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I am not afraid, Meg told herself fiercely, not moving into the darkness. The door was solid behind her back, and she didn't bother reaching out to see whether it was locked or not. She'd already learned that Ethan Winslowe and his henchman were damnably thorough.

"Are you afraid of me, Ms. Carey?" the deep, rich voice mocked. "Why don't you come closer?"

That was enough to straighten Meg's backbone. "I'm not afraid of anyone," she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

"Then why don't you come and sit down? Salvatore's brought you another tray of food since you didn't touch the earlier one. Why don't you eat something, and we can discuss why you're here."

"I'm not hungry," she said, taking a step into the darkness. "And you know perfectly well why I'm here."

"Sit down, Ms. Carey." He didn't raise his voice, but suddenly Meg decided it might be better if she did as he ordered. She moved forward, hand outstretched until it encountered a straight-backed chair in front of a wide table. She could smell the food and her stomach cramped in longing as she sat, pushing the plate away from her.

"I'm not hungry," she said again, peering at him in the darkness. She couldn't see much at all. Ethan Winslowe was sitting in some sort of chair that seemed to resemble a throne. He was in darkness, a shadowy, menacing figure, and she heard the faint, gulping sound that probably came from a respirator.

"It wouldn't do you any good to starve yourself," he said in a more agreeable voice. "How do you expect to escape if you haven't got any stamina?"

"I'm not going to have to escape. You're going to be reasonable and call me a rental car so that I can drive out of this godforsaken countryside."

"Godforsaken it is. But I don't have a telephone."

"Then you can fax me a rental car," she said somewhat desperately. Suddenly she felt very hot. All day long, she'd been shivering in one stone-clad room and another, but this cocoon of darkness was like a steam bath. Invalids needed heat, didn't they? If only he'd let her open a window. Though this dark room probably didn't even have windows. Didn't Salvatore say Winslowe hated sunlight?

"You aren't leaving until I say you can go, Ms. Carey," he said, very gently. "And I'm not ready to let you."

Maybe if she ate something she'd feel better, she thought. She was feeling light-headed and dizzy, probably from disorientation and lack of sleep. She certainly wasn't going to pass out in front of this dark nemesis, but she didn't feel capable of making the long trek back up to her room without something in her stomach. At least she had the dubious security of knowing that a wheelchair couldn't maneuver the long, winding stairs to her turret room. Once she was up there, she'd be safe from the man in front of her.

She took a bite of chicken, eating slowly, stalling for time. "What do you want from me, Mr. Winslowe?"

"Call me Ethan. And I believe I'll call you Meg. After all, we're going to be together for a while."

She ignored the taunt. "What do you want from me?" she asked again.

"Isn't it more a question of what you want from me? I wasn't the one who showed up uninvited. Where's your father? Cowering back in Chicago, hoping you'll pull his fat from the fire?"

"My father made a mistake. People do that, you know. People who don't sit in the middle of some crazy mansion passing judgment."

"I have a reason to sit in the middle of my crazy mansion."

"I'm sure you do." She refused to let herself feel guilty. The man in the shadows in front of her might be a poor invalid, but he was also a brilliant, vindictive man who was, for all intents and purposes, holding her prisoner. "But what right do you have to pass judgment?"

"The right of a man whose reputation was damaged by your father. The right of the injured party for revenge."

"I would have thought that the men who were killed were the injured parties."

"He told you that much, did he? What else did he tell you?"

Meg ate another bite of chicken. What had smelled so fiendishly delicious earlier now tasted like paper. And why was her head pounding so abominably; why did her throat feel raw? She reached blindly for the glass beside her plate and took too large a gulp of wine. "He told me he made a mistake. He was worried and upset and not thinking clearly." The rawness in her throat reached into her voice, and she realized she was pleading. "For God's sake, my mother had just died. Can't you make allowances for human frailty? Don't you realize how guilty he feels? How much he's suffered?"

"I know just how guilty he feels. How much he's suffered." Ethan Winslowe's voice was icy cold in the overheated room. Meg could feel the sweat forming at her temples, between her breasts, and yet she was shivering.

"Then why can't you leave him alone?"

"I will leave him alone."

For a moment, she couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly. She shook her head, a useless physical gesture to try to drive the fogginess away. "What?"

"I said I'll leave him alone. As long as you stay."

This time she knew she'd understood him. "You can't be serious."

"Completely. As long as you stay here, I'll leave your father in peace. The moment you leave or the moment I tire of you, then I'll destroy him."

The silence filled the inky black room. Once more she heard the watery gurgle that had to come from his respirator and the tiny little blips and beeps from the machines that were probably keeping him alive. If she only had the determination, the sheer cold-blooded courage, she could probably knock him over and rip out his life-support systems before Salvatore could return. And then Winslowe would be no threat at all.

But she could scarcely kill in cold blood, even someone who was clearly deranged and dangerous. "Then you give me no choice," she said in a deceptively calm voice.

"No choice at all."

She steeled herself, wondering exactly how far she was going to have to go to save her father. To save the company that so many people depended on. "And exactly what will my duties entail?"

Dead silence met her question, and then he laughed, a dry, eerie sound. "Don't tell me you're imagining I expect you to be my bed partner? You do have strange fantasies, Ms. Carey. You strike me as someone far too young and far too inexperienced to be able to deal with someone in my...condition. I don't want sexual acrobatics. I want.. .companionship." There was an odd note in his voice, one Meg was too angry to define.

"I don't feel very companionable."

"Perhaps that was the wrong word. I want distraction. Your hatred and distrust is probably far more entertaining than an effort to please me. I'll make a bargain with you. You can try to escape, and if, by any unbelievable set of circumstances, you manage to get away, I'll leave your father alone."

Again that ominous gurgle. "It's a bargain, then," she said faintly, wishing she felt stronger, angrier. "I'll despise you, insult you and do my damnedest to escape. And you'll leave my father alone."

"A bargain," he agreed, and she was feeling ill enough to imagine the distant trace of concern in his voice. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Of course not!" she snapped, rising on unsteady feet. She couldn't eat another bite—she knew she'd throw up if she tried. "I'm being held hostage by a madman who's intent on destroying my father. It's enough to put a girl off her feed."

Again he laughed, that dry, rusty little sound. "Salvatore will take you back to your tower. He could probably manage to come up with something to help you sleep. He has all sorts of interesting abilities."

"An aspirin will do me just fine," she said.

"Why?"

"Why?" she echoed, furious. "Because I have a headache. This place is either too damned hot or too damned cold, and I want..." She let the words trail off. She was about to say, in a miserable little girl's voice, that she wanted to go home. But she wasn't going to show weakness to this vast, unseen creature of the night. She wasn't going to show vulnerability to anyone.

"The rooms are climate controlled." Ethan Winslowe's voice came out of the dark. "Ask Salvatore to adjust the temperature for you. What else was it you were going to say? What else did you want?"

Maybe if she asked him, begged him, he'd let her go. Maybe if she cried...

"You aren't going to be tiresome are you?" he continued before she could decide. "I do hate weeping women. I warned you—I need to be kept amused if I'm going to let your father alone. The moment you begin to bore me, I'll go after him and bring him down."

"You're a monster," she said, her voice low and raw and furious. "A sick, evil creature, and if I have to spend another moment in this hothouse mausoleum with you, I'm going to throw up, probably all over your wheelchair. Call Salvatore and let me go back to your room."

"Not bad for a beginning. You'll have to come up with some better epithets, though, if you're going to be here for a while." The door opened behind her, sending a dim pool of light into the darkened room, one that didn't even begin to reach the man in the middle of the room. "Salvatore, give Ms. Carey whatever drug she desires and check the climate control of the turret room. She seems to be feeling a bit feverish. And give her the key so that she can lock herself in."

"At least I don't have to worry about you bothering me," she snapped.

"Why ever not?" He sounded genuinely curious.

"There's no way a wheelchair could make it up those long steps, and I know construction well enough to know there's no elevator in that tower."

"True enough. Your sexual fantasies will have to wait to be fulfilled." Again that gurgle of sound.

"I'll jump out of the tower first." She wouldn't do any such thing, but in her dazed condition, it sounded reasonably dramatic.

"There are bars on the windows, Megan,” he said very gently. "Don't worry about it. I've told you, you're safe."

She headed out the door without bothering to say another word, almost faint with relief at leaving him. Until she heard his soft, rich voice follow her into the dimly lit hallway.

"You're safe," he said again. "For now."

 

Ethan Winslowe sat very still, watching Megan stumble away behind Salvatore's hulking figure, and his eyes were narrowed in his beloved darkness, filled with a rare feeling of compunction. She was right. Who the hell was he to play God, to sit in judgment? Particularly since he was lying to her. He had no intention of sparing her father, not if she presented herself to him wrapped in nothing more than a satin ribbon.

He found himself smiling wryly at that enticing image. And then he moved, bringing his glass of whiskey and water to his mouth and draining the final drops, the faint watery sound carrying in the darkness. He'd sat and drank and watched her, his night-attuned eyes able to see far more clearly than hers could. He could see the whiteness of her face, the slightly desperate softness around her mouth, the anger in her eyes. She was strong and tough, willing to fight him on every level. He was looking forward to it, to keeping her fully busy and involved with him while he brought her father to his knees.

She hadn't looked well, but he assumed it was simply nerves and exhaustion. However, she didn't look the nervous type, and he'd known from his steady, unblinking perusal of the monitor that she'd slept away most of the afternoon and evening.

And the room was, if anything, cool, not the hothouse she accused it of being. He certainly didn't fancy having a sick female on his hands. She wouldn't be nearly as entertaining.

The door opened and Salvatore filled it. "She's settled for the night, Ethan. But she doesn't look well."

Ethan turned to the bank of monitors, switching them on. Meg Carey had collapsed across the high bed, kicking off her shoes but leaving her clothes on. Her eyes were shut, her breathing seemed labored, and even on the black-and-white monitor, he could see the flush mantling her cheeks. "Hell and damnation," Ethan said, staring. "She does look sick. How inconvenient."

"Then why don't you let her go? You certainly aren't going to let her father off the hook, are you?"

Ethan stared at him. "How long have you known me?"

Salvatore nodded. "Point taken. So I'll ask you again. Why don't you let her go?"

"Because I don't feel like it." With an abrupt motion, Ethan rose, towering over Salvatore's impressive bulk. "Any more questions?"

"What if she needs a doctor?"

"Then we get good Dr. Bailey out here. He should be able to manage without killing her. In the meantime, you can get me another drink."

He could feel Salvatore watching him in the darkness. He'd grown so accustomed to the shadows, he felt more comfortable there, but Sal's compassionate eyes didn't bother him. It was Megan Carey's eyes that bothered him, looking at him clearly through the darkness he trusted she couldn't pierce.

If she was sick, it was an inconvenience, a delay, and nothing else. He'd simply have to be patient. He had plans for her, fascinating plans. He wanted to see the anger in her eyes, he wanted her hatred and fascination.

And he wanted to see what happened when he finally took her.

 

Megan dreamed again. Strange, terrible dreams that filled her head with silent screams, filled her heart with terror and pain, filled her body with longings she'd never felt. She kept waking up in the darkness of the tower room, the candles flickering in some obscure draft. She could hear the distant thunder, the steady beat of the rain against the walls of the turret. She lay back, staring up into the darkness, and thought about Ethan Winslowe.

He'd told her if she escaped, he'd leave Reese alone. It was clearly her only option. If only she didn't feel so wretched. Her throat felt swollen, her chest burned, and she alternated between bone chattering cold and a burning fever. Salvatore might have poisoned her food—she wouldn't have put it past him, except that she had been feeling strange before she'd even touched a morsel.

One thing was clear, she couldn't stay there. She couldn't entrust her safety to the good graces of a maniac. She had to get out of there, and fast. If Winslowe broke his promise and went after her father, Reese would have to fend for himself. She'd done her best for him and gotten into the worst mess of her life. She needed to get out of it as quickly as possible.

She couldn't find her shoes in the candlelit darkness. She couldn't see clearly at all, with her head pounding, her breath rasping in her throat, her chest aching. It didn't matter. It was spring, even in this wretched part of the country. She could go barefoot, she could walk out that long, twisting road. She believed Salvatore when he said nothing but a backhoe would get her car out of the mud. It had been raining off and on since she arrived, and the mud would have only gotten deeper. She'd walk, and keep on walking until she found someone who could help her.

Surely someone in that benighted little nontown of Oak Grove would help her. They hated Ethan Winslowe enough that they should be glad to do him a disservice.

If not, she'd just keep on walking. Not the way she'd come—there hadn't been any sign of civilization along those back roads for hours. But surely up ahead, life must take on some semblance of normalcy. And once she reached a tiny pocket of sanity, she'd never look back.

She vaguely remembered that deep, disembodied voice telling Salvatore to leave the key. It was in the lock, on her side of the thick oak door, and for a moment, she just stared at it, blinking, not quite believing it was going to be so easy.

The turret was deserted, lit by an eerie light that just might possibly be gaslight. She started down, her labored breathing echoing in the darkness, and she had the sudden morbid thought that she might slip and fall, tumbling to her death on these stone stairs. No one would ever find her. Salvatore would get rid of her body, and her father, coward that he was, would probably pretend he had no idea where she'd gone. He'd simply assume Winslowe wouldn't dare turn him in, and everything would be status quo.

It wasn't until she reached the bottom step that she realized how bizarre that particular fantasy was. That her father would countenance her death simply for his own well-being, was beyond being strange. And yet, even if her brain was clear and cool, she wouldn't put it past him.

Once at the bottom of the turret, she hadn't the faintest idea where to go. She'd been taken on too many roundabout journeys to have the faintest sense of direction. She vaguely remembered that Salvatore had taken her to the left when she'd had her audience with the local phantom. She'd head toward the right, toward the sound of rain. As soon as she found a door, or failing that, a window, she'd head out into the night. The sooner she escaped from this bizarre mansion, the better off she'd be.

She almost gave up hope of finding a way out. She must have stumbled for hours in the blinding dark, groping along walls that changed from stone to plaster to wood paneling. The sound of the rain, not far beyond the maze of hallways, was maddening, promising a freedom that seemed unattainable. She found she was weeping, and when her hands touched cool glass, she almost didn't recognize it.

She sank her head against it for a moment, peering into the darkness beyond, into the rain. She had to get out as quickly as possible, the pain in her chest was growing unbearable, the heat was smothering her. She needed the cool rain or she'd die.

She tried to smash her fist against the pane of glass, but it simply bounced off, too weak to shatter it. And then she realized she hadn't stumbled against a window. It was a French door with an ornate latch. A latch that was unlocked.

She fell outside, into the rain, stumbling a few steps before collapsing on some sort of slate terrace. In the inky, water-soaked darkness, she could smell fresh earth and spring flowers. Someone was out there with her, someone was moving across the garden toward her, but she wasn't afraid. It wasn't a wheelchair carrying some vast form of evil, and it wasn't the hulking, villainous Salvatore. The man approaching her was tall, thin and old, moving toward her through the rain oblivious of the downpour.

He knelt beside her and she blinked up at him, into a lined, ancient face and the kindest eyes she'd ever seen. She reached out a hand toward him and tried to say something, but the only sound that came from her throat was a helpless little croak, and her hand touched nothingness.

"Don't try to talk," the old man said, his voice soft and soothing. "I'll go for help."

"Don't leave me," she choked. "Don't let them find me."

"They won't hurt you. I promise, I won't let them hurt you."

What could a frail old man do against the combined forces of evil, she thought wearily. And yet, she believed him. She knew she should get to her feet, but her muscles refused to obey her command. With an almost imperceptible nod, she dropped her head back to the cool, wet slate and closed her eyes.

 

"Ethan, she's gone!" Sal's voice broke through the fitful dozing that gave Ethan what little sleep he enjoyed. He sat up, staring at the bank of monitors in front of him. The turret room was empty, the door left open, her shoes still resting on the floor beside the bed.

He kept himself firmly in check. "She escaped faster than we-; thought. That fever must have been feigned. She's as adept a liar as her father ever was."

"I don't think so," Salvatore said doubtfully.

"Don't you? I'd think you'd be relieved at this turn of events. You didn't really approve of me keeping her here. And you were right—it wasn't a particularly prudent idea. But since when have I been prudent? It doesn't matter now. We can concentrate on Reese Carey without having his daughter distract me."

"I don't think she was faking it, Ethan. And I don't think we can simply assume she'll make it out of here safely. It's raining cats and dogs, the temperature's below fifty and she's not wearing any shoes or sweater. Not to mention the fact that I think she was sick to begin with."

Ethan stared at him. "What do you expect me to do, ask the townspeople to help?"

Salvatore snorted. "Fat lot of help they'd be. I'm going to go look for her. If I find her, I'll drive her to the airport and get her away from here."

"You won't do any such thing. If she's still here, she's staying."

"Ethan..."

He rose, a tall, lean figure in the murky darkness. "I'll find her. You take the Jeep and get Dr. Bailey. If he's drunk, sober him up. If he refuses to come, use your gun. But bring him and whatever medicine he might need."

"You know where she is?"

"Let's say I have a fairly good idea. I also know this place better than anyone, even you. I have a better chance of finding her faster. Go ahead, Sally. If she's as sick as you think she is, we don't have time to waste."

It had been a long time since he'd seen Sally move that quickly. He didn't move for a moment, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He'd taken one look at Meg Carey in one of the ubiquitous television monitors and thrown good sense to the wind.

Salvatore was right; he should let her go. He should make sure Doc Bailey didn't kill her with one of his quack cures, keep out of sight, and the moment she was able to travel, send her on her way. And maybe there was a chance in hell he'd do just that.

He'd been alone for too long, had his own way for too long. He'd started thinking he was some sort of god, some invulnerable ruler of his twisted kingdom. He needed a dose of reality.

But first, he needed to find where Meg Carey had disappeared to. And the very first place he was going to check was Joseph's garden.

 

The man who came to her in the darkness wasn't the same man. In the driving rain, she couldn't see his face, but he was younger, stronger. He picked her up in his arms with an effortlessness that made her grimace and curse her extra ten pounds. She opened her mouth to apologize, but the faint croaking sound didn't carry above the wind and rain.

She had no idea who was carrying her into the pitch black house, finding his way with the surefootedness of a night-stalking animal. It wasn't Salvatore—this man was leaner, with deft hands tucking her shivering body against him. Hadn't Salvatore said there were only the two of them in the house? Who, then, was the old man she'd met in the garden? Who was the man carrying her through the inky darkness?

And who the hell cared? She'd never hurt so much in her life. She didn't care if he was Jack the Ripper on his way to fling her from the turret. If it stopped the raging pain in her chest, it would be worth it. All she wanted was peace and safety. And for some odd reason, in the dark stranger's arms, she felt just those feelings. And with an absurd flash of trust, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the darkness that surrounded her.