireless woman able to debate one side for an hour,
then argue the other side for equal time. And she could win, leave him absolutely speechless. It
intrigued him at first, simply because a freshman, especially a female one, wasn't supposed to
win a debate with an upperclassman."

Rose laughed. Her father hadn't stood a chance against a determined Maye. Especially in an
argument.

"He asked me out. I accepted. It all happened so fast. We began to date more and more, got to
know each other."

"You fell in love with him, huh?"

Maye pulled her hand away and glanced out the window across from her bed. The sun had
finally returned, bathing all the white in the room in a golden haze of brilliance. "It was
impossible not to, Rosy. It was a fairy tale in reserve. Instead of the hero saving the damsel in
distress, I had the chance to save the hero. I was in love with him before I ever spoke the first
word to him."

"And Aunt Mary?"

Maye sighed and her whole body seemed to sink. "She kept up the pretense with me, yet she
didn't love him. Not like I did. But I was so jealous. Every time she was with him I badgered and
questioned her for hours after she came back. She began to resent it, which I don't blame her for,
and swore she'd never go out with him again. But then. . ."

Rose took her hand again.

"There was one last date because I had to finish a class assignment and didn't want Eric to be
alone. But I got so jealous and did something stupid."

"Why? What happened?"

"Mary and Eric went to a movie, then for a midnight swim while I was studying. I thought
they'd. . . ." Maye lowered her head. "I thought they'd made love."

"And that drove you nuts."

Maye nodded. "She wouldn't talk to me when she finally came back to our room. Her hair was
wet and she had this little smile like she had some big secret to tell. I stormed off to Eric's
apartment, determined to tell him the truth and make him choose which one of us he wanted.
Instead. . ."

Rose closed her eyes as images filled her mind. The couple in the picture she'd seen. So in love.
She was created in love that night. She opened her eyes, met Maye's gaze. "You got pregnant
with me."
"Yes. He told me about the IRA, too. He was so upset, so filled with hate and remorse over what
he'd been part of. I wanted him to know his past didn't matter, that I loved the man he was. When
I got back to the dorm, Mary admitted nothing had happened. She was so happy for me." Maye
blinked at tears. "She'd even found someone she thought might also become pretty special. Then
Eric started having accidents."

Rose felt her skin chill. No. It wasn't possible. "Accidents?"

"A marble statue nearly fell on him, the sauna was turned to high and the door locked while he
was in there, a gun that was supposed to be a prop in his history class fired and the bullet just
missed him."

"You thought it was the IRA?"

"It was. Only he didn't want to believe it any more than you do. Mary insisted we tell Eric the
entire story before something really did happen to him. And there was something else I needed to
tell him."

"About me."

Maye nodded. "Yes. About you. I hoped if he knew about you, if he realized he didn't have to
die, he'd want to live. To go to the police and be safe. I wanted him to take the love I offered and
make a life with me. And our child."

"But?"

"It was mid term time. Mary finished her exams ahead of me. We devised this plan. She'd
pretend to be me one last time and drive with Eric to a secluded cabin near Biltmore we'd rented.
I'd come after my exams and together, we'd reveal we were twins, tell him the entire story. Mary
would leave and then I'd tell him about you and beg for his forgiveness and understanding. Only
on the way--"

"The car crashed. And both of them were killed."

Maye nodded. Tears overflowed onto her cheeks. She choked when she tired to speak, then
turned away to sob in broken gasps.

Rose rubbed her shoulders, murmured soft words of comfort. She knew what Maye felt. Guilt.
Just as Rose had because Michael had been hurt.

But the car accident wasn't Maye's fault while Michael's shooting was Rose's.

"I understand," Rose whispered a few minutes later when her mother's sobs began to dissipate.
She handed her a box of tissues. "What did you do when you heard the news?"
Maye wiped her cheeks. "I was in shock at first. Then I was so scared they'd come after me and
you next. I went to Eric's apartment, took his box of family papers and came home to my mother.
I told her the entire story."

"Was Grandma mad at you?"

"No. And for that, I'll always be grateful. She didn't condemn me, never yelled, never blamed or
disowned me. She sent me to live at the beach with a friend of hers."

"Until I was born?"

"Yes. I waited until you were three months old, then came back. We told people your parents had
eloped the year before you were born and had been killed in a car crash while I babysat you."

Rose nodded. That was the story she'd heard her entire life. No one seemed to know anything
about her father because no one had ever met him. "What happened with their. . . bodies?"

"They were cremated, which you know, their ashes scattered across the mountains Eric so
loved."

"But if everyone at school knew Daddy was dating Maye Anderson, how did you explain Mary
Anderson dying with him?"

"We didn't."

"Huh?"

"We didn't explain. The college assumed Maye had died and I was Mary. I never corrected them.
Since Eric had no family, they were glad to release him to Mother and me. And the college was
big, Rosy. Eric and Mary's deaths were forgotten almost as soon as they happened."

"But surely friends and people from Aberdeen knew--"

"Rosy, think about it. How many people in Aberdeen know you were in the hospital a few weeks
ago?"

Rose grinned. "Well, if Daisy Greenworthy knew, the whole town does."

Maye smiled. "She doesn't know and I didn't tell anyone. So no one in Aberdeen realizes. See my
point? People didn't care what was happening in Raleigh at State college. Mother and I did tell
the truth. Mostly. We just added time to their deaths in the story we told. And made Mary your
mother instead of me."

"But you forgot the death certificate."

Maye nodded. "When Sloan confronted me with that, I gave him the only picture which exists of
me and your father. I was hopping to tell you in stages. First with the picture, then with my story.
Only--"

"You were alone the whole time you were pregnant?" Rose cut in quickly. She didn't want to talk
about what had happened to Maye in the cellar. That, too, was Rose's fault.

"No, Mother's friend Sadie was with me. She was a nurse and took excellent care of me, of us.
And she never told a soul who I was. I stayed with her a whole year. We got so close, nearly as
close as Mother and I. She helped fill some of that yawning gap left by Mary's death, too. She
delivered you herself, Rosy. And put Mary's name on your birth certificate."

"Why did you do that? Why not just say your husband and sister were killed? Why didn't you
claim me outright?"

"I wanted to spare you the sting of being illegitimate," Maye whispered, her head down and
voice a mere thread of sound. "It was different then, Rosy. Not nearly as open as now for a single
woman to have a child. I didn't want you to be stigmatized, or made to suffer for my mistakes."

So she'd raised her as an aunt instead of a mother, Rose thought. To protect her. All because she
loved her.

That was the most important thing. Maye had done what she had through love. And that's all that
mattered. "I understand. Honest, I do. Thank you for thinking of me before yourself."

"You're my child," Maye said simply and gripped her hand tightly. "There was nothing else I
could have done."

Rose cleared her throat. "So, where's Sadie now?"

"She died when you were four. I still miss her."

"So that's why no one knew you were my mother."

Maye's voice went higher and shriller with each word. "If we had told anyone else the truth, they
would have known about you, would have tried to kill you, stalked you your whole childhood,
taken you away, hurt you--"

"Miss Anderson!" A nurse burst through the door. "You must calm yourself! If company upsets
you to this extent, family or not, I shall be forced to restrict your visits."

"I'm sorry," Rose said at once. "I didn't realize she was so upset. It will not happen again."

"See that it doesn't." The nurse gave her a hard look then left the room.
Rose waited a few seconds, then asked, "Everyone accepted your story? About an accident and a
cremation and me being your niece?"

Maye shrugged. "Ah, Rosy. The Anderson family were Aberdeen Founders. No one was about to
call us liars to our faces. I know there was much speculation, but not one person ever argued with
us."

"Except me, when I wanted to know about Daddy."

"Except you," Maye agreed. "I always meant to tell you, Rosy. But first you were too young,
then your Grandma died, then all that nasty business happened with that Louis creep." Maye
stopped, shook her head then said in a whisper, "No. No more excuses. No more lies. I didn't tell
you because I was afraid if you knew the truth you'd hate me. Just like I feared if I ever told Eric,
he'd hate me too."

Rose's heart twisted. "That's why you refused to talk about Daddy. It hurt you too much."

"It still does," Maye admitted softly before she cleared her throat. "Besides, I had to protect you
from the IRA."

Rose nodded, but didn't argue. Sooner or later, Maye would have to face the fact the IRA wasn't
after her. But not now. Not until she was her old self again. "Yes, I understand. And I'm certain
Daddy would have, too. Once he knew all of it."

"You think so?" Maye glanced up at her, seemed the child while Rose was the parent.

"Certainly. I feel it." And she did. Somehow. "Now I better leave before that nurse comes back.
The doctor says you're still weak and need rest."

"But Rosy, I'm not finished. We need to talk about--"

"Go to sleep." Rose leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. "I love you, Mom."

Tears rolled down Maye's cheeks once again. "I love you, too." She waited until her daughter
stood before she spoke again. "Don't let him leave. I waited too long. Don't repeat my mistake.

"It was different for you and Daddy," Rose murmured, her gaze on the white sheets covering
Maye. "You wanted to be together. And you didn't--"

"Hurt him? Ah Rosy," Maye sighed. "I hurt him by not telling him how I felt. By not telling the
truth. For your sake, for Michael's, don't let him go without knowing the truth. And what you
feel."

Rose walked to the door. "You get some rest."

"You can't avoid this subject forever," Maye warned with much of her old spirit. "Any more than
you can avoid Michael."

Rose took the only out she could. "We'll see about you filling me in on all of Daddy's genealogy
once you're back to your full recovered self. Think you'll be up to that challenge?"

Maye nodded, as much to Rose as to the person in the doorway behind her. "Definitely. I can't
wait to finally get started."

Chapter 37

"Like mother like daughter," Sloan said as he entered Michael's room. A fond note Michael
knew well crept into his deep tone. "Think we can live with two strong-minded women in one
family?"

"We'll certainly try." Michael wanted to ask if she spoke of him. He'd already informed his
friends he'd marry his Rose. Soon.

Unless she'd changed her mind. Surely she hadn't. But even his unshakable faith in her, in their
love, was beginning to jar a bit with her prolonged absence from his side.

"These trips to the hospital are wearing a little thin. Not like I haven't seen all this before, either."

Michael grinned at the complaints. "Sorry. It certainly wasn't my intention to put you out. I'm
leaving just as soon as I can bust out. Tell me more about the one you really came to see."

"She's getting stronger every day." Sloan sat in the chair by Michael's bed. "She'll be able to
leave soon, too. If that Daisy character doesn't show up again."

Michael laughed. "And Rose has the nerve to call Northerners strange. We certainly don't have
anything like Daisy Greenworthy."

"Good thing. The world couldn't stand more."

Michael tried to bring himself to ask if Mac understood why Rose hadn't also come by to visit
him. However, he began singing Maye's praises in a tone so adoring, so uncharacteristic,
Michael didn't have the heart to stop him.

She hadn't been with him when he awoke half crazed with fear, half insane with anger. After the
nurses calmed him somewhat by assuring Rose was fine, Mac told him everything. Including her
refusal to let Mark die though he'd have taken her life with his if they fell.
The whole time Mac spoke, all Michael could think of was her. Why hadn't she been here these
endless days that felt like years? Why was she so determined to stay away? Surely she knew he
needed her more than any hospital, doctor or medicine.

"Well, I must be getting along," Mac said, no doubt recognizing Michael's inattention for what it
was. He limped slowly to the door. "Anything you need before I leave?"

"Send Rose to see me," the request left his mouth before his pride could stop it.

Sloan nodded. "Jim will be by soon. He wants to tell Rose about Annie. I told him to do it here
where you could be a witness."

Michael smiled. Rose would find out all about Annie, but in Michael's room where he, instead of
the detective, could provide all the comfort and support she needed.

He could hardly wait.

***

"I'm only revealing this to you, as I told Mike, in the strictest of confidence," Jim began once he
and Rose entered the room. Rose declined to sit by Michael's bed and stood along side the
detective at the foot. "It can't go any further than this room."

Rose nodded, her face so serious Michael ached to kiss her and make her smile. "I understand."

"Annie's real name was Mona Lee Smite. She was part of the Federal Witness Protection
program under yet another name. Three years ago, she disappeared from the life the Feds set up
for her. They assumed she was dead."

"Instead," Rose said softly, "she just began a new life here."

Jim nodded. "Only she wasn't too bright. She couldn't get any of the usual i.d. legally and for
whatever reason, she didn't try to get any from the black market, either."

"She probably figured she was safe here," Michael inserted. He willed Rose to look at him and
failed. She'd finally come to see him and she wouldn't talk to him. Yet alone look at him.

"No doubt." Jim smiled slightly. "That's why Mac couldn't dig up anything on her."

"But what about the people here who swear they never heard of her?" Rose questioned.

Michael attempted to answer, only to be cut off by Jim. "They were probably afraid to admit they
knew her to a PI."

"All of them?"
Jim shrugged. "If some stranger came nosing around asking you a lot of questions about Annie,
would you answer them?"

Rose shook her head. "Probably not. Where did all of her money come from? She had an endless
supply, it seemed."

"Part of her original settlement for testifying and giving up her first life was a huge cash
settlement. It disappeared when she did and the Feds--"

"Assumed her murderer took it, too," Michael inserted. Look at me, Rose. Talk to me. Tell me
what's going on in that beautiful head.

But still she ignored him. She addressed all her attention to the detective. "Why interior
decorating? With that kind of money she didn't really have to work."

"She'd been a decorator before and failed. She moves here, finds you. . . Well, your situation
fitted perfectly, Rose. You do the work. She gets a free ride, more or less."

"But surely she knew her lifestyle, the way she flaunted herself and her money might led to
discovery."

"She did know." Jim cut into Rose's words. Michael's desire to punch him went up another ten
degrees. "Apparently, she just didn't care or figured no one would ever connect dirt poor Mona
Lisa Smite to high society Annie Swain. They hadn't when she was under another name. My
guess is she thought they'd given up on her."

"What did she--"

Jim held up his hand. "If you're about to ask what she did to deserve such special consideration, I
can't tell you. I don't know. Classified, confidential, all that. Must have been some testimony she
gave, though."

"She dyed her hair," Michael spoke in another futile attempt to make Rose look at him. "She
wore colored contact lenses and--"

"Had some pretty extensive body surgery," Jim interrupted. Michael glared at him when he
smiled into Rose's eyes. "We assumed someone from her past caught on and killed her."

"Until Mark's confession," Rose whispered. Her head dropped and her shoulders slumped.

Michael had never felt so helpless in all his life. Not even when he stood by and listened while
she calmly talked to a bastard trying his utmost to kill her. And her arm, swaddled in bandages
and a sling. . . Her right arm, too. The one she sketched with. Why the hell hadn't Mac or Devon
warned him she'd been hurt?
Probably because they knew he'd kill Mark if he found out.

"Don't worry." Jim patted her back. Michael's fist clenched on the sheets. "He's locked up tight in
Dix State Hospital getting the help he needs."

"He built a shrine to you in his apartment," Michael cut in, not wanting Rose any more upset.
"Maye stumbled upon it--"

"And he locked her up so she wouldn't tell you." Jim nodded. He removed his hand from Rose's
back at Michael's continued glare.

"Accept his actions were his own and go on with your life, Rose," Michael inserted. "That's what
you, what we all, need to do."

Rose lifted her head, eyes shadowed. "He told me he'd still try to kill me."

Jim shrugged. "He lied to scare you. He's confessed to everything. With no evidence to dispute
his confession, that's as far as the law can go. The case is closed, Rose."

She shook her head. It would never be over for her, Michael realized. She'd carry Mark's betrayal
and the hurt for the rest of her life.

He'd ease that pain all he could. He leaned forward, cursed when his bulky sling prevented him
from reaching her, touching her.

Jim glanced at him and frowned. "You in pain, Mike?"

Damn straight he was. Not physical. Emotional. "No."

"We've tired him enough." Rose walked to the door. "Thanks, Detective Fogle. I'll walk out with
you."

"Sure. Feel free to call me any time. And the name's Jim." He smiled and held the door for her.
"Take care, Mike. Quite a lady you've got. You're a lucky man."

"Thanks for finally acknowledging that," Michael returned in his driest tone. "Hey, Rose?"

But she'd already left. And she didn't return.

***

"Hiya big man." Devon entered the next day, his face twisted into a lopsided grin. He nodded a
greeting to his father then pointed at the white bandage and sling covering Michael's shoulder
and arm. "How's that doing?"

"It itches," Michael growled the now familiar complaint. "They tell me that's a good sign."
"It is. You're lucky there's no permanent damage, either."

"If I'm so damned lucky, what the hell am I still doing here?"

Sloan chuckled softly. " 'Fraid that's my doing, Mic."

"What?"

"I asked the doc to keep you longer. Make my trips to one place to see two people easier. Kill
two birds with one stone, all that."

"You're the one behind my prolonged stay? The nightly sedation shots the doc insisted I take to
regain my strength? Of all the--"

"It was for your own good Mikey," Devon cut in. "We couldn't keep the press from you any
other way. Dad and I knew you weren't up to your friendly, architect playboy image so we
decided to give you a well deserved mini vacation."

"That and some other mushy stuff," Sloan added softly.

Michael's anger drained. "Thanks. I'm fully able now, to handle the press and not ruin my
image."

"Ready to hit on some nurses then?" Devon winked, telling he'd understood what Michael hadn't
said aloud. "There's one working a few floors from here with this great pair of--"

"I'll be going on that note." Sloan rose from the chair, motioned his son into it. "You know where
I am if you need me."

"Yeah, we sure do." For the first time in days, Devon didn't rib him about possibly having a step-
mother. They watched Sloan leave and smiled when he started to whistle. "Rose will be my step-
sister if they actually do get together. Marry her Mikey, and you'll really be my brother. Sort of."

"Right. Marry her. When she's hardly spoken to me and visited only once," Michael retorted,
flexing his unencumbered shoulder. "And we weren't even alone then. Officer Fogle was here."

"You mean Detective, don't you?"

"Whatever."

"Knowing you, you booted him out and told her all about Annie yourself." Devon propped his
leather shoes on the bed next to Michael's sheet covered feet.

"He asked to speak to Rose personally and she agreed." Michael shook his head. "Why the hell
didn't you or Mac tell me she'd been hurt?"
"We figured you'd stagger out of bed, find Mark and kill him," Devon interrupted his tirade
about so-called friends keeping things from him. "And since you weren't really recovered yet--"

"Yeah, yeah. Spare me all the reasons and excuses." Michael waved his uninjured hand.

"Besides, the bandage came off this morning and she's fine."

"You've seen her?"

Devon shrugged. "Sure. In Maye's room right before I came here. And her arm really is okay. It
was just a sprain."

Michael slammed his fist onto the bed, shaking the mattress with the force. "What's going on
with her, Dev? Has she told you something that might indicate why she's avoiding me?"

Devon shook his head. "I have no idea what caused her abrupt about-face attitude. I mean, she
was in near shock after you passed out on the balcony. And she didn't move from your side the
whole time you were unconscious."

"Are you sure she didn't say something, anything?" Michael pressed. He heard the anxious,
fearful note in his voice, but did nothing to correct it. He was panicked and scared. Damned
scared.

"We've talked about her mother, a little about Mark and things like the weather. But not you.
Every time I bring you up, she switches the subject faster than a cab driver speeding to the
airport with the promise of a tidy bonus if he makes it in under five minutes."

"Come on. You're the professional. Give me your opinion."

Devon shrugged. "I have an idea, but it's not my place to say. It's Rose's."

"Damn!" Michael flung back the covers on the opposite side. "First I can't commit. Now she
can't. Good God. Why won't she talk to me? It's been nearly two weeks."

Devon swung his legs down. He stood and opened the closet to retrieve clothes Michael
demanded five minutes after regaining consciousness without seeing Rose's face. "I think I have
a way to make her talk with you."

"Yeah?" Michael snatched his clothes and began to dress, his movements hampered by the sling.
"No more Mister Southern Gentleman. We're going to talk somewhere alone even if I have to
drag her kicking and screaming southern epithets the entire--"

"I get the picture. But my idea's definitely better than your caveman attitude. Guaranteed to
work, too. Wanna hear it?"
"I'm more injured than I thought. I'm ready to do anything you suggest." Michael sighed, then
allowed his friend to help fasten his buttons and tie his shoes. "Give me this guaranteed plan."

Devon grinned. "All right. Here's what you do. . ."

Chapter 38

A few hours later, with all the red tape of discharge handled, Devon's suggestions went into
action. Michael called Rose at her apartment and insisted she take him to his hotel from the
hospital. Not Devon. Not Mac. Her. And only her. Devon would distract the press so they could
leave.

Michael held his breath and prayed as never before in the silence following his request. When
she finally agreed, he almost shouted for joy.

Until she arrived fifteen minutes later, pale, subdued, unable to meet his eyes. Silent all the way
to his hotel.

Michael maintained his own silence until they were in the penthouse. She disappeared into the
room that had been his. He stood by the suitcases she must have packed for him and set by the
sofa.

"Here," she said as she came back and held out a shirt still in its wrapper. "This is to replace the
one I ruined."

"Keep it." He tried to look into her averted eyes. "It'll look much better on you."

She shook her head. "I owe you for--"

"Owe me?" He wanted to shake her. "Good God. What the hell for?"

"You could have died," the words seemed to burst from her as she tossed the shirt onto the sofa
and started to turn away. "If that bullet had gone any lower or. . ."

"You saved my life by keeping Mark from aiming a clear shot." He neared her, touched her hair.

She turned further to dislodge his touch. "No."

"At least look at me when you're talking."

She did, her eyes full of tears, remorse, pain. Most of all, guilt.
Michael cursed and she flinched. "I'm sorry. But it's not your fault, Rose."

"It is. I trusted him, believed in him, defended him. You tried to tell me not to be so blind, so
prejudiced. Maye did, too. And look what happened to all of you because I. . ." her voice halted,
too choked to continue. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she averted her head.

He waited, wanting to touch her, yet knowing she needed to say what she felt. Needed to cleanse.
Herself.

And him.

"Don't worry," she spoke a few seconds later, an edge of steel now in her voice. "I've learned my
lesson. I'll never judge people on where they originate ever again. I'll listen more, not be so
damned stubborn and arrogant."

"I've learned my lesson too," Michael said just as softly, just as certain. "Would you like me to
tell it to you?"

She ignored his question. "When I saw you lying there, your blood all over. . ." her voice broke
again, shoulders quaking so fiercely he feared she'd shake apart. He clenched his fist to stop from
holding her. "I knew it was all my fault. You'd been right about me being selfish and narrow-
minded. You can never forgive me. I can't forgive myself. Ever."

Michael watched her shoulders slump even lower. In the very back of his mind, when he'd first
awoke without her at his side, he'd suspected this ridiculous sense of guilt. But how could she be
so uncertain of him?

Of them?

"You said Devon booked you on the three o'clock flight." She straightened and wiped at her
cheeks. "We should get you to the airport."

"Don't you want to hear what I've learned?"

She sighed and seemed to brace. "What did you learn? That you never should have come here?
Or that you never should have agreed to work with me in the first place?"

"I learned what I want. What I really need to be happy." He took a step towards her. "I want
roots, Rose. My own family. My own children." He saw tremors again shake her, thought she
might give in and come to him.

But she didn't. "That's nice. I'm sure once you get back to--"

"Come with me," he said, his voice a husky murmur of want, need, desire.

Love.
She spun around, her eyes huge and drenched like land beneath flood waters. "What did you
say?"

He held out his hand. "Make a home with me. Marry me. Love me. Give me all I want, all I'll
ever need to be happy. You."

She paled even more yet she came closer and took his hand. Michael felt hope begin to rise
inside him--

Then she dropped his hope along with his hand. "I'm no good for you. You deserve so much
better. So much more."

"I deserve you. Well actually, I don't." He smiled to take away the sting. "But since no other man
on this planet deserves you either, I guess I'll just have to take the position."

She looked pointedly at the white sling supporting his arm. "We wouldn't work. Not together."

"We're a team. No two people can make war and love like us without being made for each
other." He embraced her shoulders with his uninjured arm.

She stiffened. "You might have died. Because of me."

His arm tightened, though her rigid shoulders almost made it bounce off. "I won't let his insanity
separate us. And I won't let you, either. Love, especially ours, is a once-in-a-lifetime miracle.
You taught me that, Rose. You." He lifted her chin, forced her eyes to his. "I love you. I know
you love me. Quit being so damned stubborn and admit it, too."

"All the craziness, this IRA mess and Mark with his obsessive crush and. . ." she stopped when
he laughed and shoved his hand from her face. "Annie died. My mother and you nearly did. The
press is having a field day with all of this."

He ceased his laughter. "So? Their stories never bothered me before. Why should they now?"

Disbelief filled her face. "But your father's reputation could suffer along with yours."

His expression turned deadly serious. "He and his wife can just get used to a daughter-in-law, if
they ever decide to want me as their son, with a few quirks."

"Quirks? I'm trying to show you all the reasons we don't belong together."

"You're trying to be a royal pain in my ass like you have been since the very first moment I met
you." He laughed more as her chin went into the air. "But I forgive you."

"You forgive me?" Relief flooded her face, eased all other expression aside. "For nearly getting
you killed?"
He shook his head. "That wasn't your fault."

"But you just said--"

"I said I forgive you for being a pain in my ass."

Her chin went higher. "You. . .you. . ."

He grabbed her hands. "You're spouting nonsense. Bull. Crap. Whatever. I don't care about it.
Not who your family is. Not stories, odd events or crazy factions. I care about you. Only you."

Tears welled again like tidal waves in her sea eyes. "Michael."

"Don't you know what it did to me to stand by and hear you talk to Mark about killing you so I
could live?" His hand clenched on hers. "To know he could shoot and kill you before I could
stop him?"

"I--"

"See him hit you, throw you off that balcony and know there was nothing I could do?" he
ruthlessly shouted over her. "Good God above! Every time I think of the way he pushed you off
and still you saved him, wouldn't let him drop to the death he so richly deserved. . ." he broke,
closed his eyes too late against the fear, the pain.

And the tears.

With superhuman effort, he opened back up, let her see everything churning inside him. The
fear, the guilt, the pain. Just as he'd promised her he would. "I didn't protect you. Just like when
you were stung. I stood by and let you be hurt. Let you almost die. I failed you."

"No!" she cried and broke his grip on her hands. "Mark is sick."

"I should've seen his insanity sooner. Realized he--"

"No!" she cried again, her voice hoarse. "It wasn't your fault, Michael. None of it. You have to
believe that. Please!"

He kept his gaze directly on hers. "Please forgive me for not protecting you. For not being able
to stop him. Please, Rose. I need you to say it."

She shook her head. "Of course I'd forgive you. But there's nothing to forgive."

"If you can forgive me, then forgive yourself." He sighed deeply, his gaze still glued to hers.
"We both feel guilt and responsibility. We'll always feel it, always remember it. But it's over.
Done. We can't change it. We can only go forward."
Still, still, she shook her head, opened her lips to deny it all over again.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. "Unless you look me straight in the eyes and deny what's
happened between us is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, I intend to take you, southern pride and
all, everywhere I go. Look at me and tell me you don't love me, Rose. Right now."

Rose closed her eyes and prayed for strength. She hadn't broken when he asked her to marry him.
Or when she touched his hand. Or when she saw his tears. Good Lord, his tears.

She couldn't break now. She drew in her breath, gazed into his eyes, opened her mouth to deny
the truth. . .

Yet saw earnest, honest acceptance in his still swimming blue eyes. Undeniable, deep, abiding,
forgiving love. And her resolve crumpled like dead leaves under a jogger's feet.

"God forgive me," she whispered and fell against him. She clutched him tightly, careful to avoid
his sling, her face inches from his. "I'll never love anyone the way I love you. But I'm so afraid."

"The only way to get rid of your fear is to face it," he interrupted gently as he stroked her hair.
"As I did with my parents. You don't have to be afraid anymore. Tell me what's in your heart.
What's really kept us apart."

"You'll hate me one day for putting you through all this," she murmured.

His arm came around her, held her securely against him. Just like she belonged. "I could never
hate you. I've been through more pain these last few days without you than I ever could in a
thousand lifetimes with you. You saved my life. In more ways than one. Believe me, Rose.
Please."

She did believe him. It was all so clear in his eyes, in his arm as he held her. They loved each
other. And, just like with her mother, that's all that really mattered.

She kissed him with all the love she felt and mingled their tears together while he pressed her
close enough to be one person. One love. Forever.

"This mean you forgive yourself?" he asked after the kiss reluctantly broke for air. "You accept
what can't be changed?"

She licked his chin. "With you and your love, I think I can."

"I know you can." His tongue traced the softness of her lips. "Remember our deal?"

She grinned, so happy it hurt. Wonderfully. "An entire night in your bed?"
"I'm collecting. Right now." He put his hand over her lips, forestalled any protests. "A night
won't be enough. A lifetime won't be enough."

"Never," she agreed, kissing his fingertips as he slowly removed them. "Shouldn't we have this
conversation after you cancel your plane ticket?"

"We only pretended Devon booked that flight," he admitted softly as a lock of hair fell into his
eyes and made him look like an errant little boy caught in the cookie jar before dinner.

She narrowed her eyes and pretended a sternness she didn't feel. "You lied?"

"Just a little." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. And I promise not to ever lie to you again as long
as you promise to tell me everything you feel. Just like I promised you."

She nodded. "I promise."

"Marry me then. Tomorrow, if possible."

Rose flushed as his gaze skimmed her with liquid fire. "The sooner the better."

"I don't suppose we could talk the society into letting us buy the house." He grinned as her mouth
dropped open.

"Buy Huntington House?" He really did know her better than she knew herself. "No. We made it
too perfect. Besides, you wouldn't want to live here in North Carolina."

"I've always wanted somewhere quiet. Why not here?"

"You'd do that for me? Give up Manhattan?"

"Manhattan's over rated anyway." He cupped her face. "I'd give it up for us. With our joint
efforts at restoring mansions we'll still have to move around a lot, though."

She grinned. "Okay. Since you're now a converted Rebel, I'll go wherever you want."

"Sounds good to me." His hands slipped to her waist.

She sighed as he stroked her skin. "Huntington House is too big for just the two of us, anyway.
We need something smaller."

"Won't be just us for long." He pulled at her sweatshirt, bared her stomach. And grinned. Lord,
how she loved his grin.

She loved how he could make her feel anything was possible. That even with all the questions
and problems of her father's history, she could feel nothing but security with him.
And love. So much love. Lord, how blessed she felt.

"Marriage and children are a very serious undertaking."

"So's making them."

She tugged her arms out of her sleeves, watched his breath catch and hands tremble. "Oh, I
agree. Are you sure you're up for it?"

He grinned and hugged her, his hard body answering her question better than any words.

She sighed. "So, our next project is sandboxes decorated with Tonka trucks, pastel rooms full of
Barbies and brightening up stodgy conference rooms where PTA meetings will be held, right?"

His eyes glowed like natural gas flames when she slipped the shirt over her head and her jeans
off her legs. "Eventually. First there's diapers, two A.M. feedings and probable sleepless nights.
All shifts negotiable, of course."

"Of course." Her bra followed her shirt and jeans. "How many little projects are we talking?"

"Lots." He nuzzled and kissed the rosy tips of her breasts when she stepped back into his
embrace. She went to work on the buttons marching down his chest. "At least five. All exactly
like you."

"Oh, no. Like you."

"A combination then. Half a dozen of each. Another compromise. Are you up to that much
work?" He moved against her, pressed her thighs into his. "I know I am."

She moaned at the feel of him. "You just read my mind. Again." Her hands stroked his bare
chest, slipped to unzip his straining pants. "Let's get started right away. I love you, Michael St.
Lawrence."

"I love you, Rose St. Lawrence by tomorrow." He kissed her and let their hearts, bodies and
minds do the rest of the talking.