Ethan could hear the distant rumble of thunder, far above him, through the stories of concrete and steel, wood and plaster. He sat alone in the center of the rambling mansion, alone in the darkness, and waited for her to leave.

He'd know when she was gone. It was very simple— his heart would be torn out. The pain that rippled beneath his skin would overwhelm him, blind him, wipe out all conscious thought. He would sit there, alone in the darkness, and die of grief.

He wasn't naive enough to think she'd leave easily. She'd be bound to have mixed feelings. On the one hand, she wanted to escape, had wanted nothing else since she'd arrived.

On the other hand, he knew perfectly well that what had passed between them last night was out of the ordinary. For both of them. He'd seen it in the shattered expression in her deep blue eyes, the tremulous mouth, the tears, heard it in her strangled, helpless expression of love.

She'd get over it, he thought, trying to summon up his customary ruthlessness. She was temporarily enchanted by the place, by the circumstances, by the man. Once she got back to her own life, to the harsh brightness of the sun and the noise of the cities, she'd count herself lucky in her escape.

There was even the remote possibility that he might get over it, too. He could listen to Sal's good advice, leave this place, leave his revenge, leave Joseph and Ruth and go back to the island. Where no one stared at him or even looked twice, where he could sit in the sun-dappled shadows and swim in the ocean, where he could breathe the air and feel the cool tropical breezes on his skin. Where the sunlight wasn't harsh and cruel, but soft and gentle, where the nights were warm and peaceful.

But he didn't want the breezes, the sun, the water. He didn't want anything but the one thing he couldn't have. Megan Carey.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes in the inky darkness. Let her leave quickly, he prayed to a distant, distrusted God.

Megan was hopelessly lost. She'd been so certain she could find him. Her sense of direction had always been excellent, and she'd been taken down to his lair enough times that it should have been child's play to find it again.

Instead, she just went deeper and deeper into the cavernous old house, turning corner after corner, passing gaslights and candles and dim electric lights, torches and kerosene lanterns and miner's lamps, heading down into total darkness. She thought she could hear the distant scratching, scuttling sound of something she'd rather not even contemplate. Rats, Salvatore had told her the day she arrived, and she hadn't been sure whether to believe him or not. Alone in the darkness, she had no doubt at all.

She recognized the squeaky sound, too. High pitched, with an ominous fluttering overhead. Bats. She put a nervous hand to her tangled hair. Did bats really fly into people's hair? Did rats really climb up their clothes?

There was still a faint glow of light in the long, tunnel-like ramp that led down into the bowels of the house. In the distance she could hear the rumble of thunder, and she managed to summon forth a nervous laugh. She should have stayed in the flowing white robe and kept the candlestick in her hand. Then she would have been the perfect Gothic heroine. Gothic heroines didn't wear jeans and sweaters and Reeboks. They weren't consumed with rage at being seduced and abandoned. Ethan had mocked her for being a virginal heroine. She was far from it now. She was a woman filled with rage and determination.

One thing she was absolutely determined about. She wasn't going to leave this place until Ethan himself told her to go.

She wasn't sure when the uneasiness slid over into fright. And when the fright sizzled into panic. The final clap of thunder did it, loud enough to shake a building that seemed to cover acres, rattling the windows, the walls, Megan's teeth and bones. She screamed, alone in the darkness as the last faint trace of light abruptly disappeared, and she knew that whatever power the house boasted had been abruptly terminated. She was alone in the darkness, with rats and mice and bats. She was lost and terrified.

She couldn't take another step into the inky darkness of the hallway. She didn't know what she might find, and she didn't allow her panicked imagination to even think about it. She sank down on her haunches, leaning against the stone wall, and then slid farther, curling her legs up underneath her. She was cold, so very cold. And alone.

Ethan, she thought, the name a cry of grief and longing. Ethan, I'm frightened.

There was no light. No sound. No warning at all but the brush of air against her skin. And then his hands were on her arms—she knew they could be no hands but his—hauling her upward, into his arms, strong hands, hurtful hands.

She didn't mind. She went to him, weeping with relief, yanking her arms free and sliding them around his neck, reaching up on tiptoes to find his mouth.

He tried to jerk away, but she caught his long hair, entwining her fingers through it, and held him still for her desperate kiss. And as if he couldn't help it, he kissed her back, a kiss fraught with anger and despair.

She moved her hands down between them. She could feel his loose shirt, and without thinking, she yanked at it, ripping it open so that the buttons went flying, exposing his warm, smooth skin to her touch. She pulled her mouth away from his, sinking down, kissing his chest, the smoothly muscled torso, as her hands caught his belt buckle and began fumbling with it.

He groaned, a sound of pain and pleasure, as she dropped to her knees in front of him, and then his hands caught her, the fingers hard and painful on her shoulders; and he hauled her up, away from him, shoving her against the wall and pinning her there.

"Don't," he said, and the one word was a rasp of agony.

She was trembling with reaction, with need. She wanted to touch him, press her face against his bare stomach, take him into her mouth and love him. She wanted to do things to him that she'd never contemplated; she wanted to love him in every possible way. And she was frightened... frightened—

"Don't send me away," she said brokenly. "Don't make me leave. You don't really want me to go, I know you don't."

The fingers on her shoulders tightened painfully for a moment, and then released her as he stepped back into the darkness. "You know nothing," he said, and it sounded as if each word was infinitely painful. "The game is over. Go back to your safe little world, your lovers, your father. Forget about this place. Forget about me."

"I can't. Ethan, I love—"

"No!" he said, drowning out her declaration. "It's over, Megan. I got what I wanted. And now I want you to go away."

He meant it, she thought numbly. He meant every word of it. His voice was cold, harsh, and that painful yearning that was tearing her heart apart had to come from her alone.

The wall was cold and solid at her back. She could hear the thunder rumbling overhead, an angry god muttering in the distance. And she knew her choice was simple. She could throw herself at his feet and beg him. Or she could run.

But she'd already begged and it had done her no good. He could see in the dark quite clearly. He could see her white, stricken face, the pain and sorrow. Whereas she could see nothing at all.

The silence was brief and endless. And then she broke it. She couldn't see him, but she knew where he was in the dark. She crossed the black space between them, reached up and pulled his marked face down to hers. "Damn you, Ethan," she said, her voice a strangled cry.

And she kissed him, the tears flowing down her face, she kissed his cold, unresponsive mouth with hopeless desperation. And then as she felt him lift his hands toward her, she shoved him away, knocking him off balance, as she began to run.

The sense of direction that had failed her chose then to reappear. Too soon she found herself back in the Victorian section of the house, the front parlor with its stuffy furniture, the front door and the porch. She hoped, she prayed the door would be locked, just as she'd hoped and prayed that Ethan would follow her through her headlong flight through the tunnels. But he hadn't; he'd let her run. And the door opened beneath her trembling fingertips, opened to the storm-tossed night.

It was inky black, the full moon covered by the thick, ominous clouds. She could hear the soughing of the wind, the crack of thunder, the sound of trees bending and creaking. A streak of lightning split the sky, illuminating the car that sat directly in front of the entrance. The Blazer Sal had promised.

She had no doubt it would be filled with her suitcases. The key would be in the ignition, the gas tank would be filled. Her sendoff would be complete.

Another crack of thunder, following close upon the lightning, and she shut her eyes, feeling her body vibrate with pain. She could feel him calling her, but she ignored it. It had to be her own desperate wanting. He'd sent her away. She had no choice but to go.

She didn't dare hesitate any longer. Running down the steps, she crossed the drive and jumped into the Blazer. It roared to life when she turned the key, and her last hope was gone. She would have to leave. Unless a beneficent God dropped a tree in front of the car and halted her reluctant escape.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the stormy landscape, and she could see the trees bending in the wind. But they held fast, and she knew she had no choice but to ignore the cry that echoed in her heart, ignore her own despair, and leave.

She shoved the Blazer into gear, tears pouring down her face. The rain started, fat, angry drops splattering the windshield, moments later obscuring everything beyond the headlights. Megan ignored it, blinded by her own tears, and shoved the car into Drive, stomping on the accelerator and taking off with a fishtailed swerve in the mud.

Megan. It wasn't the sound of her name. It was a roar of anguish, like an animal in pain. It wasn't in her ears, it was in her heart, filling her, clawing at her, ripping her apart. Megan, he cried, if you leave me, I'll die. Megan, he cried.

She slammed on the brakes, but the car kept going, sliding across the rain-slick drive and ending in a water-filled ditch by the side of the road. The headlights were glinting crazily through the heavy rain, but she ignored it, leaping from the car and running back. Back to Ethan.

She didn't go back into the house. This time she listened to her instincts, to her heart, knowing where to find him. She went to the left, skirting the rambling structure, fighting her way through the gardens, brambles tearing at her hair, scratching her tear-streaked face. She slid once, falling in the mud, and she cursed the fact that it slowed her down. But she was on her feet, running, her heart bursting in her chest, running to him as she heard his roar of pain and grief vibrate through her soul.

He was standing in the middle of a garden she'd never seen before. She stopped in the entrance, still in the darkness, knowing he was there before she could see him, and then the lightning flashed again, illuminating him. He was wearing dark pants, and the white shirt she'd ripped open was plastered against his strong body, wet with rain. His face was turned up to the angry sky, his long hair rippled down his back, and the perfect half of his face was stark with despair. And then he turned to her, and she could see both sides of his face, the darkness and the beauty, and she could see the grief, the longing. The need. And the love.

"Megan," he cried, and this time she heard the word with her ears as well as her heart.

She ran to him, across the rain-swept garden, and he caught her in his arms, in an embrace so fierce she thought she might be crushed. He kissed her, raining kisses across her face, across the tears and rain, and she kissed him back, clinging to him fiercely.

"Don't listen to me,'' he said in her ear.' 'Don't leave me. If you leave me, I'll die."

"I'll never leave you."

"I tried to let you go. I tried to send you away, I know I should-"

"Hush," she said, covering his mouth with hers, silencing him with hurried kisses. "You can't send me away. Wherever you are, I'll hear you, I'll come to you. You can't get rid of me, Ethan. I love you. Forever."

And then there was no more need for words. She pushed his torn shirt off his shoulder, following his rain-slick skin with her mouth, tasting his flesh, cool with rain, letting her tongue dance off the soft tendrils of hair as she undid his belt, releasing him into her hands.

He hadn't let her touch him last night. Now, in the rain, in the stormy garden, he held himself still, his hands threaded through her hair as she kissed him, held him, loved him, and words tumbled from his mouth as his fingers clenched against her scalp, part curse, part plea. She could feel the heat in his body, the swelling ebb and flow, and when he could stand it no more, he pulled her up against him and covered her mouth with his as he lifted her into his arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he carried her into the house.

She had no sense of where they were, and she didn't care. Inside the door, he released her, ripping off her clothes with the same shaking passion that suffused her body. She was trembling so hard, she couldn't help him, didn't want to help him. All she wanted was to touch and kiss his body, to possess it, possess him, until there was nothing left between them, no secrets, nothing held back.

And then she was naked, wet with rain and sweat, shaking with fear and desire, and he was naked, wet with rain and sweat, and he lifted her up in his arms, pushing her back against an unseen wall and entered her, driving deep with a fierce thrust that made her cry out in instant, shuddering satisfaction. He wrapped her legs around him, holding on to her hips as he drove in and out, in and out, like someone possessed, and his mouth against hers, the words that tumbled forth, love words, sex words, angry and despairing and tender, simply fanned the flame higher and hotter until she thought she might explode from the power of his thrusts, the power of his love.

And then she did, again and again and again, as the madness closed around her, beating at her brain, at her heart, like the wings of angels. And she felt him burst within her, filling her with the hot wet tumult of his love.

He was shaking too hard to hold her. She was too weak to support herself. Together, they slid to the floor, a tangle of arms and legs and racing hearts, a tangle of love-slick bodies and lovesick souls. He pulled her against him, and his strong hands were tender, gentle, protective on her sensitized flesh. She rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep, shaky breath, too overwhelmed to speak. She had no experience with these feelings, these needs, these desires. And lying there in the cradle of his arms, still trembling with the aftermath of their explosive joining, she wanted him again. She wanted him in every way possible. She wanted to make love again, to experience that conflagration. She wanted to hold him, to give in to the unexpected tears that were burning at the back of her eyes. She wanted to tease him, to laugh with him, to have his babies and heal his soul.

"Are we...going to sleep on the., .floor?" she managed to ask, her voice still shaky.

There was a long silence, only his hand stroking her shoulder, deep, strong strokes that were as soothing as they were arousing. Finally he spoke. "Only until I get enough strength to get us over to the bed. You wear a man out, Megan."

She laughed, a soft, gentle sound. "What are we going to do when we make it to the bed?"

His hand moved up her neck to cup her face, and his lips danced across hers. "I imagine we'll make love again. Unless you feel like letting me sleep."

"Do you want to sleep?"

His own laugh was equally gentle. "Not in this lifetime." His muscles bunched beneath her hands, and he scooped her up in his arms, swinging her through the darkness so that she felt oddly weightless, disoriented, before he set her down on a bed. The room was pitch black, only the streaks of lightning penetrating into the darkness, and they were gone as soon as they started. She felt him sitting beside her supine body, leaning over her, and she opened her mouth to ask him, then shut it again, afraid to drive him away.

But he could see in the dark, feel her response. "What?" he asked. "What do you want from me? If I can, I'll give it."

The heat was already starting to build again, that burning, yearning ache that centered between her legs and spread up through her belly to her breasts, her mouth, her body and soul. She didn't want to lose him, but she had to ask.

"Could we make love with the lights on?"

The utter stillness in the room was deafening. Even the pouring rain, the fading thunder seemed to have vanished, and for a moment, she was afraid Ethan had vanished, too, gone back to his subterranean lair, never to surface again. He didn't say a word, and she could feel the torment she'd put him through, and she cursed herself, but she didn't withdraw the request.

The bed creaked, shifted, and she thought he was leaving her. And then the room was flooded with a blinding light, a white-hot blaze of brilliance that hurt the eyes. She shut hers with a little gasp, unused to the brightness, but his hands were on her wrists, pulling them away.

She blinked rapidly as her eyes grew accustomed to the brilliance. And then she looked up at him, at his utterly still body and expressionless face.

The mark was as she remembered, bisecting his face, turning it into a thing of tragic beauty. What she hadn't known was that the mark spread down his body, his neck, one shoulder, and his torso, ending just above his hip. The mottled, liver-colored flesh contrasted to the lightly golden tone of the rest of him, once more emphasizing the contrast, and beneath that skin was a strong, leanly muscled body, And he was the most erotic thing she'd ever seen in her life.

She sat up, still shaky with effort, and leaned forward, pressing her mouth against his. Then she kissed his neck, the marked side. She kissed his shoulder, using her tongue, she kissed the flat, tight male nipple, she kissed his stomach and his waist and his hip as he sat there, utterly still and unmoving.

She looked up at him, wondering if he wanted her to go further, wondering if he was angry or disappointed with her request and her reaction. Belatedly, she realized that the brightness did more than expose him to her curious eyes. It exposed her, too, extra ten pounds, too-rounded hips, too-full thighs and all. And she started to retreat in sudden uncertainty, back against the sheets, and she knew her expression must have signaled some of her self-doubt.

He smiled then, a faint, rueful upturning of his mouth. "You're right," he said in his soft, beguiling voice. "There's something to be said for being able to see. Especially when it's someone as beautiful as you are."

"I'm not—" she began, prepared to point out all her deficiencies,  but he stopped her mouth  with  his, stretching out beside her in the glaring midnight light. And then she realized those ten pounds didn't matter, not one bit. To him, she really was beautiful. And if he thought so, she did, too.

They did sleep, at least for a while. They awoke to make love again, then slept, then awoke. The bright glare of the electric light was joined by the approaching lights of dawn, filling the room with a murky gray light. Megan cuddled in Ethan's arms, too content to sleep, and surveyed the room.

It was one she hadn't seen, one that wasn't part of the game of musical rooms Ethan had been sending her on. The sheets beneath them were a pearly gray, the walls a similar muted color, and the rug that they'd tumbled onto earlier was a beautiful Oriental with shades of gray and rose. Candlesticks were mounted on the walls, on the dresser, and the pile of books beside the bed was a haphazard tower. She knew without question that this was Ethan's bedroom, Ethan's bed, not one more in a line of secret rooms. She looked up at the walls, squinting through the darkness to decipher the one shadowed painting that adorned the bare stucco. It was a chiaroscuro of light and shadows, and she squinted, then found herself sitting up, pulling herself carefully out of Ethan's sleeping arms to focus on the painting.

It was a life-size nude. And it was unquestionably her. He'd painted her from memory in the act of doing her defiant striptease in front of the video camera. He'd captured her anger, her challenge, every ripe curve to perfection. But he'd also captured her vulnerability. An expression in the back of her eyes as she stared out at the world, daring him to come to her. Daring him to love her.

He was awake, of course. "Do you like it?"

"Did you paint it?"

"Did you think I would have let anyone else see you?"

"You had Sal lie to me. Why?" She knew the answer, but she had to hear it from him.

"I wanted to make you angry. To drive you away. To somehow lessen the power you had over me."

She looked down at him, lying back against the pearly gray pillow. "Did it work?"

"What do you think?"

She glanced back at the painting, at the woman who was here, and yet far more than she'd ever thought she could be. "I think you really do love me," she said. "I think-"

Her words were interrupted by a thunderous pounding on the hall door. With a little shriek, she dived down in the bed, pulling the covers around her, huddling against him.

"Why the hell's the door locked?" Sal's voice demanded from the other side, a rough urgency filling it.

"Because I wanted to lock it," Ethan replied, his voice cool as his hand gently stroked Megan's huddled form. "What do you want?"

"We got trouble. Plenty of it. For one thing, and that's the least of our worries, the girl didn't leave last night. She must be wandering around the place looking for trouble. The car was left in a ditch with the lights on. The battery's dead, and it's going to take hours to recharge it, and—"

"You said that was the least of our worries," Ethan reminded him, his hand dipping beneath the sheet to stroke the smooth line of Meg's back.

"Yeah. She'll turn up like a bad penny. It's Ruth."

Ethan's hand stopped its slow, erotic motion. "What about Ruth?"

"She's been taken to the hospital in Millers Fork. Burt says she's in stable condition, but he's staying over there."

"What happened to her? Who took her to the hospital?"

"Burt drove her. Doc was too drunk to help. And the others..." There was a strangled pause on the other side of the heavy door. "They stoned her, Ethan," Sal said in a broken voice. "Pastor Lincoln got everyone convinced she was the whore of Babylon, consorting with the Satan that lives on their doorstep, and they went after her with rocks."

Ethan had pulled himself upright in the bed, a dark, unreadable expression on his face. "They hurt her because of me."

"No, Ethan. They hurt her because they're crazy and wicked and stupid," Megan said urgently, putting her hand on his arm. He didn't yank it away, he just sat there.

She'd forgotten Sal didn't know where she was until she'd spoken. "She's in there with you, isn't she?" he said finally, his voice heavy with disapproval and something else.

"Yes," Ethan said.

There was a pause.' 'Then you'd better keep her with you. There's no telling what that mob will do at this point. Once they've tasted blood, there may be no stopping them. Or maybe they're so frightened and ashamed of what they've done that they'll lie low for a while. Long enough for us to get away from this place. You'll go, won't you, Ethan?"

Ethan looked at Megan's pale, questioning face. And then he put out his hand, pushing the tangled sheaf of hair away from her eyes. "Yes," he said. "I'll go."

Megan, hearing the defeat and acceptance in his voice, wondered whether he'd be going alone. Or whether he'd take her with him.