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They were heading down, down, into the center of the house again, into darkness lit only by the occasional gaslight fixture. Meg stumbled after Salvatore, cursing her skimpy dress and her overactive imagination. Why couldn't the man dwell somewhere above the basements? She knew he could walk, knew he was strong enough to carry her one hundred and twenty-five pounds up the twisting tower steps. Why would he choose to dwell in the cellars?

When Salvatore ushered her through a wide doorway, she had her answer in the darkness of the room. He chose the basement for the lack of light. No shuttered windows to let in even a chink of daylight. Just the chill damp of the earth around them.

It was a different room from where Ethan had held his previous audience with her. There were no blinking lights in the background, but then, she knew now that he didn't need life-support systems to keep him going. She could make out a wide table covered in damask, set with crystal and bone china. Set for one. Candelabra stood on either side of the chair, but the pools of light didn't travel far into the room. He was somewhere beyond, watching her, watching as she moved forward and took the chair Salvatore held out for her. She could feel his gaze on her skin, as physical as a touch, running up her legs, her hips, her low-cut neckline. It took all her self-possession to keep from tugging at that neckline.

She sat very still as Salvatore placed food in front of her, filled her wineglass and then disappeared into the shadows. She knew he was gone, out of sight, out of hearing, as well as she knew Ethan Winslowe was there. In the darkness, she was learning to trust her other senses.

She glanced down at her plate. Boneless chicken in a delicate tarragon-scented sauce, wild rice, fresh white asparagus. The wine would be vintage, French and very dry. She sighed.

"You don't like the food?" Ethan's voice came out of the darkness. "Simply tell Salvatore what you'd like and he'll provide it."

"I'd kill for a Big Mac and fries," she said. "Washed down by a supersize Diet Coke."

"Sorry."

"What about takeout?" she suggested hopefully, picking up the heavy silver fork.

"The nearest McDonald's is one hundred and ten miles away. The food would be cold by the time Sal carried it back."

The chicken was almost sinfully wonderful. She could live without fast food for a little while longer. "I'm surprised you even know what a McDonald's is," she said, taking a sip of the wine. Exactly as she had guessed, and utterly delicious.

"I know. I just don't know what the food tastes like."

"You've never been inside one?"

"Hardly."

She leaned back in the chair, holding the wineglass. It was useless to stare into the dark in Ethan's direction; instead, she looked into the shimmering depths of the wine. "You're missing a great treat."

"I'll have to take your word for it. I expect I'll survive. What did you think of our local man of the cloth?"

"Pastor Lincoln? He's nutty as a fruitcake."

"He comes by it honestly. His father and grandfather were deranged fanatics before him. I gather you didn't want to avail yourself of his offer of help. Dare I hope you've grown attached to this place?"

"Hope all you want. In this case, it was a choice between the devil I could see and the devil I couldn't. I decided you might prove less dangerous in the long run."

"I don't know if I'm flattered or offended," he murmured.

"Let me know when you figure it out." She drained the wine, reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass. "What's a succubus?"

She heard his muffled explosion of laughter. "Is that what he called you?"

"Among other things. I've missed that term. What does it mean?"

"A female demon who has sexual relations with men in their sleep," he replied.

She considered the notion, hoping he couldn't see the faint stain of color in her cheeks. It was the wine, she told herself. "That doesn't sound like much fun," she said finally.

"It also includes the sexual partners of male demons," he added.

"I see."

"I imagine you do."

She set the wineglass on the table. She was too vulnerable to risk drinking even a moderate amount. Already she was growing hot, disturbed, uneasy. Aroused. Better to stick to water. Better to stick to an adversarial relationship.

"When are you going to let me go?"

"That again?" he demanded wearily. "You grow tiresome, Meg."

"Then send me home. Surely I've paid enough for my father's sins."

"Not really."

"One stupid mistake five years ago is not something to crucify a man over," she said with a trace of desperation.

"Not when people die? Not when he tries to foist the blame off on other people?"

"He's sorry. He told me so."

"And you think that, like a little boy who's broken a window or shoplifted a candy bar, all he has to do is say he's sorry and everything's all right?"

"What else can he do?"

"He could have the nerve to come here himself instead of sending you. And he could come up with something like, 'I'll never do it again.'" Ethan's voice was cold, implacable.

"But he..." A sudden, chilling thought came to her. "Would you believe him?"

"Of course not. But then, I have the advantage over you. I know he's still doing it."

"No!"

"Still using inferior materials, cutting corners, ignoring structural specifications in order to save money and line his own pockets. Risking life after life for his own greed, ignoring the blood that's already on his hands, and then sending his own daughter as a sacrifice to keep me from turning him in." Ethan's voice was savage in the darkness, the words like knives cutting into her. "I don't believe you. He wouldn't...he couldn't..." "You're not a blind fool, Meg, even though you try to be where your father's concerned. He's done the same thing with the Minneapolis Science Emporium and the Greenwich Art Center. Sooner or later, something's going to collapse, more people are going to die and you're going to be a willing accomplice to it all because of your idiotic loyalty."

"He can't be. He can't do it by himself." "Of course he can't. He's got plenty of help from people like George Dubocek and Brian Donegal running the sites. And he's got help on the administration end. People like Mary Elder, and Phillip Zarain are working that end of it, covering up when cheaper quality support beams are ordered, when things are skimped. He'll get away with it until someone else dies, and then his house of cards will collapse as surely as the cheap buildings he's been erecting."

For a moment, Meg felt as if she were going to throw up. The taste of wine was like vinegar in her mouth, the delicate sauce like a pool of grease in the back of her throat. She wanted to scream at him, to throw the words back in his face, to tell him he was a liar. That her father wasn't the closest thing to a murderer. But the names he'd named made too much sense. Too many furtive looks, covered up deals, were beginning to become clear. "And you were willing to let him get away with it? Let it continue, let people risk their lives as long as I stayed here and provided you with a little malicious amusement?" she managed to say, coming up with the only attack she could muster.

"No."

She jerked her head up. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean no, I wasn't going to let it continue. I lied to you. The federal investigators have already been tipped off and given enough information that it will be relatively simple, even for bureaucrats, to find the smoking gun. Your father's destroyed, Meg. Ruined, disgraced and probably headed for jail."

"You were never going to save him at all."

"Never."

"I could have gone to him, made him stop—"

"There are buildings, public buildings, in dangerously weakened states. What would you have done about that?"

"You've kept me prisoner here promising me you'd leave him alone."

"I lied."

She felt cold, sick inside. "Why?"

He moved closer, and she imagined she could see his silhouette in the shadowed room. Tall, lean, dark. And dangerous. "Two reasons. One, you're a bright woman. You would have warned him, and he might have had time to cover his tracks. He's good at that sort of thing, and I don't have much faith in the federal investigators. They'd been fooled once, they could be fooled again."

"What's the other reason?" She felt a detached sort of control edge back.

"I wanted you here."

Baldly stated. She could feel the flush rise in her cheeks again and for something to do, she reached for her wineglass, draining it. "For revenge?" she asked.

"For a great many reasons. I'll leave it up to you to figure it out. But revenge wasn't one of them." He moved away again, and she was afraid he was going to leave her.

"What makes you think I wasn't in on this whole thing? Pocketing my share of the proceeds, turning a blind eye to my father's perfidy?"

"Your face."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have a guileless face. I can see everything you're thinking in those huge blue eyes of yours, in that soft mouth. You'd be a lousy poker player, Meg. Everything is obvious on that pretty face of yours."

"Oh, God, I hope not." Belatedly she realized she had spoken out loud. She didn't want him to be able to read her fascination with him, her unwilling, demented attraction to a phantom she'd never even seen. She concentrated on the important things. "You trust me?"

He laughed. "Haven't I told you not to trust anyone? I believe your innocent face. But I believe the investigation I had done on you even more."

"Investigation?"

"Down to the names and durations of your two love affairs, your dental records and your bra size. Even the form of birth control you favor. I know everything about you, Megan Carey."

"No," she said. "You don't." She couldn't stand the thought that he'd pried into her life, rifled through her history like a pervert searching through her lingerie drawer. "You don't know my heart. My soul."

"Maybe not. But I'm learning."

That was the most frightening thing she'd heard since she'd arrived in the dark, haunted confines of Oak Grove, Arkansas. She pushed her chair back, knocking over the empty wineglass. "I think I want to go back to my room now."

"Is that all? I thought you'd be demanding I let you go home now."

"Would it do any good?"

She could feel his hesitation, knew his answer before his voice came out of the darkness. "No."

"Then my room will have to do."

"Sal's coming."

"Fine," she said, uncomfortable in her low-cut dress. She didn't want him looking at her, watching her. She didn't like the way it made her feel. Uneasy. And oddly, irresistibly excited.

"He'll bring you something to help you sleep."

"I won't need anything. The wine has been quite enough." Her voice was unnaturally polite.

"Tell me one thing before you go."

"Of course."

"Did you get to see Joseph this afternoon?" He sounded only idly curious.

"Yes. Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. Not many people see him. He keeps a fairly low profile. He must approve of you." There was an odd note in Ethan's voice, one Megan couldn't begin to understand.

But at that point, she wasn't going to ask anything of him, even questions. Salvatore had reappeared, silent and impassive behind her, and she turned and followed him without even saying good-night.

That omission bothered her all the long way to her room. It bothered her after Salvatore left her, locking her in. It bothered her until she happened to glance over at the ancient Roman murals on the terra-cotta walls.

She heard the gasp of shock, knew that it came from her own throat. She couldn't believe what her eyes were telling her. Picking up the candelabrum Salvatore had left behind, she moved close to the walls, peering through the murky light at the murals.

She'd had three glasses of wine. Heaven only knew what Salvatore might have put in her food to drug her. Or maybe it was simply the stress of the situation that had addled her brain.

Or maybe it was Ethan Winslowe's twisted sense of humor. These weren't innocent murals of Roman daily life. These were graphic, highly erotic, even bordering on pornographic. Certainly Pastor Lincoln would consider them so, but then, he'd be the type to consider a romance novel porn. The paintings in front of her were shockingly explicit, yet not without a certain grace. And not without the ability to move her.

She backed away, plunging the paintings into darkness again. She felt hot all over, her skin damp and tingling. She wasn't a prude, she hadn't been sheltered, and she considered herself sophisticated enough in matters like these. So why did she feel so disturbed? So... aroused?

Maybe it was the result of finally feeling better. Maybe it was a normal state when one was recovering from pneumonia, but she somehow doubted it. Maybe it was the Stockholm Syndrome, that perverse state in which captives became attracted to their tormentors. Or maybe it was nothing more sinister than her overactive, over-romantic imagination, reliving the Beauty and the Beast legend.

Ethan Winslowe was a beast, all right, and there was nothing romantic about being held captive while he systematically destroyed her father.

A father who deserved whatever punishment was meted out, she reminded herself, a father who'd been ready to sacrifice her in his place. She was going to harden her heart, slam the door shut on any feelings that might linger, just as he'd slammed the door shut on any paternal responsibility         

It didn't help matters to stand abandoned in the middle of this room from another time, another place, and feel so mortally sorry for herself. She'd done her best not to have illusions about her father's feckless self-absorption. It shouldn't shock her, shouldn't hurt. But it did.

The bed in the center of the room might look Roman, but it was equipped with a thoroughly modern, well-sprung mattress. Salvatore, her keeper and lady's maid, had turned down the thick cotton sheets and laid a nightgown across the bed. A new one, made of thin, soft, white cotton. Another Victorian virgin, she thought with a forced smile. Except that the neckline was square and lowcut and the cotton was gossamer thin.

Throwing it over her arm, she headed for the adjoining bathroom and then stopped. Since her enforced residence in this strange old house, she'd made it a practice of changing in the various bathrooms. It had been instinct, and for the first time, she wondered why.

She glanced up at the ceiling, the walls, the corners of the room. Once she saw it, she was amazed she hadn't noticed before.

Of course, it might not be a video camera. It was small enough, disguised to look like part of a sprinkler system, and it might be the product of late-night paranoia. But she didn't think so. Somewhere, miles of corridors away from her, Ethan Winslowe was sitting in front of a bank of television monitors watching her.

He'd know she'd guessed by now. She stared up at the camera, shoulders back, hair pushed away from her face, and she considered making a rude gesture, then dismissed the notion. That sort of childish action wouldn't even make her feel better. She should simply continue on into the bathroom where she knew even a man like Winslowe would have the decency to leave her some privacy. There'd be no cameras in there, no microphones. She could even drag the mattress in there and sleep on the floor.

She still didn't move. Through the wavering candlelight, the murals seemed to dance in front of her, blatantly, healthily sexual. There was one in particular, with a generously built female stretched out on a bed very similar to the one Meg had been provided with. Instead of a healthy young man, she was being pleasured by some sort of mythic creature. Roman legend was full of them, half man, half beast, all endowed with amazing sexual powers. Satyrs, centaurs and other creatures she couldn't remember or had never known about. This particular apparition seemed dark and fascinating, and she could understand the obvious raptures the hapless female was enjoying—

She must have had too much wine, Meg thought in horror. She must be going out of her mind.

But if Ethan Winslowe wanted to spy on her, then she might as well make it worth his while. With a slow, deliberate gesture, she reached behind her to the zipper that traveled up the back of the clinging black dress.

She pulled it down slowly, letting the dress fall around her shoulders. She looked away from the camera, toward the section of the mural she found so absorbing, and let the dress slide down her body, landing in a pool at her feet.

She could feel his eyes on her, like a physical presence, touching her skin. She'd worn black lace underwear, a strapless black bra, lace bikini panties and a black garter belt to hold up silk stockings. If Ethan knew so much about her, he'd know she was partial to racy underwear. He said he knew the black bra was thirty-four C. None of this should come as a shock to him.

She paused for a moment, stretching like a contented cat as she stepped out of her fallen dress. She felt sinful, sensual and deliciously evil as she stood there in her shocking underwear and her high, high heels. If he hadn't needed life-support systems before this little act, he would now.

Leaning over so that her hair fell in her face, she slowly unhooked one sheer black stocking. Sliding it down her leg, she stepped out of her shoes with a trace of regret. Men were supposed to find high heels unbearably erotic. She wanted Ethan Winslowe to suffer.

The next stocking followed. She unfastened the garter belt and tossed it in the corner beneath the video camera with all the aplomb of an elegant stripper tossing her clothing to a hungry crowd.

For the first time in her life, she didn't feel ten pounds overweight. She felt luscious.

She considered leaving him with that. Sauntering into the privacy of the bathroom, leaving him with the mystery still intact. But she'd gone this far, she was going to carry it through to the end.

Turning her back to the camera once more, she reached between her breasts and unfastened the front clasp, letting the bra drop to the floor. She could feel his eyes running up the long, clean lines of her back; she could hear his breathing, even though he was far, far away.

She turned back to him, clad only in the wisp of silk bikini panties, and in the warmth of the room, her nipples were hard. She could feel a flush across her face, a sexual arousal that stemmed from what she was doing to her unseen phantom, what she was doing to herself. Tilting her face toward the camera, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. And sliding her fingers inside the waistband of her panties, she slid them down her legs, slowly, slowly, past her knees, past her calves, until she was completely, gloriously nude.

It was an odd, liberating feeling. An act of revenge, a reckless, heedless challenge. She opened her eyes again, staring up at the camera. And with a small, self-satisfied smile, she pulled the virginal nightgown over her head, leaned over and blew out the candlelight.

 

Salvatore appeared behind the bank of television monitors, unable to see what Ethan was witnessing. "She's settled for the night. Do you need anything else?"

Ethan didn't move. He couldn't. "Get the hell out of here, Sally. Now!"

"Is something wrong?" Salvatore started to move around the monitor screens.

"Get out!" Ethan said again in a strangled voice.

Salvatore was wise enough to stop. "You've got to let her go, Ethan. She's upsetting you—"

"She's upsetting me," Ethan agreed in a harsh rasp. "And she's not going anywhere. Leave me alone, Sally. Just leave me the hell alone."

The door closed silently behind Sal, leaving Ethan alone in the darkness once more. But he wasn't alone. In the murky shadows of screen number seven, Meg Carey lay stretched out on the bed in the center of the room, the white nightgown wrapped around a body that... a body that...

His own body felt ready to explode. He was shaking with reaction, and he knew he should be furious with her. That little striptease had been deliberate, a taunting reminder that she didn't really think he was a man.

But he was. And he was more in control than she realized. He'd seen the flush of color on her cheekbones, seen the tautness of her breasts, and known that in her deliberate and wholly successfully attempt to taunt and arouse him, she'd managed to arouse herself quite effectively.

For a moment, all he could think of was to head down the twisting corridors to her room, go to her in the darkness and take what she'd so mockingly offered. His body craved it; his soul craved it.

Ah, but his heart wanted something else. A heart he didn't think he'd owned. He wasn't going to go after her now, when he was half crazy with wanting her. The game wasn't ready to be played, not yet.

But soon. Very, very soon.