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Meg wasn't sure what she'd expected. Lon Chaney with his skeletal face in The Phantom of the Opera. Freddy Krueger, dripping blood. As Ethan Winslowe turned slowly to face her, she was ready to see almost anything. Except what she did see.

The left half of his face came into view, and she drew a deep, shocked breath. He was astonishingly, almost unnaturally beautiful. White-gold skin, his eye dark and mesmerizing, his mouth wide and delicate, yet still masculine, his cheekbone high and well defined against the sweep of long black hair. It was the face she'd seen illuminated by lightning, one she'd thought was part of a fever dream, the stuff dreams were made of. And then he turned the rest of the way, and she could see the other half of his face. The nightmare side.

The mark bisected his face, spreading down his neck, disappearing into his loose white shirt, a livid purple-and-red stain that covered him. His other eyelid drooped slightly over his eye, and his mouth pulled upward, giving him a faintly satanic expression. It was a face to scare little children, and the contrast between the beauty of the other side of his face made it even more devastating.

There was no expression whatsoever on either side of his face. He simply watched her, waiting for her reaction, and for a moment, she wondered whether his face was capable of showing emotion.

She was absolutely terrified. Not of his face, not of his anger. She was afraid that she might say or do the wrong thing.

She cleared her throat, the noise loud and grating in the absolute stillness of the cavernous room, and then she squared her shoulders. "So what am I supposed to do?" she asked in her most matter-of-fact voice. "Scream and faint?"

There was just the faintest glint in his eye. He took a step toward her, the movement slow, graceful and threatening. Definitely threatening.

"Others have," he said.

She held her ground, determined not to back away from him. "I don't see why. You have a birthmark—"

"Is that what you'd call it?" he interrupted, a savage note in his deep voice. "Why don't you come up with all sorts of helpful advice? Tell me about the wonders of laser surgery. Or tell me I shouldn't be so vain. Why don't you—" he was very close now "—tell me how much worse off other people are and that I should pull myself together and ignore it." There was real rage in him, an anger that was both ancient and new. An anger directed at her.

She stared up into his face with helpless fascination, caught and transfixed by the contrast, the unearthly beauty, the sorrow and pain in his eyes. "I wouldn't do that," she said. "I wouldn't lie to you."

He was so close, too close, not close enough. "You're supposed to focus on a point past my left shoulder," he said bitterly. "You're not supposed to look at my face."

"So I won't go mad or blind?" She wanted to touch him. God help her, she wanted to reach up and touch his face, soothe the anger and helpless pain. She wanted to kiss his mouth now that she could see it.

"Don't try to convince me you're not disgusted by my face. You're trembling."

"You have that effect on me."

The tension running through him was at fever pitch— she could feel it thrumming in the still air—and he wouldn't listen to her, couldn't see that she was neither horrified nor disgusted.

"You're lying," he said bitterly. "I know revulsion when I see it."

"Do you?" She stopped thinking. He was tall; she was barefoot and tiny. She reached up, cupping his face with her hands, both sides of his face, and pulled him down to her, kissing him full on the mouth.

For a moment, he froze, and she could feel the shock trembling through his body. Stillness washed over them, a silent eternity.

And then he pulled her against him, hard, slanting his mouth across hers, kissing her back with a passion that was devouring, frightening, filled with such longing that she felt as if she were going to be sucked up into a vortex of emotion.

And the worst part of it was, she wanted it. She wanted to melt into him, to lose herself in the darkness and delight he promised her. Except that if she did, there'd be nothing left of her. She'd simply cease to exist, and the thought terrified her.

She wrenched herself away, falling back, away from him, and his face reflected the uncontrolled savagery of his kiss. He'd done it on purpose, she realized dizzily.

Let loose the tight rein he kept on himself in an effort to frighten her. To test her.

"You see," he said with a mirthless laugh. "You're scared to death of me."

She shook her head, her silken hair falling in her face. "No," she said. "I'm scared of myself."

And then she ran.

She half expected him to follow her out into the darkened hallway, but there was no sound of pursuit. She crashed into a wall in her headlong pace, having temporarily lost her night vision, and then she started moving again, her breath coming in strangled rasps, as if she'd been running for miles, her skin hot and cold and shivery, her nerves screaming out. She'd taken left turns to find him in the center of his spider's web, she'd have to take right turns to escape.

It seemed hours that she struggled in the darkness, and then suddenly, she was back at her own corridor. Light poured out of her open door, a light she hadn't turned on when she left, and she paused in the doorway, staring.

She could keep going. Except that she could barely walk another step. The small light at the far end of the room provided just enough light to keep monsters at bay. Except that Ethan Winslowe was no monster, no monster at all.

She closed the door behind her, glancing up at the camera. Moving over, she sank down in the corner beneath it, well out of range of its vigilant eye. She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them and sank her face down. And slowly, achingly, she began to cry.

 

This time when Ethan heard the door open, he knew without a doubt that it was Salvatore. He was sitting in the computer room, tipped back in a chair, his feet up on the wide teak counter, his eyes shut. There was nothing to see. The television monitors were all blank, turned off. The few candles that lit the room were sporadically placed and already guttering.

"What's wrong?" Sal demanded immediately, and Ethan found himself smiling in the darkness, a small, wry smile. Sal knew him too well, could read the very air around him.

He opened his eyes and sat up, turning the chair to look at his old friend. "She found me."

"Hell and damnation. I locked the witch in—"

"Don't call her that."

Sal took a deep breath. "All right. I locked her in, I made doubly sure of it. She was asking me to help her escape—I would have thought if she'd been able to get out, she would have headed outside."

"Maybe she got lost. This place isn't designed for easy access." Ethan knew he sounded no more than casually interested. He also knew that Sal wasn't fooled.

"Maybe," Sal said. "So what happened?"

"You mean did she scream and faint? Not exactly." He leaned back again, remembering her expression. Wary, startled. But not revolted, even though he'd looked for that reaction. If anything, she'd looked momentarily.. .entranced.

He shook his head, cursing his suddenly romantic nature. "She's a strong-minded woman, you know that," he said. "She just took it in her stride." Again, not the truth. He remembered the sudden, shocking feel of her hands on his face, her mouth pressed against his with something akin to desperation. He'd let his iron control slip then, just to see how far he could push her. It wasn't until that moment that he'd really frightened her. And he suspected that if he'd caught her again, kissed her again, she would have lost that momentary terror.

"You need to let her go," Sal said, the stubborn plaint almost boring by its repetition.

"Perhaps," Ethan said. "But I need to keep her here even more."

"She's going to bring you down. The police will start looking for her sooner or later, and Reese Carey will send them straight to you. It's only been a question of luck that he hasn't put them on to you. He's going to want some revenge, and he has nothing to gain by keeping quiet."

"The moment he starts asking where his daughter is, he'll lose his only ace in the hole. He has nothing else, no cards left to play. I've got the majority of the evidence against him, and he knows it. He also knows that I haven't given everything to the district attorney. He'll keep his mouth shut for a while longer."

"Even though his daughter's missing?"

Ethan's smile wasn't pleasant. "Have we ever had the delusion that Reese Carey was a decent man? He'll look after himself first and gladly sacrifice his daughter to do so. He's probably got himself convinced that I'm some sort of reclusive Prince Charming and the two of us are having a passionate affair."

"Are you?"

Ethan jerked his head around. "I didn't think there was anything wrong with your eyesight, Sally."

"Let her go, Ethan. We could go back to the island. We've been happy there, you know we have. You have friends, people who accept you as you are. You can live a normal life there, away from this sick, crazy town.

Away from her. She'll break your heart, Ethan. She'll

destroy you." "Don't you think I'm too tough for that?" "No," Sal said flatly. "I think she'll kill you. Let her

go."

He considered it for one brief moment. Considered the safety of his seclusion, the safety she was tearing down with her huge blue eyes and soft mouth, with her irresistible body and fierce spirit. "Not yet," he said.

"It'll be too late, Ethan."

"Not yet, Sal," he said again. Even though he knew that Sal was absolutely right.

 

The door to her room slammed open, bouncing against the wall. Megan lifted her head from the softness of the mattress, staring up blearily across the sunlit room. "You got a visitor," Sal announced in a hostile voice.

For a moment, Megan simply stared blankly. It had been a long time before she slept, before she could muster the energy to crawl from her spot in the corner and collapse onto the mattress. For hours, she lay there awake, staring into the darkness, but when sleep had finally come, it had come with a heavy, drugged vengeance, with no dreams to haunt her mind or torment her body.

She struggled to a sitting position, blinking. "What?"

"You heard me. You've got a visitor. You want to see him or not?"

He knows I found Ethan, she thought. And he's furious. "Him?" she said aloud. "I don't think I care to go another round with Pastor Lincoln. The man's insane."

"I won't argue with that. But it's not the good pastor. It's an old friend of yours. Says his name is Robert Palmer."

"Rob? Rob's here?" Her mind couldn't comprehend it. For five weeks last summer, she'd thought she was madly in love with Rob Palmer. It had been a foolish mistake brought about by her twenty-seventh birthday and a handsome man's lies, and she'd ended it the moment she found she wasn't the only recipient of his attentions. Still, they'd managed to keep on being friends as well as co-workers, despite his occasional attempts to rekindle their abortive affair.

"So he says. You want to see him?"

"You mean you'll let me?"

"Yes," said Sal.

"Does Ethan know?"

"Ethan knows everything."

This must be a trap, a trick. "What does he want?"

"I imagine he wants to rescue you," Sal said, his voice clearly bored.

"And I imagine I'm not going to be allowed to go."

"Imagine all you want. I think it'll be up to you."

"Give me a minute to change."

"Don't you want to pack?" Sal asked.

Meg halted by the closet. "But..."

"Even if he hasn't come to take you back, he's bound to if you ask him. You want me to pack your things?"

"Is this a trick?" she asked, wary.

"Nope. If you want to leave with your ex-lover, then Ethan says you can go."

She glared at him. Of course, he knew Rob had briefly been her lover. It wasn't only Ethan who knew everything. Salvatore probably found the information for him in the first place.

"I'll be ready in five minutes."

"Take your time," Salvatore said with his first touch of real affability. "He'll wait."

Salvatore had put Robert in the front parlor with its staid Victorian decor. He looked just as he'd looked the last time Meg had seen him at her going-away party, with one of the junior vice presidents draped over him. Well dressed, handsome and at ease, even under these peculiar circumstances. He turned when he heard her approach, ignored Salvatore and gathered her into his arms, kissing her fully on her unsuspecting mouth.

She pushed him away, controlling her instinctive, irrational shudder of distaste, distaste for the bland mouth, the bland face. "Rob," she said, her voice full of wary relief.

"You look wonderful, Meggie. We were worried about you. First you disappeared, then your father was arrested and there was no word from you. We were afraid something had happened."

"Who's we? How did you find out where I was?" God, he was handsome, she thought dispassionately. Perfect features, perfect teeth, perfect hair.

"We?" he echoed. "The company. Madeleine, for one, and the board of directors. Granted, so far they've only been a figurehead, but with Reese in jail, they've had to do some hard work, make some hard choices."

She settled on the most important information. "Reese is in jail?"

"Actually, he's out on bail now, but he can't leave the state. That's why he sent me to find you. You don't know what it's been like, Meggie. An absolute madhouse, reporters everywhere, all the records impounded. Not that they'll be able to crack the computer code I used for your father's special projects. It would take more than a police computer specialist to get past all my safeguards."

Megan looked at him, doing her best to disguise her horror. "You knew what he was doing?"

"Of course I did, just as you did. Reese Carey knows more about construction than some crippled recluse. Sure he took chances, but he had years of knowledge behind him. One mistake, and they're making a federal case out of it."

"I didn't know," she said, her voice faint as she surveyed the corporate shark in front of her. He was as bad as her father, willing to endanger innocent lives in pursuit of more and more money.

"Didn't you?" Rob shrugged. "Reese told me you did, but I don't suppose it matters. Have you been able to make any progress with Winslowe?"

"Progress?"

Rob allowed his irritation to surface briefly. "To get him to back off. The government doesn't have much of a case without Winslowe's assistance. He can still make or break your father. Surely after all this time you have some influence."

"None at all."

Rob looked as if he was going to argue the point, then thought better of it. "Then I'd better take you home. We have work to do."

"We do?"

"Don't be dense, Meggie. We can still effect a coverup. Discredit Winslowe. He won't take the stand, of course, and we can poke holes in his so-called evidence. Make it seem like he's just trying to foist the blame onto Reese. After all, why would he want to be a one-man vigilante? What business is it of his how Reese builds his buildings?" Rob took her hand, exerting his considerable charm. "Come on, baby, together we can do anything. We were good together, you know that. We can whip this company back into shape, send Reese on a nice long honeymoon and when he comes back, no one will remember the stink that Winslowe made. We'll talk him into an early retirement and—"

"What's this 'we'?" she asked, calmly detaching her hand from his.

"They've named you temporary president, Meggie. We need you back to mount a fight. Without you, my hands are tied."

She smiled faintly. "I'm not coming back."

He looked as if he'd been slapped. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't leave your father in the lurch like this. If we don't do something, he's going to be looking at massive fines. Maybe even a prison term."

"Good."

"Baby..."

"Don't call me baby. I never liked it. Carey Enterprises can go belly-up for all I care. The people who work for the company can find other jobs. More honorable ones. My father can pay his debt, either out of his pocket or with a few years of his life. I'm not going to bail him out with lies. I'm not going to discredit Ethan Winslowe to do it."

"What the hell's been going on here?" Rob growled.

"What do you think? I've been gone two weeks, and I haven't been spending them alone."

"You're sleeping with him? With that monster?" Rob demanded, aghast.

"That's none of your business. And what's between Ethan and my father is none of mine. Go away, Rob. I'll be just fine here."

He shook his head in disgust. "Just like that? You want to stay in this godforsaken place, surrounded by a town of genetic throwbacks?"

"Let's just say I don't want to go anywhere with you. When I'm ready to leave, I'll leave on my own."

"You're crazy."

"Goodbye, Rob. Give my father my love."

"Yeah. Sure." He started toward the door, then turned, ready to give it one last try.

She wasn't prepared for his move. One moment, she was watching him leave, struggling with her own mixed feelings about once more dismissing deliverance, the next, she was wrapped in his arms, his wet mouth devouring hers, his hips grinding against her, his hands on her rear, yanking her up against him.

She fought against him. Somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind, she thought she heard a roar of rage, but it had to be her imagination. A moment later, Rob was plucked off her, sent spinning against the door by Salvatore's efficient strength.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sal said in a friendly tone. "Mr. Winslowe doesn't take kindly to people manhandling his guests. Particularly Miss Carey."

Rob stared at the two of them, and his breath was coming in rapid puffs. "What the hell is going on between you and Winslowe?" he demanded again, running a hand through his hair. He looked disheveled, far different from the corporate yuppie she'd been so briefly involved with.

"Goodbye, Rob."

He opened his mouth to make another demand, but not a sound came out, since Salvatore had picked him up by the seat of his pants and started him toward the door.

A moment later, she heard him go flying, then the slam of the door behind him.

Salvatore reappeared, rubbing his hands together briskly. "I can't say much for your taste in men."

"Go to hell," she snapped.

"So you want to stay after all?"

She was immediately wary. "I didn't say that. I just didn't want to go with him."

"Picky, aren't you?" Sal murmured. "I'll take you to your new rooms."

"New rooms?" she moaned. "Can't I spend more than one night in the same room?"

"Nope. Not according to Ethan. Besides, we don't want you making any more nocturnal visits, now do we? Mr. Winslowe cherishes his privacy." Sal started down one of the hallways, a different one from the two she'd taken so far, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering whether she ought to placate Rob long enough to get a ride to the nearest airport.

No, she couldn't do that. Not when she remembered his soft hands and blubbery mouth. And his sleazy justification for her father's criminal negligence.

Not when she remembered Ethan Winslowe, the two disparate sides of his face, the unearthly beauty and harsh disfigurement. Not when she remembered his mouth, his hands, his strength, his need.

She looked down at the ring on her finger. Now the god with two faces made sense to her.

For the time being, she wasn't going anywhere. Not anywhere at all.