Chapter 8

“Michele. God, I’ve missed you.” Ian raised his head at last, staring down at her, realizing with a jolt that it would be years before he knew her face the way he needed to; every time he looked at her she was new and different and more lovely. Now, in the faint lights of the city all around them, she was almost unreal, like something he had dreamed out of the night.

She laughed shakily, clinging to him. “I’ve missed you, too, I knew it was crazy to come here tonight, but I had to see you, even if it was just for a little while—”

Ian kissed her again, trying to satisfy the craving inside him and knowing it was impossible. “A little while isn’t enough,” he said huskily. “Michele—”

He broke off abruptly as she stiffened in his arms. Even though the light was too faint for him to see it, he knew she had gone pale. Keeping one arm around her, he turned slowly and saw a tall figure moving toward them across the terrace. All his instincts told him who it was, and even though the light from the ballroom was behind Jon and left his features in shadow, Ian could feel himself tense warily.

“Ian.” There was no expression in the even voice, no hint of emotion or reaction of any kind. It was the first time he had spoken to Ian in their adult lives.

“Jon.” It was a peculiar feeling, Ian thought, a sense of knowledge without familiarity, of caution and understanding, affinity and distance. They had been set apart all their lives by the feud, but now the woman both of them loved was a connection between them.

Michele’s brother came toward them until he was only a few feet away, then stopped. Still without inflection, he said, “They’re paging you in the ballroom. An emergency call.”

The apparent calm of Jon’s reaction hadn’t eased Ian’s wariness, but he felt some of Michele’s stiffness drain away as if something in her brother’s voice had lessened her own fears. She looked up at him, clearly more worried by the message than by the messenger.

“Something’s happened?”

“I left this number with the security service at the building,” Ian told her.

“I’ll wait here,” she said. When he hesitated, she added quietly, “It’s all right.”

Ian knew from Michele’s reports that her brother had been looking for evidence just as they were, but she hadn’t been sure that he believed both families had a common enemy, which made Jon’s calm now hardly reassuring. Still, Ian had to trust Michele’s assessment, and he couldn’t believe her brother had any violent intentions.

Not, at least, at the moment.

“I’ll be back,” he told her, reluctantly leaving her to cross the terrace. As he came abreast of the other man, he hesitated, then said, “I’d never hurt her, Jon.”

After a moment, Jon’s only response was, “Better take your call.”

Ian glanced back at Michele, standing so quiet and still, then swore under his breath and left them alone.

When he had gone, Michele watched her brother cross the remaining few feet between them and stand by the low terrace wall gazing out on the city. Having been braced for a thunderclap, this mild reaction made her more than a little wary, but she wondered now if the combination of Jon’s growing belief in their faceless enemy and his seemingly hopeless love for Jackie had made him examine his own feelings. All she knew for certain was that he hadn’t been surprised to find her out here with Ian.

“Cold place for a tryst,” he said finally in the same expressionless tone.

It was cold, but Michele was only now aware of it. She drew her cloak more closely around her. “Not a tryst. It wasn’t planned. None of it was planned.” Her voice was as quiet as his, almost hushed, as if they were both afraid of disturbing some fine, delicate balance of emotion.

He drew a short breath. “I think I always knew it would happen someday. From the time you were about fourteen, and your favorite story was Romeo and Juliet.”

“I’d forgotten that.”

“Had you?”

“Consciously, yes. I loved that story. But I hated the ending. People shouldn’t have to die for love, Jon. And they shouldn’t have to hurt their families because they love.”

After a moment, still without looking at her, Jon said, “When you came back from Martinique, I knew you were different. Then the day I got out of the hospital, you went out, and when you came home, I knew there was a man. I couldn’t even accept the possibility that it was Ian Stuart, but you were fighting so hard to prove they weren’t our enemies, and I couldn’t get that out of my mind. I—finally called your hotel in Martinique to find out if he’d been registered there.”

“When did you call?”

“A week ago.”

He had known that long and had said nothing. She had done her brother an injustice in believing he’d react instantly and with hate, Michele realized. It seemed that Jon had given this a great deal of thought before facing his sister.

“Dad doesn’t know.” It wasn’t a question.

“He isn’t ready to hear that. I don’t know if he ever will be, Michele.”

She stepped close to him. “And what about you? How do you feel about it?”

An odd little laugh escaped Jon, a sound that wasn’t amusement. “Hell, I don’t know. I thought I hated him. But I came out here expecting to find you two together…and I didn’t feel much of anything. I wanted to be suspicious of his motives, but I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you looked at him.”

“We didn’t want to hurt anyone. That’s why we’ve stayed away from each other. We want to prove to Dad and Ian’s father that someone else is working against the families, and stop the feud now before someone really gets hurt.” Michele hesitated, then added quietly, “We’re going to be married, Jon.”

Without surprise, her brother said, “Dad can’t stop you. But he won’t accept it.”

“Will you?”

Jon turned to look at her for the first time. “I have to, don’t I? You wouldn’t have gone this far without really thinking it through, not knowing all the risks you’re taking. There’s nothing I could say to you that you haven’t already said to yourself. It can’t have been easy for you. If you…love him after everything you’ve heard for twenty years, then it must be a pretty strong love.”

“It is. The strongest, surest thing I’ve ever felt.”

He half nodded. “That’s why I have to accept it. Maybe Dad can cut off his nose to spite his face, but I can’t. You’re my sister, Michele. I just want you to be happy.”

Though she was still afraid of her father’s reaction, Jon’s acceptance lifted at least part of her dread. “I was so afraid you’d hate me,” she said unsteadily.

He smiled crookedly. “No. Right now, I’m finding it a little hard to hate anyone. I’ve decided I don’t much fancy being a lemming. You were right about that. Five centuries is too long to hate.”

“Good,” Ian said in a quiet voice as he rejoined them. “We can use your help. Our not-so-friendly bomber has struck again.”

Michele half turned to him, instinctively reaching out until his long fingers closed over hers. “Not your building?”

“The elevators. All of them except one; apparently, the man was scared off by security before he could finish the job. The guards saw someone disappear into the stairwell, then everything hit the fan and they were too busy to chase him.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Michele asked anxiously.

“No. But I’d like to know how in hell he got into the building.”

She looked at her brother. “It wasn’t Dad, was it?”

Jon shook his head immediately. “No. He gave me his word he wouldn’t retaliate without telling me, and he doesn’t break his word.”

Accepting that. Michele looked back at Ian and told him what Jon had found out from the bribed inspector. He heard her out in silence, then said, “If that many people know someone else is involved, one of them may know something that can help us. I’ll start questioning our men in the morning.”

“I’ll do the same,” Jon said. “And our suppliers.”

Looking at Michele, Ian said reluctantly, “I have to get to the building. Dad was notified right after I was, so he’ll be there. I have to talk to him.”

“Will he listen?”

“He’ll listen.” Ian sounded grim. “I’m not going to give him a choice about it.”

“I’ll wait for you inside, Michele,” Jon said, leaving them alone on the terrace.

After a moment, Ian pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. “Was he being tactful? Or does it test his resolution to see us together?”

A bit wryly, she said, “Maybe a bit of both. It wasn’t easy for him; I think he’s a little numb. But at least he’s on our side now.”

Ian kissed her. “I’m glad—for all our sakes, but especially for yours. I know how much it would have hurt you if he hadn’t been able to accept this.”

Hugging as much of him as she could, Michele said fiercely, “I just wish it were over. I don’t want to be afraid that something terrible’s going to happen. I want to be with you. I love you so much…”

“I love you, too, baby,” he murmured.

The endearment brought vividly to mind what she wanted to tell him, but there just wasn’t time. It wasn’t something meant to be related during a brief phone call or hurriedly in a stolen meeting on a cold terrace.

She drew away slowly. “You’d better go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Ian framed her face in his hands and kissed her, then again because it wasn’t enough, it could never be enough between them. “Be careful,” he warned tautly. “Whoever he is, this enemy’s too bomb-happy for my peace of mind.”

Michele nodded and watched as he crossed the terrace and went inside. For the first time, she felt very, very cold. And very much alone.

He had watched and listened from the deepest shadows of the terrace, his bitter rage growing. Damn them! They’d made peace among them, forming a solid union despite the odds and a lingering wariness between the men. He should have destroyed the love affair at the first sign, he realized, shattered it before bonds of trust could be formed. Now the three members of the younger generation had formed an alliance, all working to neutralize his attempts to disrupt the careful balance between their families.

And even worse. They knew about him. It was only a matter of time before they put all the pieces together and discovered who their common enemy was.

For an instant, as the woman stood alone near the edge of the terrace, he was tempted to leap across the darkness separating them and push her over. Just a quick shove, and she’d fall to her death. Problem at least partially solved.

But he resisted the hot impulse, watching with glittering eyes as she went slowly back inside. He had to get them all, the three of them. And he had to do it in such a way that their fathers would be utterly convinced who was guilty.

That, he thought with satisfaction, would certainly push them both over the brink of sanity. Their children engulfed by the feud, neither of them would stop until one or both of them was dead. With a little luck—it would be both.

The plan began forming rapidly in his feverish mind. They thought the feud should end—so did he. But he wanted a swifter, cleaner death than the whimpering peace they sought. He intended for the pure white flame of revenge to annihilate all the dark, twisted remnants of hate.

Even the ones inside himself.

He had to do it. They’d given him no choice. He had to burn away the darkness before it consumed him.

Ian looked at the damage, thinking that even if the security guards had failed to capture the culprit, at least they’d managed to prevent the spread of a fire that could have been a great deal worse. All the elevators except one had been locked off on the tenth floor, and that was where they’d been rigged to explode. The charges had been powerful enough to snap the cables and send the cars crashing to the bottom of the shafts, and the saboteur had covered his retreat by flinging a bottle filled with gasoline and a lit fuse against a wall as he fled.

The remaining express elevator had escaped destruction, either because it had been on the ground floor while the saboteur worked or because the man had simply run out of time. Following their instructions, the security guards had not alerted the police, and no one outside the building had reported the explosions; with the size of the structure, it was unlikely that anyone had even heard. Their elusive enemy, Ian thought, seemed to be careful not to call too much attention to his work; apparently, he wanted the fight to be between the families and no one else.

Ian had ordered the express elevator thoroughly checked, but there’d been no sign of tampering. The other elevators stood open on this floor, their bare, smoke-blackened shafts all that was visible, and since the doors had been jammed by the explosions, he had roped them off. He glanced aside where his father stood talking to one of the guards, and braced himself mentally for the struggle he expected to take place.

A few minutes later, as Brandon Stuart joined his son, he said bitterly, “Damn them.”

“The Logans aren’t responsible,” Ian said quietly.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Ian—”

Ian turned away from his father and walked down the hall to a lounge area that was partly furnished since this floor had been completed. Some of the security guards and a couple of the company electricians were still grouped around the elevators, and he had no intention of discussing the situation with too many listening ears; at this point, he wasn’t sure whom he could trust. He sat down on the arm of a chair and loosened his tie, waiting for his father to join him.

As he did, Brandon said, “Surely you’ve given up on those fantasies of yours.”

“They aren’t fantasies, Dad. Someone else is stirring up trouble between the families. Someone who knows just how to use the feud to his own advantage.”

“What advantage? Who would have anything to gain by such a scheme?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Flatly, Brandon said, “I’ve given you all the time I could, Ian, and you haven’t been able to answer that question. So I will. None of our competitors would go this far. Except the Logans. And they have everything to gain.”

“It isn’t them.”

“What makes you so damned sure?”

“Because Jon and Michele Logan are working just as hard as I am to prove someone else is involved.”

“I don’t believe it. No matter what you’ve heard—”

“Will you listen to me? It is not them. We’ve agreed both families have an enemy, and it’s beginning to look like it isn’t a business competitor at all.”

“Agreed?” Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve talked to them about this?”

Very quietly, Ian said, “I’m in love with Michele.”

“What?” It was little more than a whisper, genuinely shocked.

Ian kept his own voice quiet and calm. “We met on Martinique. We’re going to be married, Dad.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“No. We’re going to be married.”

“Do you know what you’re saying? Marry a Logan? For God’s sake, Ian, sleep with her if you have to, but I’d sooner have a painted whore in the family than that—”

Ian stood up.

For a long moment, Brandon Stuart gazed into the ice-blue eyes of his son, and what he saw there shook him badly. Softly, formally, he said, “I apologize for that remark.”

Shaken himself by what he was feeling, by the white-hot rage that had swept through him, Ian turned away and walked over to the windows. He stood with his back to his father, trying to control his anger enough to speak.

“Ian…I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” He heard the thick sound of his own voice, and cleared his throat harshly. “Sorry for what you said? Or sorry for hating a woman you don’t even know?”

Brandon was silent.

Ian laughed shortly and turned to stare at his father. “I want you to understand something. Michele and I are going to be married. For her sake, I hope we can stop this insane feud and live here in peace. For all our sakes, I hope you can accept that. But right now, I don’t give a sweet damn whether you do or not. She’s the most important thing in my life. Everything else can go straight to hell.”

“Including me?” Brandon’s voice was mild, his eyes still watchful.

“If that’s the way it has to be. I won’t fight about this, Dad. And I won’t hear another word against Michele. Ever. Accept it or not, it’s up to you.”

There was a long silence, tension quivering almost visibly in the air between the two men, and then Brandon said irritably, “Stop glaring at me, Ian.” He hesitated, then added a bit dryly, “She must be some lady.”

“She is.” Ian forced himself to relax, knowing that the critical moment had passed safely, that his father was, at least, resigned. It was what he had hoped for when he’d made it plain he was prepared to sever all ties with his father; a genuine affection aside, Brandon Stuart’s sense of family was too strong to allow him to risk losing his only son—no matter what.

“Does Charles Logan know about you two?”

“Not yet.”

“It is,” Brandon said, “an understatement to say he won’t like it.”

“That’s one reason we’re trying to find out who’s behind the sabotage. As things stand now, he’s convinced it’s you and me; one whisper of my relationship with Michele, and she thinks he’ll go right over the edge.”

“She’s right. In fact, I would have expected the same reaction from Jon. I assume he knows?”

“Yes. I think he’s suspected for a while; he wasn’t very surprised to have it confirmed. He’s hardly…comfortable with the idea, but he accepts it. He loves his sister too much to lose her over this. And he agrees someone else is involved in the feud.”

Brandon went to a chair and sat down, frowning. After a moment, he said, “Which brings me back to the original question. Who?”

Slowly, Ian said, “It’s directed at both families, and the intent is apparently to set us at each other’s throats. If it isn’t a business competitor—and it’s beginning to look like that idea was off base—then it has to be someone who hates both sides.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe either Jon or myself has made an enemy that rabid, and I know damn well Michele hasn’t. Which leaves you and Charles Logan. The two of you must have an enemy in common.”

“Besides each other, you mean?” Brandon said wryly.

“Think about it,” Ian urged, sure he was on the right track. “There must be someone who has reason to hate you both, and very bitterly. Someone who would go to a great deal of time, trouble, and money in an all-out attempt to destroy you both, by using the feud to his advantage.”

Shrugging, Brandon said, “I can’t think of anyone I’ve crossed that badly. I may have been ruthless from time to time in business, but not enough to rouse the kind of hate you’re talking about. Maybe he’s after Logan alone, and using me as his weapon.”

“Maybe. But I think he’s after both families. And he’s not just ruthless—he’s deadly. Jon could have been killed in that explosion; God knows what’ll happen next.”

“More of the same, I’d guess. Whoever he is, he seems to favor explosives in elevators.”

Ian sighed, the various kinds of frustration increasing until he thought he’d explode. “Michele traced the device used on their building to the West Coast, and got a list of buyers; the names don’t mean anything to any of us, but one of them may have paid the seller to keep quiet. We’re waiting for a description of that man now.”

Brandon looked a little surprised, but then said, “I’d forgotten. She is an investigator, isn’t she.”

Ian nodded, frowning.

“You look worried,” his father noted.

“I am. I’ve just realized a few things. Whoever he is, this bastard knows us. All of us. He has to assume that, given enough time, if Michele suspected a third party she’d have a good chance of finding out who it was—it’s what she’s trained to do. Now, he’s going to realize sooner or later that his plan isn’t working, and I’m betting on sooner. He’s pushed both sides more than once, and we haven’t struck out at each other.”

“That isn’t like us,” Brandon murmured.

“No, it isn’t. He could be getting nervous about that, especially if he suspects we’re on to him. And the next time he hits…he may not aim at a building.”

“Neither way is without tragedy.”

Michele couldn’t get that promise out of her head. She and Jon had spoken little during the drive home, both of them aware that what was important had already been said. Their father had been surprised to see them back so early, but neither of them had chosen to tell him about the explosion in the Stuarts’ building; he’d find out soon enough.

Michele went upstairs and, instead of getting ready for bed, changed into jeans and a thick sweater. She took her hair down and washed away the makeup. She felt edgy and couldn’t seem to get warm. Always, in the forefront of her mind, had been the awareness that someone could be hurt if the feud erupted, but it had occurred to her only tonight that if their common enemy lost patience with the stalemate between the families, he could abandon all caution. And, as Ian had said, he seemed too fond of explosives.

And elevators.

She paced her room restlessly, going over everything in her mind until she could hardly think straight. No matter how hard she tried to come up with answers, only the terrifying possibilities assumed a concrete form. He could decide to turn his attention to people instead of buildings, and if that happened, none of them would be safe.

It was almost midnight when Jon knocked softly on her door and poked his head in. “You have a call,” he told her.

“Ian?”

“No. Said his name was Steve. Your contact on the West Coast?”

Quickly, Michele joined her brother out in the hall. “Yes. Where’s Dad?”

“He’s turned in for the night.” Jon followed her down the stairs to the phone in the entrance hall, and stood waiting to hear if there was any new information.

She picked up the phone. “Steve?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Michele.” He sounded more than a little bothered himself.

“Never mind, I was up. Do you have the description?”

“No, that isn’t it. Michele…I got a very weird message a little while ago. It’s supposed to be from the man I’ve been trying to find again, the one who sold those timers, but I swear it doesn’t sound like him.”

“What’s the message?”

“Got a pencil? You’d better write this down.”

Michele found a pencil and pad in the drawer of the small table. “Okay. Ready.”

“Here it is: ‘I must warn them. Tell her this immediately. It is vital that she know. Sunday is dangerous. Story I told you was false. Unable to tell you the truth. The buyer is no stranger. Three devices, not one. Only they can stop him. Next days critical.’ ”

Frowning down at her neat printing on the pad, Michele said, “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Block-printed on unlined paper, and signed with scrawled initials. Michele, I never told the man why I was tracing the device, and I never mentioned a woman. But this message…it seems to be meant for you.”

After a moment, Michele handed the pad to Jon and said, “How was it delivered?”

“Pushed under my door here at home. Which is another weird thing. I heard the bell, and when I went to answer it there was no one there. Just a folded sheet of paper. Since the message was damned specific about Sunday being dangerous, I thought I’d better call you right away.”

“I’m glad you did.” One statement on the message echoed in her head. Three devices, not one. And two had been used. “I really appreciate it, Steve.”

“No problem. Hey—I’ll mail the original to you first thing tomorrow. In fact, I’ll express it.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you figure it out,” Steve added wryly, “how about letting me in on it? I’m puzzled as hell.”

Michele conjured a laugh. “I’ll do that.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.” She cradled the receiver slowly and looked at Jon, who was frowning over the message she’d copied. “Does that make any sense to you?” she asked him.

“Who’s it from?”

“Supposedly, the man who sold the timer. But Steve says it doesn’t sound like him.”

“It sounds damned peculiar,” Jon muttered. “She? Did he know you were behind the questions?”

“Not according to Steve.” Michele picked up the phone again and called Ian’s apartment, so worried that she felt almost sick with it. Three devices…and there was no telling when—or if—that third one would be used. If the saboteur’s patience was exhausted, he could have decided to strike twice in one night. The phone rang nearly a dozen times before she broke the connection and tried his office number. No answer. She hung up. “He must still be at the building.”

Jon was making a second copy of the message. When he was done, he handed her the original, then glanced at his watch. “Midnight; we’re already into Saturday.”

“ ‘Sunday is dangerous,’ ” she murmured, staring down at the message as she read. “ ‘Next days critical.’ How would the man who sold the timer know what his customer meant to do—and when? And why warn us?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t afford to ignore any warning, no matter who it’s from, or why.”

“I have to see Ian,” Michele said. She was thinking of the message, but that wasn’t all that filled her mind. The brief moments they’d shared on the terrace had only sharpened her longing to be with him, and she was haunted by the knowledge that if something were to happen to either of them, he’d never know about their child.

Jon looked at her for a moment, then picked up the phone and called for a cab. “I don’t want you driving,” he said gruffly when he hung up. “If this bastard can wire elevators, he can wire cars; stay out of yours until I can have it checked over. And use the stairs at Ian’s building.” He hesitated, then added, “Don’t worry if you aren’t back by morning. I’ll think of something to tell Dad.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but said fiercely, “I hate all this lying!”

“Better than the alternative,” Jon pointed out. “At least for now. Besides, Dad may not have a chance to ask about you. It’s way past time he was made to listen to a few hard truths. I’ll tell him about the sabotage of the Stuarts’ building and ask him who could have done it, since we didn’t. And I’ll hit him with everything else we know. Maybe I can finally get through to him, at least a little.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“I know.”

A few minutes later, in a cab heading downtown, Michele wondered for the first time if they were being watched. She wanted to reassure herself that the question was a paranoid one, but after all that had happened she knew it wasn’t.

All around you are the shifting patterns of things seen—and unseen.

Odd how the fortune-teller’s predictions kept coming back to her so vividly. As if they had been somehow imprinted on her mind, stamped in her memory but prompted to surface only by some spur she had no conscious control over. She had tried more than once to remember all that had been said, but when she concentrated nothing would come to her except disjointed words and meaningless phrases; it was only when she least expected it that the whispers echoed softly in her mind.

She had no faith in either precognition or predestination; no belief in fortune-tellers or fate. But she couldn’t escape the uneasy feeling that there was a design to all this, that events were being carefully arranged for a specific purpose. And oddest of all was her impression that more than one hand was involved in the pattern.

She felt like a piece on a chessboard, involved in some obscure struggle for power and moved by the whim and the tactics of an invisible hand.

Roused from the unsettling thoughts by the arrival of her cab at Ian’s apartment building, she paid the driver and got out, drawing her coat tighter around her against the cutting force of the rising wind. She hurried into the building, going straight to the security guard’s desk.

“Is Mr. Stuart in?” she asked the same man who had been here on that night weeks before.

“No, ma’am. But he said you were to go up anytime.”

Michele glanced toward the bank of elevators, then located the door to the stairwell nearby. After a slight hesitation, she drew a pen and a small spiral-ringed notebook from her purse, and jotted a quick note.

“I’ll go up,” she told the guard, then folded her note and handed it to him. “Will you give him this as soon as he comes in, please?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The guard was blessedly incurious, merely accepting the note and saying nothing at all when she headed for the stairwell instead of the elevators. Still, she couldn’t help hoping that the man was better at his job than he seemed, or that Ian was responsible for the total lack of curiosity or suspicion where she was concerned.

Ian’s apartment was on the eighth floor, but Michele hardly noticed the climb. She let herself into his apartment, realizing only when she was inside that doors could also be wired to explode. It was a sickening realization.

She shrugged out of her coat and left it lying across the couch with her purse, moving restlessly around the neat, quiet living room. She had barely noticed how Ian’s home looked the first time she was here, her attention wholly caught up with him and the feelings between them. Now she looked, trying to concentrate, trying not to worry because he wasn’t here.

And gradually, as she wandered, she found a kind of peace in what she found. Ties. Connections between them. She found many of her favorite books on his shelves, her favorite music among his records and tapes, prints and watercolors and oils by her favorite artists on his walls. The furnishings were in styles and colors she would have favored, their arrangements lending the spaciousness she preferred.

She settled on the comfortable couch at last, kicking off her shoes and curling up with her cheek resting on a pillow, the sense of him so strongly with her that she felt curiously content and just too tired to think anymore. The edges of fear retreated, and as quiet filled her mind she drifted off to sleep.

At first, she wasn’t sure it was a dream, because why on earth would she dream of the striking old man who had stood outside the fortune-teller’s tent on Martinique? But it had to be a dream, because she knew she was asleep, and he certainly couldn’t be here in the apartment even though she saw him clearly when he emerged from a shadowy corner of the room and stood looking down at her with gentle eyes.

“Have courage, child. It’s nearly over now.”

She wanted to ask him who he was and why he was here, but some part of her understood those answers without having to hear them. He was the hand of destiny, she realized, and his was both a kinder and a more compassionate touch than she had believed, guidance rather than compulsion. He was light and dark, yin and yang, creative and receptive, forever at odds, forever united, a divided force connected only by a fragile thread, seeking wholeness, struggling for harmony, fighting for love.

Are you? she asked, or thought she asked.

“How poetic you make it sound!” He was amused but kindly and with understanding. “I am Fortune, child. A roll of the dice, a turn of the card, a fork in the road.”

Are you doing this to us?

“I only watch. And try to help. You have all the pieces now. The answers are within reach.” He glanced aside, as if some sound had drawn his attention, then looked back at her with his gentle, unutterably sweet smile. “Courage,” he repeated.

Michele opened her eyes with a start, feeling her heart thudding as she sat up. A glance at the clock glowing on Ian’s stereo told her that less than an hour had passed. She looked around warily. Empty. The room was empty. It had only been a dream, of course, prompted by her own unsettled thoughts of fate and destiny. She drew a shaky breath of relief, but even then couldn’t shake the sense of presence, couldn’t totally dismiss the notion that he had been there, that strange old man, coming to her out of the night because he’d somehow known she was at the end of her rope and needed reassurance.

Of all the wild, impossible ideas…

“Michele?”

She hadn’t heard him come in, but at the sound of his voice she jumped up from the couch and hurried to meet him. His arms closed about her instantly, lifting her off her feet as he held her tightly against him.

“I was so worried about you,” she whispered. “He bought three devices, Ian. There’s one he hasn’t used yet.”

“Three? Are you sure?”

“Steve got a message tonight from the man who sold them, and he called me at home—”

“Easy,” Ian soothed, setting her back on her feet and kissing her gently. She was trembling, clearly strained to the breaking point, and he couldn’t bear to see her that way. Even a diamond could be shattered if the blow fell in just the right place, and Michele had already withstood too much.

He guided her to the couch and sat down, drawing her into his lap and holding her. “You’re tired. Just rest for a little while,” he murmured into the soft, dark cloud of her hair. “We’ll get through this, baby, I promise.”

Clinging to him, she said unsteadily, “It just hit me tonight, all at once, that anything could happen now. Then the message came, and it didn’t make sense, but I had to tell you about it. Jon called a cab for me because he wants to check my car out, and he told me not to take the elevator here—”

Michele broke off and drew a deep breath, trying to quiet her own surging emotions. But they wouldn’t quiet. For the first time, she felt her own exhaustion, the strain of too much worry and fear held taut for too long, but it wasn’t rest or sleep she needed, and she felt that, too. She needed to be with the man she loved, just be with him; she needed to draw strength from the certainty of their feelings.

Raising her head from his shoulder, Michele looked into his beautiful warm eyes, and her heart was thudding so hard she thought it would burst. “I don’t need to rest,” she whispered. “I need you.”

Ian touched her cheek tenderly, and then his hand slid around to the nape of her neck, beneath the soft weight of her hair. He kissed her, the first gentleness disappearing rapidly as she made no effort to hide her own taut desire. Her mouth opened under his, her hands going to his neck as she moved restlessly in his lap, and a soft sound tangled in the back of her throat.

His concern for her had prompted gentleness rather than desire, but as always her honest need for him instantly ignited his own passion. It had been too long; no matter how urgent the worries and dangers surrounding them, once they were together nothing else seemed to matter.

He carried her to his bedroom, and to his bed. They were both too wound up to allow patience, too eager for one another to permit a slow joining. Clothing was flung aside carelessly in the lamplit quiet of the room, and they fell onto the bed together.

“Love me,” she whispered, trembling under the onslaught of his hungry caresses, burning with the feverish, all-consuming need to belong to him. The time apart had caged that necessity, but now it burst free like something alive and on the wing, and she gloried in the freedom of it.

He was murmuring to her, husky words of love and desire, his hands shaking as he touched her, and when he eased into her they both caught their breath raggedly.

Michele totally lost control in his arms, and she didn’t care. The pleasure was so intense it was like being drawn into a whirlpool of sensation, a quickening spiral that wound tighter and tighter until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the sounds escaping her, couldn’t do anything except cling to him wildly and cry out as all her senses shattered.