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Watching Meg while she slept had become an obsession for Ethan. Lying in the bed beside her didn't lessen the potency of that pastime. Her eyes were closed, her sunlit hair was a tangle around her face, and he could see the trace of dried tears in the faint glow. The moon had set long ago, but he was accustomed to the dark, welcomed it. The brightness of the full moon had been almost intrusive. He preferred it this way, with the shadows all around them, enclosing them in the bed just as the muslin curtains did.

At some point during the night, they'd shifted. She lay curled up beside him, not touching him, her hands tucked under her chin, her body hunched slightly beneath the sheet that covered them. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to lift a strand of hair and kiss it, follow the peachy texture of her skin with his mouth, he wanted everything, and he wanted it so much, he shook with need. But he held himself distant, remote, a tense occupant of the huge bed, knowing his time was drawing to its damnable, inevitable conclusion.

He hadn't even let her touch him. She wanted to, he knew that. But he was afraid if she'd touched him, if she'd been more than a recipient of his overwhelming passion, then he might not be able to follow through on his determination.

He shouldn't have gone this far, he knew. But he couldn't let her go, not without having her, just once. Not without tasting that silken, peachy flesh of hers. Not without watching the passion, the astonishment, the shimmering delight in her face as he made love to her.

He'd remember that look for the rest of his life, and he had no doubt that even if, God help him, he lived to be ninety years old, his body would still respond to the memory.

It would be all that he had. A few moments more of watching her, of breathing in the flowery perfume of her body, feeling the warmth of her breath against his skin, and that would be the end. This life, this existence he'd been handed was rough enough. If his punishment for unnamed crimes including living another fifty-some years without her, he didn't think he could stand it.

He couldn't bear to let her go, but that was exactly what he intended. He'd always known he had to. For the past ten days, he'd been trying to steel himself to do just that, trying and getting nowhere. Tonight had stiffened his resolution. He'd given in to temptation, to the silent cry for him that he alone could hear. He'd gone to her, called to her, and she'd come without hesitation, without questions, without demands, with only that one, damnable protestation of love.

And it had been perfect. No, not perfect. Life wasn't perfect. It had been something close to heaven. No wonder the French called it le petit mort, the little death. Making love to Megan had felt like the cataclysm of everything he'd known flaming into nothingness, a death that was its own sort of triumph. Nothing else could ever come close.

She murmured something in her sleep, rubbing her face against the pillow, and then she smiled in her dreams. He wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms, his hands were shaking with the need to touch her, and still he didn't move, prolonging his torment, prolonging his agony. And then, even his formidable resolve failed and he made himself leave the bed before he gave in.

She made a tiny sound, a small, weak sound of protest, and her arms reached out for the empty space where he had lain. But she slept on, only in her dreams did she know that he'd abandoned her.

His clothes were in a tumbled heap at his feet. He pulled them on slowly, his eyes never leaving her sleeping face. She had a mark beneath her chin, a faint bruise that must have come from him. He found himself wishing that mark would never leave her. That she would look at the small mark and think of the man who'd given it to her. That even when she was back in her safe, controlled world and her sojourn here was nothing more than a distant dream, she'd find something and remember.

The wind had picked up and the muslin curtains surrounding the bed tumbled in the air, flapping against him. He could feel the approach of dawn with its glaring sunlight. It had been so long since he'd felt the sun's warmth on his face. Maybe Salvatore was right. Maybe he should go back to the island. Maybe then he'd forget about her.

It didn't take him long at all. He worked quickly, efficiently, ignoring the pain in his hands as the thorns lacerated his fingers. She slept on, oblivious, as he stepped back into the bedroom, behind the billowing bed curtains. And she only smiled faintly in her sleep as he covered her with the petals of a thousand white flowers, their scent filling the room, blending with her own flowery fragrance and the raw, erotic smell of sex.

He wanted to take her in the midst of all those creamy white petals. He wanted to lie in the flowers with her, devouring her, body and soul. He wanted her so much and in so many ways that he had only one choice. He left her.

He went straight to the computer room in the bowels of the house, comfortable in the utter darkness, welcoming it. The candles had long since burned down, but he found his way to the huge, throne-like chair with unerring instinct, sinking down into it. A trace of her flowery scent clung to him, to his skin, to his hair, to his hands. Alone in his room, he knew what he had to do. He just didn't know how he could do it.

He leaned forward and put his face in his hands. His long hair covered him, wrapping him in a curtain of her scent. And he began to shake with pain.

 

Megan was alone. The scent of flowers was all around her, but still she felt oddly bereft. She knew Ethan was gone from her, knew it without having to reach for him. She just didn't know how far away he'd gone.

The early lavender-and-coral light of dawn was threading through the billowing muslin curtains. She sat up in the bed, shivering slightly in the early-morning chill, and looked at the flowers he'd strewn over the bed. Sudden, inexplicable tears filled her eyes, and as she reached to pick up a silky white petal, the dull gold of the Janus ring gleamed on her hand.

She pulled up the sheet around her. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. He didn't like the sunlight, she knew that. It didn't matter that she'd seen him. He'd made love to her in total darkness, and she had the insight to know that the darkness was more than a way to hide. And if he did use it to hide, it wasn't from her. It was from himself.

And he'd left her flowers. A garden of flowers, a blanket of flowers, covering her body. Why did she have a tiny, frightening feeling that those flowers were his way of saying goodbye?

Time had little meaning since she'd taken up residence in Ethan's strange house. If she had any sense at all, she should try to sleep some more, but she couldn't. She told herself it was sheer happiness dancing across her nerves, and to try to sleep would be a waste of time. She couldn't wait till he came to her again, until he touched her again. Until she touched him.

Salvatore usually came with her breakfast in the late morning, and he usually moved her to another room by early afternoon. She could tell by the rumbling in her stomach and the position of the sun overhead that he hadn't appeared by noon, and the door to the hall was securely locked. Her doubts started then, the first niggling worry beginning to creep though her intense well-being and anticipation.

The garden looked different in daylight, not nearly as mysterious. The white blossoms glowed less in daylight, and the shallow pool no longer reflected the brilliant moon. Megan stepped out, glancing at the high walls and wondering whether she could manage to shimmy up one, when she saw a familiar figure in the far corner. Joseph.

She picked her way carefully through the lush greenery, glad that she wasn't wearing one of those filmy dresses. The rose bushes had thorns that managed to scratch even through the heavy denim of her jeans, and there was an unnatural chill in the air, making her glad she'd pulled on her sweater.

Joseph was kneeling in the dirt, digging beneath a huge white rose bush, seemingly oblivious to her approach, but she knew better. For days, he'd been frustratingly absent. His appearance today wasn't a coincidence.

She wanted to take his arm, to touch another human being, to remind herself that he was flesh and blood, but she resisted the impulse. There was a touch-me-not quality about Joseph, despite his kindly expression and concern. So she simply halted a few feet away, rubbing her chilled arms briskly, and waited.

Finally, he lifted his head, and there was no reading the expression on his seamed old face. "Don't you hurt the boy," he said.

She stared at him in confusion. "The boy?"

"Ethan. I know he's a grown man. I just can't help thinking of him as a child."

Megan sank down cross-legged in the grass. It was dry, warmed by the overhead sun, and she wondered why she was still so cold. "Did you know him when he was a child?"

"I was there when he was born. I remember his mother's scream of horror. I imagine he does, too."

"People don't remember things from that long ago."

"Don't they?" Joseph asked. "Haven't you figured out yet that Ethan isn't like other people? It doesn't matter. If he's forgotten that, he's had plenty of time since to face people's rejections, his mother's included. I don't know that he can stand much more of it."

"I didn't reject him," Megan said in a low, quiet voice.

Joseph stared at her for a moment. And then he sighed. "These are bad times, Megan. Very bad times. Even if you could give Ethan what he needed, I don't know if he'd be able to accept it. He's a man with an overwhelming rage inside him, and it's eating him up. I'm afraid he's going to destroy himself if something or someone doesn't stop him."

"I don't understand."

Joseph shook his head. "The people of Oak Grove aren't ordinary, either. They've been too isolated, too preyed upon by crazies like Pastor Lincoln. They believe in Satan, and they think Ethan is hand in hand with him, and nothing and no one is going to convince them otherwise. Especially when Ethan goes out of his way to goad them. But he's going to push them too far. They're already losing control."

"I still don't understand."

"He owns most of this town, you know. His family has for generations. And he's planning on giving about two thirds of it, some forty thousand acres, to a nonprofit organization. He's even going to build their headquarters and conference center."

"It sounds noble enough."

Joseph laughed, but the sound was mirthless. "Ethan's not one for nobility. The world hasn't taught him to be noble. He's planning on building the Center for Psychic Research. Bringing the devil right into the home of all those rabid fundamentalists. They're even going to have dormitories, communal living quarters for those interested in following New Age stuff."

"Oh, God."

"Exactly," Joseph said. "Now, somewhere in the Northeast, or along the West Coast, something like that'll do just fine. Here in the heart of America, with a group of people who see Satan in every blade of grass, he's asking for disaster. And he's getting it. They've been burning crosses out here almost every night."

"Every night?" she echoed faintly.

"Every night. They've been holding meetings out at the building site, threatening all sorts of things in the name of their own personal, vengeful god. Ethan won't stop until they're out of their minds. And they won't stop until they've destroyed him."

If Megan felt chilled before, she felt absolutely icy inside. "But why?"

"Because he feels they killed his father. Because revenge is the only thing that keeps him going. What else does he have? A wife, family, a life of any sort at all? He's lived his life in the darkness, and now it's part of him."

"Someone's got to make him see reason!"

"Sal tries. But Ethan's not a man to listen to anyone."

"But what about you? Why don't you try to talk to him?"

The expression on Joseph's face was so sorrowful that it almost made Megan weep to see it. For an odd, eerie moment, he reminded her of Ethan. Something about his pain-filled eyes, the desolation in the set of his shoulders. "He'd never listen to me, least of all."

She didn't question the certainty in his voice. Here was one more person who'd betrayed Ethan, either as a child or an adult. "Then I'll have to be the one to do it."

Joseph looked at her for a long moment. "I think it may be too late."

"Don't be ridiculous..-.."

"I think that the best thing that could happen would be for you to leave before things explode. Things have gone too far—the people in town won't listen to reason. They wouldn't even recognize it. The only way you could help Ethan would be to leave."

"I won't."

"I don't think you're going to have much choice," Joseph said. He looked past her to the open French door to her room. Ruth stood there, framed by the flowing white curtains, a curious stillness in her stance.

Megan clambered to her feet, reluctant to face her, reluctant to see anyone. Anyone but Ethan. She turned back to say something to Joseph, but to her amazement, he'd disappeared, vanished without a sound. Somewhere, hidden in that stone wall must be a door on hinges so well-oiled that someone could come and go in complete silence. She stared at the spot where he'd been, bemused, as the sun beat down on her, warming her. And then she turned and walked slowly down the crushed stone path toward Ruth's waiting figure. As she went, she turned the ring on her finger, letting it hang loosely, clinging to it as a protection against some sort of nameless evil. Or maybe the evil wasn't that nameless. Maybe it was simply the pain of a broken heart.

 

"Sorry I'm late." Sal's voice was muffled in the darkness. Ethan didn't move. It was a testament to the sheer anguish he was going through that he hadn't even noticed Sal's failure to return.

"What time is it?" he asked, turning around in his chair and staring through the darkness at his friend's silhouetted figure.

"Sometime after six. At night. Your girlfriend's probably climbing the walls. I better get her something to eat, then I'll come back."

"What's wrong?" Ethan asked sharply, setting his hands on the table in front of him.

Sal hesitated. "I ran into a little trouble in town."

"You went in last night and you don't come back for more than twenty-four hours? I'd think it was more than a little trouble. Turn on the light."

"Let it go, Ethan."

"Turn on the light, Sally."

Salvatore had never failed to obey a direct order in his life, no matter how much he argued. Ethan instinctively shut his eyes as the dimly-watted bulbs blazed forth, giving himself a moment to accustom his night-dim gaze to the glare. When he could, he looked at Sal's battered face and he began to curse.

"It looks worse than it feels," Sal said, moving forward with utmost care.

"What happened?"

"A bunch of guys jumped me at the construction site. They were up to their usual mischief, smearing the machinery with chicken blood, tacking up signs that say Repent or Perish." He shook his head in disgust. "Some of Pastor Lincoln's minions, I'd guess. I can't believe I was dumb enough to let them get the drop on me."

"What did they do?"

"Just beat the living daylights out of me. I would have been back sooner, but they cracked a rib. I figured I'd better have it taped, and there was no way in hell I was going to let Doc put his drunken paws on me. 'Specially since I thought I saw him there watching."

"I'll kill him."

"Calm down, Ethan. Lord knows I've had worse. If I hadn't let my guard drop, they wouldn't have been able to do more than bang me up a bit." He took a step nearer. "Are you certain you're doing the right thing?

Can't you just let it go? Let the town go? Let's get out of here, go back to Saint Anne. You can even bring the girl if you have to. But let's get the hell away from here."

Ethan shook his head, a faint negation. "It's too late for that, Sally. Too late for everything."

"What happened while I was gone?" Sal's voice was sharp with suspicion.

Ethan looked at him from behind the curtain of hair. "Not a thing," he said, not even wondering why he lied. He'd never lied to Sally, not in the decades they'd been together, from the time Sally had been a father figure, teacher and bodyguard all rolled into one. But he was lying to him now. He didn't want anyone's opinion, even anyone's knowledge, tainting the hours he'd spent in Megan's bed. It was over, sealed away forever in his heart. It was for him alone.

Sal took him at his word. "So what's next?"

Ethan leaned back, making a little temple of his fingertips. Fingertips that trembled slightly. "You get her out of here."

"When?"

"Just as soon as you can make arrangements. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest."

"I'll make it tonight," Sal said. "As long as you're certain."

"I'm certain. Get her out of here, Sally. Please." He didn't bother to disguise the raw pain in his voice. He'd managed to lie to Sally once—any more would be pushing it.

"She's gone," Sal said evenly, spinning around and heading back to the door, a new purpose in his stride. Ethan wasn't the slightest bit surprised. Sal was possessive—after years of being almost everything to Ethan, he felt jealous of anyone interfering in their relationship.

He kept his own romantic entanglements to a healthy minimum, and while he was more than happy to make those same arrangements for Ethan, for someone healthy and energetic to come to him in the dark, he wouldn't have wanted Ethan's heart involved.

He'd disliked Megan the moment she'd arrived, and Ethan had been under no delusions as to why. He'd known, as Ethan had known, that Megan was going to change their lives. That she was going to matter, more than any other woman ever had. And the thought had frightened Salvatore almost as much as it had frightened Ethan.

He'd never see her again. He'd have to resist the temptation to have Sal check up on her, see how she was doing "over the ensuing years. If he heard she married, had children, it would tear him apart. If he heard she kept herself remote, mourning something long past, it would be even worse.

Maybe it would all be moot. He hadn't needed the proof of Sal's battered countenance to know that the people of Oak Grove were getting riled to a point of madness. He'd planned it that way. Sooner or later, they weren't going to be content with burning crosses. Sooner or later, they were going to march on this house with flaming torches, setting it ablaze as some sort of fiery sacrifice to the vengeful god they worshiped. He only hoped he'd be trapped inside.

The construction crews were coming in two days, ready to break ground on the research center. The greedy denizens of Oak Grove had their limits—this time, they wouldn't take his money to work on his project. No one had come out to the house in two days, no one but Ruth. They were planning a bloody uprising that might very well take all of them with it.

Another reason to get Megan safely out of here. He guessed he had a few days' grace before the town imploded, but there were no guarantees. He wanted her far gone, off on her aborted trip to Europe, before it did.

Fifty years without her. They stretched ahead of him, an endless desert of unbearable pain. If they didn't torch the building, he might very well do it himself.

 

Megan sat in the middle of the huge bed, her legs drawn up to her body, shivering slightly. She'd lost count of how long she'd been in residence in Ethan Winslowe's rambling old house, but of one thing she was certain. This was the first time they hadn't moved her to a new room by midday. _

It was a good sign, she told herself, but she didn't believe it. He wanted her there, he wanted to join her in the huge white bed again, but she didn't believe it. Disaster loomed over her like a huge, dark bird. He wasn't going to come to her again.

She hadn't touched the food Ruth had brought her. She hadn't responded to Ruth's cheerful conversation. She'd made the bed herself so that Ruth wouldn't realize those pristine white sheets had seen more than just sleep. But she'd kept her secrets to herself. She wasn't ready for an audience, someone to share the earth-shattering moments of the night before. Particularly not someone who'd already shared Ethan Winslowe's bed.

It was irrational and unfair of her, but she didn't want to look at Ruth, didn't want to talk to her, didn't want to be anywhere around her. What had been simple, unacknowledged jealousy before had taken on soul-eating proportions. The thought that Ethan had touched Ruth the way he'd touched her made Megan want to scream.

Except that she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that he hadn't. He might have had sex with Ruth over a period of years—she wouldn't deny that. He might have even made love to her. But he hadn't shared what he'd shared with Megan. Those few hours with her were more important than years with Ruth. Meg didn't know how she knew that. But she did with unshakable certainty.

She rocked back and forth on the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, as the night fell around her. She didn't bother to turn on the meager lights in the white room. He wouldn't come to her in the light. And all that mattered was that he come to her. She was trembling with need, with longing. She could do nothing but sit and wait and fight the dread that filled her.

She heard the key in the door leading to the hall, and that dread spilled over. Ethan wouldn't use a key. He wouldn't need one. She huddled deeper into herself, dropping her head down, refusing to face what she knew she'd have to.

A pool of lights spread into the room and she could see his shadow there. "Get your things together," Sal said, his voice faintly muffled and infinitely hostile.

She looked up, then, into his battered face and angry eyes. "You're moving me to another room?" she asked, already knowing the answer to the question, hoping and praying she was wrong. He was going to move her to Ethan's room, Ethan's bed, so that she never had to be far from him. Please, God, let it be that.

Sal shook his head. "You're leaving. Getting out of here, back to your own safe world. Tonight."

She didn't move. Wouldn't, couldn't move. "How?"

"I've got a car for you. A four-wheel-drive Blazer with enough gas to get you wherever you need to go.

Nothing will stop you. By tomorrow morning, you'll think this is just a nightmare."

"And if I refuse to go?"

He stared at her. "You've been begging and pleading and complaining since you got here. You're finally getting your wish."

"And if I refuse to go?" she repeated.

"Then I'll carry you out to the car, drive you to the nearest airport and drop you there. You'll never find your way back here. And if you do, it'll probably be too late."

"Too late?"

"Either this place will be gone or we will. Face it, girly. He doesn't want you. He's finished playing his little games with you. He wants you gone."

Megan didn't move as rage and pain battled for control deep inside. Rage was beginning to win. "When?"

"I'll have to get the car ready, get it gassed up. I'll be back for you in an hour. And don't think you can go find him on your own and plead your case. This house is too convoluted for anyone to find anything. He doesn't want to see you, and there's no way you'll be able to force him. You're leaving, either willingly or not. Be ready." The door banged closed behind him, bouncing against the door jam. Bouncing before the automatic lock could click into place.

She waited until his heavy footsteps faded into the distance. And then she pulled herself from the bed, absolutely vibrating with rage.

Her hands were shaking as she ripped off the filmy gown she'd been wearing and pulled on her jeans and sweater. Ethan thought he could simply dismiss her, did he? He thought he could kidnap her, hold her hostage,—make love to her and then simply send her on her way without a word?

He was in for a rude awakening. Never in her life had she suffered the ignominy of a one-night stand, and she wasn't about to start with her personal phantom. If he wanted to get rid of her, he was going to have to tell her himself.

As for the ability to find him in this maze of passageways, she had no doubt at all. She had a sixth sense about him, one that would take her directly to him. He'd have to tell her himself. Full face, with the lights blazing. He'd have to send her away himself. And then maybe she'd go.