Chapter 7

Ian was silent for a long moment, then sighed roughly. “I know what you’re saying. As much as I hate to admit it, I even agree. But I don’t know how long I can stand not seeing you, Michele.”

She felt the same; the thought of not seeing him, possibly for weeks, made her ache inside, but she concentrated on the belief that maybe—just maybe—they could find a way to keep from building their future on the ruins of their families.

“It won’t be easy,” she admitted. “And even if we do find proof that someone else is involved, we might not be able to stop the feud. But we have to try, Ian. I don’t think either of us could be happy if we didn’t at least try. If just one person—the wrong person—sees us together…Too many people know about the feud. Too many people who don’t understand how serious it is. The whole thing could blow up in our faces. We can’t take the chance.”

He pulled her against his chest and just held her for a long moment, his cheek pressed to her silky black hair. “All right,” he said quietly.

Michele wanted to stay in his arms forever, and even though she knew she should leave she couldn’t make herself go. “What will your father do when he finds out about us?”

“I honestly don’t know. He won’t like it, but whether he’ll accept it is something else. He’s willing to concede the possibility of a third party being involved in the feud—especially now that he knows neither of us caused that explosion. And he doesn’t like being used; that’s to our benefit. I’ll keep trying to convince him.”

She half nodded. “If I can get Jon on our side, maybe he can help me convince Dad.” Then she sighed and gently pushed herself upright again. “I’d better go; it’s almost midnight.”

Ian didn’t protest again, even though he wanted to. She certainly knew her father better than he did, and if she believed he was so close to the edge, then they had to avoid calling attention to their relationship, at least until they could somehow manage to defuse the tension.

He walked her down to her car, reluctant to let her go until he absolutely had to. Standing by her Cougar in the brightly lit parking lot, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, wishing they had another hour, another night. It was so bitterly unfair that the woman he loved, the woman who might well be carrying his child even now, couldn’t walk beside him in public for fear of violence exploding between their families.

“I love you,” he murmured against her lips, holding her tightly. “No matter what happens, don’t forget that.”

“I won’t forget. I love you, too. And I’ll fight for us, Ian, I promise you. I don’t want to destroy my family, but if I have to make a choice—”

“You won’t,” he interrupted firmly, even though he knew it could easily come to that.

Insistently, she said, “If I do, I’ll walk away from them—not you.”

He held her for a moment longer, then reluctantly let her go. “I hope you don’t have to.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a key, pressing it into her hand. “A key to the apartment, just in case. I’ll tell the security guard he’s to let you pass at any time.”

“For when Dad throws me out?” she asked in a light voice that didn’t quite mask the pain.

Ian touched her cheek gently. “Any time. We don’t know what could happen, baby. If you need to come to me, for any reason, then I want you to.”

“All right.”

Another worry was nagging at him, and as she got into the car, he added, “Michele…be careful. Both our families have an enemy now, and he doesn’t seem to care who gets hurt.”

The caution sent a chill through her. She hadn’t thought about it that way, but the ruthlessness of an enemy who could plant explosives and then lure a potential victim to the site—even if the intention was merely to point suspicion at someone else—was only too obvious.

Neither way is without tragedy. The fortune-teller’s warning crept into her mind, and she shivered. “If I find out anything, I’ll call you.”

“Call me anyway,” he said. “If I don’t at least hear your voice, I think I’ll go out of my mind.” He made no pretense of keeping the statement light; his voice was low and rough with unhidden feeling.

Michele nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and when he closed the car door she started the engine and backed out of the parking space. He remained there, gazing after her, and her last glimpse of him in the rearview mirror showed her only a big, shadowy figure with gleaming hair under the stark lights.

She drove home slowly, trying to think, to plan. Even with the damage to her father’s building, he was only weeks away from completing the project, just as Brandon Stuart was weeks away from finishing his building; both had been originally scheduled to be completed by the first of the year, and that deadline was a critical one if either company hoped to win the Techtron project. The race was still on, more intense than before, and if the saboteur meant to cause more trouble, he was likely to find plenty of opportunity. He would probably wait at least a while, hoping that he had done enough to start the centuries-old hatred boiling, but if neither side reacted, he’d have to throw more wood on the fire. Logically, he would strike at the Stuarts next, a seeming retaliation from the Logans, assuming that Michele’s father didn’t strike first.

How much time did they have? Very little, she knew. And unless she could convince Jon the Stuarts weren’t behind the sabotage, there was no hope at all of controlling their father. He might listen to Jon, even if he didn’t like what he heard, but he wouldn’t listen to her.

She parked her car in the curving drive of their big, old house and let herself in quietly. There was a lamp burning in the entrance hall, but the rest of the house appeared dark. Leaving her purse and keys on the hall table, Michele started up the stairs. She was on the third step when Jon’s voice came quietly from the dark living room.

“A little late, aren’t you?”

Michele waited there as he slowly crossed the hall to the bottom of the stairs and stood looking up at her. She felt a flash of resentment, but it quickly vanished; she couldn’t afford the emotion, couldn’t take the chance of alienating Jon over his usual protectiveness.

Dryly, she said, “I talked Dad out of the curfew when I was twenty, remember? This isn’t the first time I’ve come in after midnight.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s usually your job, at least according to you. But you’re on vacation this week, Michele.” His gaze was very intent, searching; she had the feeling that he wanted to ask her outright where she’d been, but that for some reason he didn’t want to hear the answer.

Because he thought he knew the answer.

Michele wondered if it showed on her face. Keeping her voice calm, she said, “Yes, I’m on vacation. I’m also trying very hard to find out who ordered the sabotage. Your source at city hall, Jon—I want to talk to him.”

The distraction worked, at least for the moment.

“He’s on vacation,” Jon said. “Up north somewhere.”

“Now, isn’t that…convenient,” she mused, more to herself than to Jon.

“For God’s sake, Michele, he takes a vacation every year!”

She looked at her brother. “In November?”

Jon hesitated, then swore softly. “No. Usually in August. And, before you ask, I don’t know if he took his regular vacation this year; I had no reason to be in touch with him that month.”

“Did he tell you he was going on vacation?”

Again, Jon hesitated. “No. I have his home number, and I called his house tonight. His wife answered and said she was packing to join him.”

“For how long?”

“Couple of weeks, maybe more.”

Even granting her suspicions where Jon’s informant was concerned, it still sounded to her as if the man had left Atlanta in something of a hurry. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.

“Misha…”

“Maybe I can track him down,” she said, saying the first thing that came into her head. Because Jon had been about to ask her a question she wasn’t yet ready to answer; she’d heard it in his voice.

“He could lose his job if you start asking questions about him.”

She wasn’t at all sure she cared; paid informers weren’t her favorite people. “I’ll be discreet. But I’m going to find out who’s behind this, Jon. You could have been killed, and Lord only knows what could happen next.” The very thought of what could happen next, all the myriad possibilities woven like a net around the people she loved, made her feel cold and afraid.

After a long moment, Jon said, “You’re very sure someone else is involved.”

Michele drew a deep breath. “Positive. I’ll need your source’s name and anything else you know about him. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“All right. Good night, Michele.”

“Good night.” She went on up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. And it wasn’t until she was changing for bed that a glimpse in the bathroom mirror told her what Jon had seen. It wasn’t in her face or eyes; the light in the hall downstairs hadn’t been good enough for that. But it had been good enough for him to see a definite change. When she’d left the house hours before, her hair had been neatly braided in its accustomed style. She had forgotten to put it back up before leaving Ian’s apartment; it now hung loosely around her shoulders, the curls a little wilder than usual because she’d gotten her hair wet in the shower.

Michele couldn’t think of a single good reason why she would have taken her hair down—except the truth. And she didn’t think Jon had been able to think of one either. Sooner or later, he’d ask the question, and she’d have to answer.

Sooner or later.

The following days passed slowly. Michele got in touch with her counterpart on the West Coast and persuaded him to try and find out who had acquired the state-of-the-art timer.

“Legally, or under the table?” he asked, frankly curious since she’d told him the matter was personal rather than business.

“Both, if you can manage it; I have no way of knowing if he had a legitimate reason for buying the thing. I can’t even tell you how far back to look, Steve. At a guess, a few months. There are only three legitimate sources on the West Coast, and the thing’s so new there can’t be many illegitimate ones. But this guy may have really covered his tracks.”

“So you want a list of every buyer for, say, the last six months? That’s a tall order, Michele.”

“I know. But if you come through for me, I’ll owe you a dozen favors.”

“Um. And I suppose you need to know yesterday?”

“Yesterday wouldn’t have been soon enough.”

“Gotcha. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I know of a few shady dealers in explosives, so I’ll try them, too. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“No problem. By the way, are you as gorgeous as you sound?” He always asked that, and Michele always gave him the same calm answer.

“No. I have crossed eyes and buck teeth. If you can’t reach me at the office, call me at home.” She recited the number.

“One of these days,” he said pleasantly, “I’m going to fly east and find out for myself.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Ah—she has a man in her life.”

Michele could hardly help but laugh. “Yes. And believe me, that’s a story in itself.” The thought of Ian made her recall the saboteur’s apparent motives, and she added more soberly, “Steve, along with that list of names—see if you can get descriptions of the buyers, okay?”

“Descriptions? Why?”

“He might be using an alias. I’m groping in the dark; he’s nameless and faceless.”

“Michele, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

She had never met Steve Ashe, but over the past couple of years they had talked frequently, and phone relationships between strangers were sometimes close simply because they were unlikely to meet face to face. The normal guards of people came down somehow, until a name and a familiar voice became a friend.

“…a trusted voice, a strange but familiar face, eyes veiled against you.”

She shivered unconsciously as the fortune-teller’s warning flitted through her mind. Stupid to bank too much on that, she told herself. There was no way to look at cards on a table and see into the future, just no way. But her uneasiness grew. So much of the reading had been uncannily on target.

“Michele?”

“Sorry. My mind wandered for a minute.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“There isn’t much to tell. A project of my father’s was sabotaged, and I need to find out who’s responsible.”

“The police can’t help?”

“No.” She didn’t elaborate.

Steve sighed. “When I call in my favors, one of them’s going to be a request to hear the whole story.”

“Find out who bought that timer and I’ll tell you gladly.”

“Do my best. I’ll be in touch, Michele.”

After she’d hung up, Michele sat at the desk in her office for a long time thinking. There were innumerable details she could check, nebulous though they were. The rival companies here in Atlanta that could handle a project the size of the Techtron contract numbered only a half dozen or so; she could begin looking into them, searching for the signs of equipment, supplies, and manpower being readied for a big project and, conversely, those same resources being already committed to an on-going project and unavailable for anything new. She could piece together the recent histories of the owners of those companies and look for ambition and/or a driving need for a lucrative contract.

Jon had promised to do some checking on his own, but Michele had no intention of leaving it entirely up to him. He knew the construction business better than she did, but she had the training and experience in gathering evidence piece by piece and putting it together.

Assuming she was given the time.

She was grateful to have the work to do, not because it took her mind off all the problems—it could hardly do that—but because she felt less helpless with a definite plan of action, however sketchy. And if she was never distracted from her longing to be with Ian, at least working herself to the point of exhaustion allowed her to sleep at night.

Two weeks passed, with no results on either her end or his and no chance for them to safely meet, and Michele was very conscious of the growing tension in them both. She could hear it in Ian’s voice when they talked briefly on the phone, and she felt it in herself. And it wasn’t just one kind of tension, because they couldn’t be together; they were edgy waiting for their saboteur to make his next move, frustrated by their inability to find answers, and very conscious that time was running out.

The only bright spot during those weeks was Michele’s inner certainty that she was indeed pregnant. She almost held her breath when her period was late, but by the fourth day she was sure. She called her doctor—from the office, of course—and made an appointment after briefly discussing the matter with him and settling on a date that would ensure the test was accurate. She decided not to mention it to Ian until it was confirmed, but she was certain.

It was a bittersweet joy. She felt all the wonder and happiness of a woman who wanted her baby with all her heart, and yet she couldn’t forget the presence of a nameless, faceless enemy who could destroy everyone she loved—possibly even her unborn child. Ian had promised to be careful, and so had Jon, but Michele’s anxiety wasn’t eased.

And when the answers finally did begin falling into place, they brought only a new set of questions.

Steve came through with flying colors, even though it took him nearly three weeks to cover the necessary area on the West Coast. He sent the list directly to Michele’s computer, and it was obvious he’d done a thorough job. As soon as she looked over the information, she called him.

“I owe you a dozen favors,” she said.

“And I’ll make you pay through the nose.” Then he sobered. “Any help at all?”

She studied the list on her computer screen. “I’m not sure yet. You’ve got about thirty names here, and all but three of them are located on the West Coast and legitimately involved with demolitions work. No addresses on these three?”

“No, sorry. The names are probably aliases; all three bought a timer from a man who had no business selling them, and all three paid in cash; it’s a miracle he got names from them. I got descriptions of two: George Norris is a blond in his twenties and looked mad as hell at somebody, and Robert Andrews is dark, slick, and probably a thief of some kind. The opinions are those of the man who sold the timer.”

Michele looked at the third name on the list. “And Nicholas South?”

“Now, there,” Steve said with satisfaction, “we hit a wall. Our shady dealer in rare explosives just couldn’t seem to recall what Mr. South looked like. In fact, he had all the signs of having been paid to keep his mouth shut. Would your man be cagey enough to buy a little silence?”

“He might,” Michele said slowly, feeling the first flicker of real hope. “Steve, do you think that dealer would be willing to talk if the price were right?”

“I think he’d sell his soul for the right price. How high do you want to go?”

“As high as it takes. Just get the information and I’ll wire you the money.”

“It may take a few days or more,” Steve warned. “The guy operates out of a van, and he doesn’t park in one place for very long.”

“Let me know as soon as you find out something.”

“Right.”

Michele didn’t know if a description of the elusive Mr. South would do her any good at all, but, like Steve, she was doubly suspicious of anyone who paid to cover his tracks. As for the companies and men she was checking here in Atlanta, four rival construction firms had been eliminated with fair certainty; all four were currently involved in lengthy projects demanding all their resources and couldn’t possibly have taken on the Techtron contract. She had two companies left to check; if those proved doubtful as well, then she’d have to try and discover another motive for the sabotage.

As the days turned into weeks, his simmering rage began to boil. All the careful planning, the moves timed and executed with the precision of chess pieces on a board, had not produced the results he’d expected.

Something was wrong. They weren’t reacting as they should have done. By now, the fight should have been fully begun. They should have been tearing each other to shreds while he enjoyed the sight from the sidelines. Instead, the tense balance had somehow been maintained, with both families quiet.

He thought about it for a long time, struggling to contain his rage so that he could consider. He knew, of course, about the curious twist of fate that had entered his game; that knowledge was certainly a weapon he could use to his advantage. But he had decided to time that perfectly, to choose just the right moment to strike the final destructive blow.

Still, he had the uneasy feeling that someone else was using the very knowledge he meant as a weapon somehow to heal the damage he had already inflicted. Not them, no. They couldn’t possibly have overcome what he’d done to them; there was no way she’d trust him after he had hurt her brother. And they hadn’t seen each other, he knew that.

But he was disturbed. His plan had been meticulously arranged, yet now he could feel an alien touch, a ghostly hand deflecting or softening his blows. The conduits through which he had so carefully fed information were being severed before they could be used to further antagonize, the buffers between himself and his enemies moved silently out of the way. He was less protected now.

He looked down at the devices on the table, and his control over rage slipped another notch. So be it, then, he decided angrily. He would have to be bolder, strike with less concern of protecting himself. Another push, and if they failed to react, follow that with a deadly shove.

It occurred to him that deaths would bring the police into the situation, but he was beyond caring. No one would look further than the feud for suspects. There had been no fatalities in more than a hundred years; perhaps it was time to teach them a forgotten lesson about the power of hate.

Like the month before, December bowed with a cold rain designed to make warm-blooded Southerners shiver miserably. With the Christmas shopping season in full swing, the city was gaily decorated, but the bright splashes of color, vibrant lights, and glittering tinsel did little to cheer gloomy skies.

Michele, who usually scorned anything but a light jacket in winter, dug her fur coat out of the closet whenever she left for work each morning. Her workload was unusually light for this time of year, so she was able to devote most of her time to the painfully slow search for an enemy.

She had done her best to track down Jon’s informant, but that gentleman had hidden—or been hidden—very thoroughly, and she had no luck. As for the rest, she spent long hours sifting through information, frustrated by the elusive feeling that she was looking in the wrong place entirely, that there was something she was missing.

“Michele?”

She looked up from the papers spread out on her desk to find her brother standing in the doorway. It was late Friday afternoon, the leaden skies and bitter cold outside promising sleet or freezing rain within hours.

“Has something happened?” she asked instantly, her heart leaping into her throat.

“No, not that I know of.” He came into the office and sat down in the chair in front of her desk, looking as tired and tense as she felt. He’d been unusually quiet these last weeks, almost subdued, watching her from time to time with an expression she couldn’t define. He had managed to keep their father from retaliating against the Stuarts, though not without a struggle; Michele had overheard at least one bitter exchange between them and knew that the two of them were at odds for the first time she could remember.

Jon was becoming convinced despite himself. He had quietly agreed with Michele when she eliminated four of their rivals, and had offered the reluctant opinion that the remaining two firms were already stretched too thin to be able to take on the Techtron project.

“What are you doing here?” she asked finally, gathering the papers into a neat stack and tucking them into a folder.

“I came to take you home.”

“Jon—”

“Look, you’ve barely come up for air in weeks. You drag home at eight or nine o’clock at night, and you head back here before this place is even open for business. The security guard downstairs told me they’ve been letting you in and out because you’re the first one here and the last to leave. You can’t keep up this pace, Michele. You’ve lost weight, and you look so brittle I’d be afraid to touch you.”

Jon wasn’t the first to scold her, although her doctor had been even more blunt about the matter. She’d lost eight pounds he didn’t think she could spare, and even though that happened sometimes early in a pregnancy, he told her she had to start taking better care of herself. Especially now.

Michele had made an effort after the doctor’s warning, forcing herself to eat and to get enough sleep, but she hadn’t been able to slow down because what she was doing was so terribly important to her. With every day that passed, she was more and more conscious of time ticking away. Something was going to happen; she could feel it like a cold, dank fog, like something that could be seen and felt but not captured.

She set the file aside and shrugged as she gave in to her brother, feeling the tension in her shoulders and neck. “All right, all right. I’ll go home.”

“Good,” he said. “You can get some rest before the party.”

Blinking, she said, “What party?”

Patiently, he said, “Look at your calendar. It’s that annual charity do to raise money for the disadvantaged kids in the city. Christmas, remember? It’s just around the corner. You go with me every year, and I bought our tickets a couple of months ago.”

“I really don’t think—”

“It’ll do you good to get out. Jackie’ll be there. Come on, Michele.”

It was a black-tie event, the first of the glittering social functions scheduled between now and New Year’s, and Michele had attended most of them in the past. On the point of trying to get out of it this year, she suddenly remembered that Ian always went; she’d seen him across the ballroom.

Did Jon know that? Gazing at her brother’s veiled eyes, she had the uneasy feeling that he did. It would be insane for her to think she could be in the same room with Ian—even a crowded ballroom—without giving her feelings away. And she hadn’t yet told him about the baby, wanting to be with him for that, to see his face when he heard; how could she stay away from him when the longing to be in his arms tortured her?

“Come on, Michele,” Jon repeated. “You promised, and I’m holding you to it.”

“Is Dad going?” she asked slowly.

“No. He said he had things to do.”

It was madness, but she wasn’t surprised to hear herself give in. “All right.”

Jon’s eyes flickered, but that was his only reaction. He rose to his feet. “Get your coat, and I’ll walk you to the car.”

Michele didn’t argue. Even with herself.

A few hours later, she stood before the dressing mirror in her bedroom, fastening her earrings. A long, hot bath had eased some of her physical tension, but she knew she was still edgy. She had tried to disguise at least the outward indications of that, applying makeup to soften her face and shade her eyes, and wearing a gown that was made up of flowing lines and soft material.

She wore her hair in a style less severe than usual; it was piled high on her head in a mass of loose curls, with a number of long curling strands allowed to trail over one shoulder. The gown she wore was a shimmering gray; long-sleeved and with a deep V neckline, it had a full skirt falling from a high waist.

She’d been too busy to pay much attention to her own appearance these last weeks, and for the first time, she could see the signs of strain in herself. With no excess weight to spare, the lost pounds had left her obviously thinner, but despite that she looked neither ill nor exhausted. Her eyes seemed larger, her cheekbones more prominent, but it was a finely honed look as if some drastic alteration had taken place inside her, leaving her starkly different and yet curiously more focused, more centered than she had been before.

It was too early in her pregnancy for that to cause such outward changes, but Michele thought the child she carried was at least partly responsible nonetheless—because of her emotional awareness. There was a bond between her and Ian now that could never be broken no matter what happened. Their love had created a new life, a tiny scrap of humanity both Logan and Stuart. The bridge they had sought to build between their families had become in part a living connection.

Michele held on to that awareness, because it gave her strength. She went to her closet and got the cloak Jackie had talked her into buying back in the fall. The long, hooded cloak was pale blue and trimmed in ermine; it was both exotic and dramatic, and Michele hadn’t yet worn it because she hadn’t been able to get up the nerve. Tonight she swung it around her shoulders automatically with no more than a faint inner shrug and went downstairs.

Jon didn’t say very much during the drive downtown to the hotel where the event was being held, but he did tell her something that made her believe he was well on his way to being convinced someone other than a Stuart was working against them.

“I played a little hardball with one of the electrical inspectors this morning.”

Michele looked at him, worried. “What did you do?”

Jon smiled thinly. “Since we weren’t having any luck finding my guy at city hall, I went straight to the horse’s mouth. I took with me half a dozen signed statements from other builders who are positive he took bribes to delay their projects. They didn’t have proof, mind you, but he knew damned well the statements alone would get him fired.”

“He talked?”

“He sure did. He admitted he’d been paid to delay us. The arrangements were made by phone, and he was paid in cash, by messenger; half up front and half a week after our crews were forced to stop working. His employer didn’t identify himself, but from what was said, he gathered the man was a Stuart.”

“It wasn’t,” Michele said flatly.

“No,” Jon said just as flatly, “I don’t think it was.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because the inspector had a lot more to say. And he was surprised I didn’t know.” Jon snorted almost angrily. “Serves me right for being so damned convinced the Stuarts were behind it that I never looked for anything else.”

“Tell me.”

“He said there had been a lot of quiet talk these last weeks about somebody working against us and the Stuarts. Apparently, it’s all over the grapevine: inspectors, suppliers, even the crews on both jobs. A hell of a lot of money’s been paid in bribes and kickbacks, but nobody knows who’s behind it. The thing is, it’s as if this guy has inside information; he seems to know exactly when and where to cause delays that cost both us and the Stuarts in time and money.”

“You think he’s buying the information?”

“He’s bought everything else.” Jon sounded frustrated. He was handling the car easily despite the cast on his left arm, and scowling through the windshield.

After a moment, Michele said, “Have you told Dad?”

“I’ve tried. He doesn’t believe it, Misha. He’s convinced the Stuarts are behind everything. I’ve been able to hold him back only because both projects have been stalled. But I don’t know how much longer I can manage it.”

There was little she could say to that, but something else was nagging at her. “Jon, you said a lot of money had been spent in bribes and kickbacks. How much?”

“Can’t know for sure. Tens of thousands. Maybe even hundreds of thousands.”

Recalling all the data she’d collected on the last two possible rivals, Michele said, “That’s too much. None of our rivals could spread that much money around even if they wanted to; all their capital’s tied up, and their personal fortunes just wouldn’t cover it.”

“Then who the hell’s after us?”

“I don’t know. But we have to find out.”

The remainder of the drive was silent. Michele tried to think of an answer, but all she had were questions. If not a business rival, then who? If not for the gain of the Techtron project, then why?

Ian had almost decided to skip the charity event. He was hardly in the mood to make polite social chitchat even for a good cause. He was here because he had suddenly remembered that Michele had attended last year.

The hardest thing he’d ever done was to stay away from her after they had agreed it was best. The brief daily phone calls had done nothing except heighten his desire to see her, to be with her, until he felt frustration gnawing at him. Simply not seeing her was bad enough; the knowledge that someone was intent on playing very nasty games with both families made him worry constantly about her safety. He wanted her with him, wanted her close, so that he could watch over her.

If anything happened to Michele, Ian knew he’d lose his mind. It was an icy fear that never left him now. He had never felt that kind of fear before, but he knew that it would always be with him, for as long as he lived. Because he loved Michele, he would never shake the terror of losing her.

But that was a fear that came from love, a natural result of giving a hostage to fortune. It was the other pressures that were so rawly painful. The pressures that came from a feud neither of them wanted any part of. He knew it was madness to come here tonight hoping to at least see her across a crowded room, because it would only be a glimpse that would torment rather than satisfy. And that aching knowledge made him all the more determined to stop the damnable feud.

The bitter legacy of his family’s hate was this—that he was forced to steal glances at the woman he loved.

He saw her when she came in with her brother. He had positioned himself across the huge room at an angle where he could best watch the entrance. There was quite a crowd, and because this was a buffet dinner, most of the people were on their feet and moving around. A pianist in the far corner played music that was no more than unlistened-to background noise.

The instant he saw Michele, Ian forgot about giving himself away to anyone who could be watching. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was wearing a gleaming gown the exact shade of her gray eyes, and as she moved into the room beside her tall brother she looked beautiful and delicate—and changed.

She had lost a little weight, and that made her appear almost fragile. Yet there was something about her that was stronger as well, an elusive intensity as if all the force of will that made Michele uniquely herself had been compressed and focused inside her. Rather than breaking from the stresses all around her, she had grown stronger and surer. Like a diamond, Ian thought, a thing of incredible beauty and unmatched strength born under unimaginable pressures.

He watched as she and her brother were joined by the red-headed Jackie and a tall, dark man who was apparently her date. It was almost impossible for him to think about anything except Michele, but gradually he became conscious of something nagging at him. There was a wrongness somewhere, something he saw or didn’t see, and it disturbed him.

“Ian’s here,” Jackie said in a low voice, after pulling Michele from the group that had gradually formed around them. Jon and Cole Sutton were talking with a man about computers, and neither seemed to notice their dates moving away.

“I know.” Michele hadn’t dared search the room for him, but she knew he was here because she felt it.

Jackie stared at her, lips compressed. “It’s still going on, isn’t it? You and him.”

Michele had avoided her friend since they’d returned from Martinique, partly because she’d been working so hard and partly because of Jackie’s feelings about Ian. Now, steadily, she said, “I love him. And he loves me. Is that so hard for you to believe?”

“The explosion—”

“Ian wasn’t responsible for that. And neither was his father. There’s somebody else, Jackie, somebody who wants to destroy both families.”

“That’s insane.”

“Yes, it is. But true. Even Jon can see that now.”

Jackie was frowning, but her expression cleared as Cole Sutton slipped away from the group around Jon and joined them. “Did you sell him a computer?” she asked, slipping her arm familiarly through his.

“No luck. He’s the old-fashioned kind.” Cole was a tall, dark man somewhere in his thirties with a face so handsome his features were almost delicate. He had deep blue eyes and a slow smile, and he reminded Michele of someone although she hadn’t been able to decide who it was. He was a sales representative for a high-tech company that had a flourishing office in Atlanta, and like many salesmen he was a charming man with an easy manner.

Jackie had been seeing him for only a few months, but she had fallen quickly and hard. Having finally met the man, Michele could see why, but he made her just a little uncomfortable. Something about the way he stood beside Jackie gave Michele the impression that he was hardly conscious of her, and that was definitely odd considering that they were lovers.

“Better luck next time,” Jackie sympathized, smiling up at him with unshadowed love.

Cole didn’t appear to notice that look, since he was glancing around the room absently—but someone else did. Michele saw her brother coming toward them, and in the few seconds that Jon’s eyes rested on Jackie’s face, his feelings were as plain as neon.

He’s in love with her.

For the first time, Michele understood why her undoubtedly handsome brother dated rarely and tended to throw himself into his work. Jackie had never shown the slightest romantic interest in Jon, treating him with casual friendliness and nothing more; she had even confided in him about her romantic problems with other men. And now she was glowingly in love with Cole, totally unconscious of Jon except as Michele’s brother.

Michele felt a pang of compassion and wondered why she had been so blind to his feelings before this.

“I’m ready to eat,” Jon said calmly as he joined them. “How about the rest of you?”

There was nothing Michele could say to help him, so she said nothing. They went to the buffet together and then found a table, all four of them talking casually. The noise level in the room increased, and Michele could feel her tension increase as well until she could hardly stand it. She excused herself softly and left the table, but instead of going to the restroom she retrieved her cloak from the attendant and slipped out a side door that led to the rooftop terrace.

In good weather, the glass doors of the ballroom were left open so that guests could wander out onto the terrace. The frigid weather tonight made that impractical, so the doors had remained closed and the lights on the terrace hadn’t been turned on. Michele had been here more than once, and knew her way despite the darkness. She avoided the light spilling out from the ballroom as she made her way to the far corner of the terrace and stood looking out on the lights of the city.

It was bitterly cold, but the sleet had held off and there was no wind. Even high above the city, the air was still, the traffic noises from below only muted sounds.

Michele waited. And when he came to her, she turned instantly to burrow into his arms. “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” she whispered, all her senses flaring almost painfully at the touch of him against her.

“I know. I couldn’t either.” Ian turned her face up and kissed her, the first gentleness deepening rapidly to become intense hunger. He held her slender body tightly, knowing that this was the danger they’d faced by staying away from each other; the very passion that had drawn them together in the face of a centuries-old feud was literally too powerful to be denied, and the long separation had built pressure in them both like steam under a tightly closed lid.

It didn’t matter that more than a hundred people laughed and talked only a few yards away, many of whom would have been shocked to see a Logan and a Stuart in each other’s arms. All the reason and common sense and caution in the world couldn’t lessen their response to each other.