weeney was so tired she could barely think, but a hot shower revived her enough that she was able to concentrate on feeding herself. After hot soup and half a peanut butter sandwich, she felt almost human—almost. Only the fact that she was waiting for Richard to return kept her awake. She thought about relaxing on the couch until he arrived, but knew if she did she would be down for the count and might not even hear the doorbell.

She wandered into the studio, not bothering to turn on any lights. With the huge windows, enough light from streetlights, neon signs, and other buildings poured into the room to make it easy to negotiate the clutter. She strolled around the room, pausing before some canvases, touching others, like a mother putting her children to bed at night. She stopped in front of the painting of Candra, positioned on an easel, and stared at it for a long time. She tried to get a sense of the killer; what had he been thinking, standing over Candra like that? What kind of man was he, to gloat over a woman's violent death?

She had intuitively known other things about the painting, such as how the shoes should look, but she felt as if she were hitting a brick wall when she tried to grasp the essence of the killer. Something was there, on the other side of the wall, but she couldn't reach it.

Perhaps she would never finish the painting, she thought. Perhaps she could trance-paint only those people she knew, whose images were already in her memory bank. If the killer was a stranger, he might forever remain so.

Richard returned in little more than an hour. He dropped a small bag on the floor and turned to lock the door. Sweeney stood motionless, staring at him. He had changed from his suit into jeans and a black T-shirt, and Sweeney instantly forgot about being tired as she took in every detail. This was how she had always seen him in her mind's eye, without the disguise of an expensive suit. The short tight sleeves clung to his muscled arms, his jaw was shadowed with beard stubble, and he was the toughest, sexiest-looking man she had ever seen.

"That's it," she muttered, a little distracted as she framed the sketch in her mind. "I need to paint you just like this."

She looked around as if searching for her sketch pad. She had actually taken two steps toward the studio when he hooked an arm around her from behind and lifted her off her feet, drawing her back against him. "Not tonight, sweetie. It's bedtime for you." He began carrying her toward the bedroom.

Maybe it was because his mouth was so close to her ear. Maybe something finally clicked in her brain. She twisted her head to stare up at him. "You called me 'sweetie'," she accused.

He lifted his eyebrows. "Of course. What did you think I was calling you?"

"My name. Sweeney."

He planted a quick kiss on her sulky mouth. "I told you, I refuse to call the woman I'm sleeping with by her last name. That goes double for the woman I love. If you don't like 'sweetie', we'll think of something else."

He said it so smoothly, and she was so tired, that it almost slipped by. "I guess 'sweetie' is okay," she began to mumble, then went rigid in his arms. He almost dropped her. He stopped, set her down, then turned her so she was facing him and wrapped both arms around her, lifting her again.

She put her hands on his shoulders to brace herself. "Did you say you love me, or was that just something to throw into the conversation?"

"No, I definitely said it."

This was a defining moment in her life. After thirty-one years of living she had finally fallen in love, and not with any ordinary guy. No, she had fallen head over heels for a tough, sexy rich guy, and he had just told her he loved her. No one else in her life had ever said those words to her. She felt as if they should be doing something romantic and dramatic, like drinking champagne and shooting off fireworks, to mark the moment.

"Oh," she said, and blinked sleepily at him. "I love you, too."

"I know," he said, and gently kissed her. He set her on her feet beside the bed and undressed her as if she were a child. She wished she had a sexy nightgown to put on for him, but all she owned was flannel pajamas. With him in bed beside her, she wouldn't need the pajamas to keep her warm.

He put her between the sheets and stripped off his own clothes, then got into bed beside her. She wished she had a kingsize bed, so he would be more comfortable. Hers was a queen, but she suspected his feet hung off the end.

They turned toward each other like a magnet and steel, the force irresistible. He stroked her breasts, making her nipples tingle and her breath shorten. "You need to sleep," he muttered, but he was rock hard.

She closed her hand around his erection, stroking him with the same slow touch he was using on her breasts. "I need you more," she said.

He put on a condom and rolled on top of her. Sweeney spread her legs, taking him between them. He prodded the entrance to her body, his shaft thick and hot.

Sweeney didn't wait, couldn't wait. She clasped her legs around his and lifted her hips so that he slipped inside her.

Pleasure seemed to spread smoothly through her body, without the sharpness and urgency of the night before. His strokes were slow and deep, as if he wanted to savor every inch of her. She found the rhythm and joined him in it, and despite the lack of urgency, it seemed only moments before the heat and friction grew to intolerable levels. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back, small cries breaking from her throat with each move he made into her. He hooked his arms under her legs, bending over her with his weight braced on his hands, holding her legs spread wide so that he had full access to her and she could control neither the speed nor the depth of his thrusts. She felt as if he went straight into the heart of her, and she climaxed on the third deep stroke. He held himself there and shuddered violently as his own release took him apart.

Sweeney dozed, but roused a little when he carefully withdrew from her and rolled out of bed.

"Where are you going?" she murmured, reaching out to caress his back.

"To the bathroom, to get my bag, and to turn out the lights," he replied, and the answer seemed so prosaic she chuckled, turning her face into the pillow as lassitude claimed her again.

Still, she wasn't quite asleep when he returned. She went into his arms, shivering a little at the wash of cool air on her bare shoulders despite the heat that surrounded her everywhere below. "Let me wear your T-shirt," she said sleepily, and he leaned over the side of the bed to pluck it from the floor.

She sat up and pulled it on, then settled back into his arms. "Okay, now I can sleep."

"It's about time," he grumbled, but she heard the amusement and physical satisfaction underlying his tone, and she went to sleep feeling more secure than she ever had before.

She came awake with a jolt, heart hammering, every muscle tense.

She couldn't have been asleep long. She had the sense that very little time had passed, certainly no more than an hour. Something had wakened her, something that made her skin prickle, her reaction much as it would have been had she slept in a cave thousands of years ago and woke to the sound of a tiger prowling at the cave entrance. She listened intently, wondering if the comparison was apt. Was someone in the apartment?

Her mind replayed the undefined, unfamiliar noise. She hadn't imagined it. It hadn't been loud, nothing more than a scrape, a whisper of a sound. Like a footstep. Like a window sliding up. Either of those, or both. Coming from the studio.

She shook Richard and felt his instant alertness. "I heard something," she whispered.

He moved like oiled silk, rolling naked, soundlessly, out of bed. As he stooped down, he motioned for her to join him, holding a finger to his lips to indicate silence, both gestures plainly visible in the colorless light coming through the window.

She tried to imitate how he moved, without any jumps or jerks that would make noise. She got out of bed without any betraying squeaks from the mattress, only the whisper of the sheet marking her departure. His T-shirt, which had been bunched around her waist, settled down over her hips but did nothing to protect her from the cool night air washing around her bare legs. She noticed the chill and then promptly forgot it, her attention riveted on the open door of the bedroom, expecting at any moment to see a dark, menacing form come through it.

Richard stooped down to the small bag he had brought, never looking away from the door as he reached inside the bag. When he straightened, light glinted dully on the big weapon in his right hand. With his left, he reached out and tucked her behind him.

Gripping her wrist to make sure she stayed with him, and behind him, he glided soundlessly to a position behind the door, but not so close that it would hit him if someone shoved it completely open. Then they waited.

She couldn't hear him breathing, but her own breath seemed to echo in her ears and surely her heart was pounding hard enough to be audible. Carefully she breathed through her mouth, to eliminate even that small sound. And she listened.

She could hear the clock ticking in the living room. She heard the distant wail of a siren. She didn't hear a repeat of that scraping sound.

But Richard didn't relax, didn't move from his alert stance. He was closer to the door, his body blocking her; did he hear something she couldn't?

Then she felt, sensed, someone just on the other side of the doorway, not stepping into the bedroom but looking into it.

The door opened back toward the wall against which the bed was positioned. Because of that, he couldn't see the complete bed, just the foot of it, unless he came further into the doorway. Sweeney was acutely aware of the empty bed. Would he look at it and know they had heard him and were somewhere in the apartment, or would he assume no one was at home and she simply didn't make her bed? Would he stroll into the bedroom, or—

The door crashed back against the wall, the sound exploding in the dark silence.

Richard dropped, already moving before the door hit the wall, his grip on her wrist dragging her down with him. An explosion deafened her, blinded her. Another one, nearer, came so close on the heels of the first one the sounds almost blended into one. A strange percussion hit her, a small burst of air blasted against her skin.

Gun shots.

Her realization was immediate, but by that time there was nothing but the tinny ringing in her ears and the sharp smell of cordite burning her nostrils.

Her hearing and sight began to clear. She saw him now, flopping in the door-way. She heard him, a guttural, inhuman groan. The air fluttered out of his lungs like a balloon going flat, and then she smelled him.

She gagged, but fought back the bile that rose in her throat. "Are you all right?" Richard demanded, his voice harsh with urgency as he spun on his bare heel to face her.

"Yes," she managed to croak. He stood from his crouched position and went to the bed, switching on the bedside lamp. She squinted, almost blinded again. Before her eyes adjusted to the light, Richard was on the phone, his gaze locked on the body sprawled in the doorway. "This is Richard Worth," he said quietly, to whoever was on the other end of the line. "Kai Stengel just broke into Sweeney's apartment and tried to kill us."

Kai?

Stunned, Sweeney blinked several times and looked at the body, then wished she hadn't. Kai sprawled facedown in the bedroom doorway, his head turned toward her and his eyes open, set in the emptiness of death. There was a small, almost neat pool of blood under him, but the doorframe and the wall behind him were splattered with blood and gore.

"Don't bother," said Richard. "I shot him. He's dead."

As he replaced the receiver on the hook, Sweeney rose shakily to her feet and turned to him, instinctively wanting to go into his arms. She froze. Dark red rivulets streaked down his arm and chest, streaming from the top of his left shoulder.

"Oh, my God, you're shot!"

He glanced down at his shoulder. "Just a little," he said calmly, catching her as she launched herself at him.

She fought free of his grasp and pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed. "You can't be just a little shot," she said fiercely. "It's like being pregnant; you either are or you aren't. Stay here."

She whirled and ran. Her first aid supplies were in the bathroom vanity cabinet. She had to step over Kai's body to get out of the room, but she hesitated only a fraction of a second. Richard was bleeding, and the urgent need to take care of him overrode everything else. She was careful where she put her feet, but she didn't slow down.

When she returned, laden with her first aid kit and a towel and washcloth, Richard had pulled on his jeans and was stepping into his shoes. "I told you to sit down! " she all but roared at him.

"No, you didn't. You told me to stay here. I'm here."

His mild tone infuriated her. But he sat down on the bed again and let her press a gauze pad to the top of his shoulder. "It's just a burn; it won't even need stitches."

He sounded so remote that she gave him a sharp glance. His face was expressionless, his eyes cool and watchful as he looked at Kai. She remembered that he had been an army ranger, and suddenly she knew that he had killed before, that this was the way he operated in a firefight.

After a moment she lifted the pad and saw that he was right; the wound across the top of his shoulder was a raw streak that sullenly oozed blood. Sirens wailed, coming closer and closer; they sounded as if they were right outside, then the noise abruptly stopped. Sweeney picked up the wet washcloth and began cleaning the wound. Richard took the cloth away from her. "I'll do it," he said, and slipped his free hand under the T-shirt to pat her bare butt. "You'd better get some clothes on, unless you want the cops to see this pretty ass of yours."

She scowled at him, but went to the closet and took out a pair of jeans, pulling them on without bothering to put on underwear. She was just in time; it took the first responding cops only a minute to get inside the building and up to her apartment. Richard made his escape while she was zipping and snapping, stepping past Kai to get to the front door before the thunderous pounding broke it down.

Four uniformed cops poured into the apartment. Sweeney had a glimpse of avid expressions on the faces of her neighboring tenants as they milled in the hall outside her door, then Richard pulled her into the kitchen, removing both of them from the scene so the cops could do their work.

The next few hours were a tumult. Detective Ritenour arrived hard on the heels of the uniformed cops, beating the EMTs by a couple of minutes. He was dressed, but his shirt was wrinkled and his tie hung crookedly. Richard had called the detectives instead of 911. More uniformed cops arrived, and the emergency medical team, and Detective Aquino. Her apartment was full of people. Radios crackled. More people arrived.

Richard kept her in the kitchen, seated with her back to the door so she couldn't see any of what went on behind her. Two of the medical team looked at the wound on his shoulder and applied an antibiotic salve and a bandage. He finished cleaning himself up at the sink, scrubbing away the blood with a wet paper towel, and refused any further medical treatment.

Aquino and Ritenour took their statements. They found the window in her studio where Kai had entered. There was no question about Richard firing in self-defense.

"I think we'll find he killed Mrs. Worth," said Aquino. "When he saw the painting Ms. Sweeney was doing, it must have been a real shock to him. Took him by surprise, otherwise he would have tried to do away with you then," he said, looking at Sweeney. "Then I guess he thought he could pin the whole thing on you by telling us about the painting."

"But how did he know you didn't arrest me?" she asked, bewildered.

Aquino shrugged. Ritenour answered. "He could have called the precinct, or maybe he was watching. How doesn't matter. He obviously came here tonight intending to kill you, only you heard him raise the window, and you weren't alone."

Aquino said sourly to Richard, "It's illegal to own a handgun without a license in the city of New York."

Richard shrugged, not a flicker of discomfort from his wounded shoulder showing on his face. "I have a license," he said.

Aquino looked even more sour. "It figures. You did a damn good job. That was a clean hit to the heart. You've had training, haven't you?"

"Military," Richard replied. "Army."

"Yeah?" Ritenour said. "What unit? I was in the army."

"Rangers."

Sweeney saw their expressions change, and they sat back in their chairs.

"The bastard didn't have a chance," Ritenour said softly.