t was the brilliant wash of sunlight that woke her. For one horrible moment, she thought her eyes were on fire, and beat on them with her open palms before she was fully coherent.

She discovered she was not spontaneously combusting. And that she was not alone in bed. The best she could manage was a muffled moan as she squeezed her aching eyes shut again.

What had she done?

Well, it was pretty obvious what she'd done—in fact, if memory served, she'd done it twice. In between which, Ryan had made her swallow three aspirin and a small ocean of water. She supposed it was that small consideration that was currently keeping her head in place on her shoulders.

Cautiously, she slid her glance over. He was flat on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. She imagined he wasn't too wild about the brilliance of the sun either, but neither of them had had their mind on pulling the drapes the night before.

Oh, good God.

She'd jumped him, groped at him, torn at his clothes like a madwoman.

And even now, in the full light of day, her mouth watered at the thought of doing it all again.

Slowly, hoping to preserve her dignity as least long enough to get into the shower, she eased from the bed. He didn't move a muscle or make a sound, and thankful for this small blessing, she made the dash into the bathroom.

Fortunately for her state of mind, she didn't see him pop one eye open and grin at her naked butt.

She talked to herself through the shower, pitifully grateful for the hot steam of the water. It eased some of the aches away. But the deeper ones, the sweeter ones that she accepted came from good, healthy sex remained.

She took another three aspirin anyway, hoping.

He was on the terrace when she came out, chatting casually with the room service waiter. Since it was too late to duck back inside, she managed a small smile for both of them.

"Buon giorno. The day is beautiful, «? You enjoy." The waiter took the signed bill with a small bow. "Grazie. Buon appetito."

He left them alone with a table full of food and a pigeon who walked along the ledge of the terrace wall, eyeing the offerings avariciously.

"Well… I…" She stuffed her hands in her robe pockets because they wanted to flutter.

"Have some coffee," he suggested. He wore soft gray slacks and a black shirt that made him look very at ease and cosmopolitan. And made her remember her hair was damp and tangled.

She nearly leaped at the diversion, but shook her head. She was a woman who faced the music squarely. "Ryan, last night… I think I should apologize."

"Really?" He poured two cups of coffee and made himself comfortable at the table.

"I had too much to drink. That's not an excuse, just a fact."

"Darling, you were plowed. Cute too," he added, studying her as he added jam to a croissant. "And amazingly agile."

She closed her eyes, gave in, and sat down. "My behavior was inexcusable and regrettable, and I'm sorry. I put you in a very awkward position."

"I recall several positions." He sipped his coffee, charmed at the faint blush that worked its way up her throat. "None of which were the least awkward."

She picked up her coffee, sipped fast, and scalded her tongue.

"Why does it need to be excused?" he wondered, choosing a little cake from the basket and putting it on her plate. "What's the point in regrets? Did we hurt anyone?"

"The issue is—"

"The issue—if there has to be one—is we're both single, unattached, healthy grown-ups who have a strong attraction for each other. Last night we acted on it." He took the cover from a glistening golden omelet. "I for one enjoyed myself, very much." He cut the omelet in two and added a portion to her plate. "How about you?"

She'd been conscientiously set to humiliate herself, to apologize, to take full responsibility. Why wasn't he letting her? "You're missing the point."

"No, I'm not. I don't agree with the point you're fumbling to make. Ah, there, a little flash of that chilly temper in your eyes. Much better. Now, while I appreciate the fact that you're sensible enough not to put the blame on me for taking advantage of the situation—as you were tearing off my clothes—it's just as foolish to blame yourself."

"I'm blaming the wine," she said stiffly.

"No, you already said that wasn't an excuse." He laughed, took her hand and put a fork in it. "I wanted to make love with you the minute I saw you—wanted it more the longer I knew you. You fascinate me, Miranda. Now eat your eggs before they get cold."

She stared down at her plate. It wasn't possible to be annoyed with him. "I don't have casual sex."

"You call that casual?" He blew out a long breath. "God help me when we get serious."

She felt her lips twitch and gave up. "It was fabulous."

"I'm glad you remember. I wasn't sure how clear your mind would be. I wish we had more time here." He toyed with her damp hair. "Florence is good to lovers."

She took a long breath, looked directly into his eyes, and made what for her was an unprecedented commitment. "Maine's beautiful in the spring."

He smiled and stroked a finger down her cheek. "I'm going to enjoy experiencing it."

The Dark Lady stood under a single beam of light. The one who studied her sat in the dark. The mind was cold, calm, and clear, as it had been when murder was done.

Murder had not been planned. The driving forces had been power and what was right. If all had gone correctly, if all had gone well, violence would not have been necessary.

But it had not gone correctly, or well, so adjustments had been made. The blame for the loss of two lives lay with the theft of the David. Who could have anticipated, who could have controlled such an event?

It would be termed a wild card. Yes, a wild card.

But murder was not as abhorrent as one would think. That too brought power. Nothing and no one could substantiate the existence of The Dark Lady and be permitted to exist. That was simple fact.

It would be taken care of, it would be dealt with, cleanly, completely, and finally.

When the time was right it would end. With Miranda.

It was a pity such a bright and clever mind had to be destroyed. Reputation alone would have sufficed once. Now, everything had to be taken. There was no room for sentiment in science, or in power.

An accident perhaps, though suicide would be best.

Yes, suicide. It would be so… satisfying. How odd not to have anticipated how satisfying her death would be.

It would take some thought, some planning. It would take… A smile spread as slyly as that on the glorious face of the bronze. It would take patience.

When The Dark Lady was left alone under that single beam of light, there was no one to hear the quiet laughter of the damned. Or the mad.

Spring was drifting over Maine. There was a softness in the air that hadn't been there even a week before. Or at least Miranda hadn't felt it.

On its hill, the old house stood with its back to the sea, its windows going gold in the setting sun. It was good to be home.

She stepped inside and found Andrew in the den, keeping company with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Her quietly optimistic mood plummeted.

He got to his feet quickly, swaying a little. She noted that it took his eyes several seconds to focus, that he hadn't shaved in the last day or two, that his clothes were wrinkled.

He was, she realized, well drunk, and likely had been for a couple of days.

"Where've you been?" He took a couple of lurching steps, then caught her up in a sloppy hug. "I've been worried about you. I called everybody I could think of. Nobody knew where you'd gone."

Despite the heavy fumes of whiskey that hung around him, she knew his concern was sincere. Though she hugged him back, wanting that connection, her intention of telling him everything wavered. How much could a drunk be trusted?

"I'm on leave," she reminded him. "I left you a note."

"Yeah, and it didn't tell me dick." He drew back, studied her face, then patted her head with one of his big hands. "When the old man came to the Institute, I knew we were hip-deep. I got back here as soon as I could, but you were already gone."

"They didn't leave me any choice. Did he come down hard on you?"

"No more than expected." He shrugged that off. Even with the whiskey hampering his instincts he could see something was different. "What's going on, Miranda? What'd you do?"

"I went away for a few days." She made the decision to keep what she knew to herself, with regret. "I ran into Ryan Boldari in New York."

She turned away because she was a poor liar under the best of circumstances. And had never lied to Andrew. "He's back in Maine now. He's going to stay here for a few days."

"Here?"

"Yes, I… We're involved."

"You're—Oh." He ran his tongue around his teeth and tried to think. "Okay. That was… quick."

"Not really. We have a lot in common." She didn't want to dwell on that. "Has there been any progress in the investigation?"

"We hit a snag. We can't find the documentation on the David."

Though she'd been expecting this, her stomach jumped. She ran a nervous hand over her hair and prepared to continue the deception. "Can't find it? It should be in the fries."

"I know where it should be, Miranda." Irritated, he picked up the bottle and poured another drink. "It's not there. It's not anywhere in the Institute. I've looked everywhere." He pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Insurance company's balking. If we don't come up with it, we're going to take the loss. You did the testing."

"Yes," she said carefully. "I did the testing. I authenticated the piece, and the documentation was properly filed. You know that, Andrew. You worked on it too."

"Yeah, well, it's gone now. The insurance company's rejecting the claim until they have documents, our mother is threatening to come in and see why we're so inept that we lose not only a fine piece of art but its paperwork, and Cook's giving me the fucking fish eye."

"I'm sorry I left you alone with this." Sorrier now that she could see how he was handling it. "Andrew, please." She walked over and took the glass out of his hand. "I can't talk to you when you're drunk."

He only smiled, dimples popping into his cheeks. "I'm not drunk yet."

"Yes, you are." She'd been there herself recently enough to know the signs. "You need to get into a program."

The dimples faded. Jesus Christ, was all he could think. Just what he needed. "What I need is a little cooperation and support." Irked, he snatched the glass back and took a long gulp. "Maybe you're sorry you left me alone with this, but that's just what you did. And if I want a few drinks after a miserable day of dealing with the police, running the Institute, and tap dancing for our parents, it's nobody's fucking business."

As she stared at him her chest tightened, squeezing her heart with the pressure. "I love you." The words hurt, just a little, because she knew neither of them said them often enough. "I love you, Andrew, and you're killing yourself in front of my eyes. That makes it my business."

There were tears in her eyes and in her voice that played on his guilt and infuriated. "Fine, I'll kill myself in private. Then it won't be any of your goddamn business." He grabbed the bottle and strode out.

He hated himself for it, for putting that disappointment and hurt in the eyes of the only person he'd ever been able to fully depend on. But goddamn it to hell and back, it was his life.

He slammed the door of his bedroom, didn't notice the stench of stale whiskey from his binge the night before. He sat in a chair and drank straight from the bottle.

He was entitled to relax, wasn't he? He got his work done, he did his job—for all the good it did him—so why did he have to get grief for having a couple of drinks?

Or a couple dozen, he thought with a snicker. Who was counting?

Maybe the blackouts worried him a little, those weird and empty pockets of time he couldn't seem to account for. That was probably stress, and a good stiff drink was the best solution to stress.

You bet it was.

He told himself he missed his wife, though it was becoming more and more difficult to bring up a clear picture of her face, or to remember the exact pitch of her voice. Occasionally, when he was sober, he had a flash of truth. He didn't love Elise any longer—and maybe had never loved her as much as he liked to think. So he drank to blot out that truth, and allowed himself to enjoy the sense of betrayal and misery.

He was beginning to see the value of drinking alone now that Annie had barred him from her place. Alone, you could drink until you couldn't stand, and when you couldn't stand you lay down and passed out. It got a man through the night.

A man had to get through the night, he thought, brooding at the bottle before tipping it back again.

It wasn't that he had to drink. He was in control of it and could quit whenever he wanted. He didn't want, that was all. Still, he'd stop, cold turkey, just to prove to Miranda, to Annie, to every damn body they were wrong about him.

People had always been wrong about him, he decided, stewing in resentment. Beginning with his parents. They'd never known who the hell he was, what he wanted, much less what the hell he needed.

So fuck them. Fuck all of them.

He'd quit drinking, all right. Tomorrow, he thought with another chuckle as he lifted the bottle.

He saw the lights cut across the room. Headlights, he decided after a long, wavering study where his mind blinked out and his mouth hung open. Company's coming. Probably Boldari.

He took another long gulp and grinned to himself. Miranda had a boyfriend. He'd get some mileage out of that. It had been a long time since he'd been able to tease his sister over something as interesting as a man.

Might as well get started on it now, he decided. He got to his feet, snorting with laughter as the room revolved. Join the circus, see the world, he thought, and stumbled toward the door.

He'd just find out what old Ryan Boldari's intentions were. Yes indeed. He had to show that slick New Yorker that little Miranda had herself a big brother looking out for her. He took another long chug from the bottle as he lurched down the hall, and grabbing the banister at the top of the steps, looked down.

There was his baby sister, right at the foot of the steps, in a hot liplock with New York. "Hey!" He called out, gesturing wildly with the bottle, then laughing when Miranda whirled around. "Whatcha doing with my sister, Mr. New York?"

"Hello, Andrew."

"Hello, Andrew my ass. You sleeping with my sister, you bastard?"

"Not at the moment." He kept his arm around Miranda's rigid shoulders.

"Well, I wanna talk to you, buddy." Andrew started down, made it halfway on his feet, and tumbled the rest. It was like watching a boulder fall down a cliff.

Miranda leaped forward, kneeling beside his sprawled body. There was blood on his face, which terrified her. "Oh God. Andrew."

"I'm all right. I'm all right," he muttered, shoving at her hands as they poked and probed for broken bones. "Just took a little spill's all."

"You could have broken your neck."

"Steps are a tricky thing," Ryan said mildly. He crouched beside Miranda, noting that the cut on Andrew's forehead was shallow, and Miranda's hands were shaking. "Why don't we get you back up them, clean you up?"

"Shit." Andrew brushed his fingers over his forehead, studied the smear of blood. "Look at that."

"I'll get the first-aid kit."

Ryan glanced over at Miranda. She'd gone pale again, but her eyes were shuttered. "We'll take care of it. Come on, Andrew. My brother tripped over a curb the night of his bachelor party and did more damage than this." He was hauling Andrew to his feet as Miranda got to hers. But when she started to go up with them, Ryan shook his head at her.

"No women. This is a guy thing. Right, Andrew?"

"Damn right." Boozily he made Ryan his best friend. "Women are the root of all evil."

"God love them."

"I had one for a while. She dumped me."

"Who needs her?" Ryan steered Andrew to the left.

"That's the spirit! I can't see a fucking thing."

"There's blood dripping into your eye."

"Thank Christ, thought I'd been struck blind. Know what, Ryan Boldari, pal?"

"What's that?"

"I'm going to be really sick now."

"Oh yeah." Ryan dragged him into the bathroom. "You are."

What a family, Ryan thought as he held Andrew's head and wondered vaguely if it was possible to throw up internal organs. If not, Andrew was giving it the old college try.

By the time it was over, Andrew was wrecked, white as death and trembling. It took three tries for Ryan to prop him on the toilet seat so he could deal with the cut on his face.

"Must've been the fall," Andrew said weakly.

"You threw up the best part of a fifth," Ryan said as he wiped blood and sweat away. "You embarrassed yourself and your sister, took a header that would have snapped several bones if they hadn't been permeated with whiskey, you smell like a four o'clock bar and look worse. Sure, it was the fall."

Andrew closed his eyes. He wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep until he died. "Maybe I had a couple too many. Wouldn't have if Miranda hadn't started on me."

"Save the lame excuses. You're a drunk." Ruthlessly, Ryan swabbed antiseptic over the wound and felt no sympathy when Andrew sucked in his breath. "At least be man enough to take the responsibility for it."

"Fuck you."

"That's a clever and original comeback. You shouldn't need stitches, but you're going to have a hell of a black eye to go with the war wound." Satisfied, he pulled Andrew's ruined shirt over his head.

"Hey."

"You need a shower, pal. Trust me."

"I just want to go to bed. For God's sake, I just want to lie down. I think I'm dying."

"Not yet, but you're on your way." Grimly, Ryan pulled him to his feet, bracing himself to hold the weight while he reached out and turned on the shower. He decided it was more trouble than it was worth to remove Andrew's pants, so dragged him half dressed into the tub.

"Jesus. I'm going to be sick again."

"Then aim for the drain," Ryan suggested, and held him in place even when Andrew began to sob like a baby.

It took the best part of an hour to pour Andrew into bed. When he came downstairs Ryan noted that the shattered glass from the bottle had been swept up, and the splash of whiskey that had hit walls and floors on the fall had been scrubbed.

When he couldn't find Miranda in the house, he grabbed a jacket and headed outside.

She was on the cliffs. He studied the silhouette she made there, alone, tall, slender, against the night sky, with her hair blowing free and her face turned to the sea.

Not just alone, he thought. Lonely. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone lonelier.

He climbed up to her, draped the jacket over her shoulders.

She'd managed to steady herself. Somehow the restless tossing of the sea could always calm her. "I'm terribly sorry you were dragged into that."

Her voice was cool, he noted. Automatic defense. Her body was stiff, and still turned away from him. "I wasn't dragged in. I was here." He laid his hands on her shoulders, but she stepped away.

"That's the second time you've had to deal with an embarrassingly drunk Jones."

"One night's foolishness is a long distance from what your brother's doing to himself, Miranda."

"However true that is, it doesn't change the facts. We behaved badly, and you cleaned up the mess. I don't know if I could have handled Andrew tonight by myself. But I would have preferred it."

"That's too bad." Annoyed, he spun her around to face him. "Because I was here, and I'm going to be here for a while."

"Until we find the bronzes."

"That's right. And if I'm not done with you by then…" He cupped her face, lowered his head and took her mouth in an angry and possessive kiss. "You'll have to deal with it."

"I don't know how to deal with it." Her voice rose over the crash of waves. "I'm not equipped for this, for you. Every relationship I've ever had has ended badly. I don't know how to handle that kind of emotional tangle, no one in my family does, so they just untangle at the first possible opportunity."

"You've never tangled with me before." It was said with such blatant arrogance she might have laughed. Instead she turned away, stared at the steady circling beam from the lighthouse.

He would be the one to run when it was done, she thought. And this time, with him, she was desperately afraid she would suffer. It didn't matter that she understood why he was there, what his primary purpose was. She would suffer when he left her.

"Everything that's happened since I met you is foreign to me. I don't function well without guidelines."

"You've been winging it pretty well so far."

"Two men are dead, Ryan. My reputation's in ruins, my family is more divided than ever. I've broken the law, I've ignored ethics, and I'm having an affair with a criminal."

"But you haven't been bored, have you?"

She let out a weak laugh. "No. I don't know what to do next."

"I can help you with that." He took her hand and began to walk. "Tomorrow's soon enough to take the next steps. Soon enough to talk about what they should be."

"I need to put everything in order." She glanced back toward the house. "I should check on Andrew first, then organize."

"Andrew's asleep, and he's not going to surface until tomorrow. Organizing takes a clear, focused mind. You've got too much on yours to be clear or focused."

"Excuse me, but organization is my life. I can organize three different projects, outline a lecture, and teach a class at the same time."

"You're a frightening woman, Dr. Jones. Then let's say I'm not clear or focused. And I've never been inside a lighthouse." He studied it as they approached, enjoying the way its beam cut through the dark and lay shimmering on the surface of the sea. "How old is it?"

She let out a breath. If it was avoidance, so be it. "It was built in 1853. The structure is original, though my grandfather had the interior revamped in the forties with the idea of using it as his art studio. The fact is, according to my grandmother, he used it for illicit sexual affairs because it amused him to have them within sight of the house and in such an obviously phallic symbol."

"Good old Grandpa."

"He was only one of the insufferable emotionally stunted Joneses. His father—again according to my grandmother, who was the only one who would discuss such matters—flaunted his mistresses in public and conceived several illegitimate children he refused to acknowledge. My grandfather carried on that lofty tradition."

"The Joneses of Jones Point are many."

She waited for the insult to sink in, then shook her head. It was amusement she felt instead. "Yes, I suppose so. In any case, my great-grandmother chose to ignore his habits and spent most of the year in Europe, avenging herself by squandering as much of his money as was possible. Unfortunately, she chose to travel back to the States on a luxurious new ship. They called it the Titanic."

"Really?" Ryan was close enough to see the rusted lock on the thick wooden door. "Cool."

"Well, she and her children boarded a lifeboat and were rescued. But she caught pneumonia from the exposure in the North Atlantic, and died of it a few weeks later. Her husband mourned by taking up with an opera singer shortly thereafter. He was killed when the opera singer's husband, being somewhat displeased with the arrangement, set the house where they were living in sin on fire."

"I imagine he died happy." Ryan took a Leatherman knife kit out of his pocket, chose his tool, and went to work on the lock.

"Don't. I have a key in the house if you want to see the inside."

"This is more fun, and quicker. See?" He replaced the knife, opened the door. "Damp," he said, and took out his penlight to shine it around the large lower room. "Yet cozy."

The walls were paneled with old-fashioned knotty pine that reminded him of a suburban rec room from the fifties. Various shapes were tucked efficiently under holland covers, and a small fireplace, layered with cold gray ash, was built into the far side.

He thought it was a shame that whoever had designed this area had chosen to build in the walls to square them off rather than going with the round.

"So, is this where Grandpa entertained his ladies?"

"I imagine." She pulled the jacket more securely around her shoulders. The air inside was chilly and stale. "My grandmother detested him, but she stayed in the marriage, raised my father, then nursed her husband through the last two years of his life. She was a wonderful woman. Strong, stubborn. She loved me."

He turned back, skimmed the back of his hand over her face. "Of course she did."

"There's no of course when it comes to love in my family." Because she saw the flicker of sympathy in his eyes, she turned away. "You'd see more in here if you wait for daylight."

He said nothing for a moment. He remembered he'd once thought she had a cold streak. It was rare for him to be so completely wrong when analyzing a mark. She'd been a mark then, and now… That was something to think about later.

It wasn't coldness inside her, but a well-built defense against hurts of a lifetime. From neglect, indifference, from the very coldness he'd believed lived in her.

He walked around, pleased when he spotted both an oil lamp and candles. He lighted both, appreciating the eerie glow they gave the room. "Spooky." He put his penlight away and grinned at her. "You ever come in here as a kid and look for ghosts?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Honey, you had a deprived childhood. We'll have to make up for that. Come on."

"What are you doing?"

"Going up." He was already climbing the metal tight-winder stairs.

"Don't touch anything." She scurried after him as the lights he carried sent bobbing glows and shadows against the walls. "It's all automated now."

He found a small bedroom, with little more than a stripped mattress that looked inhabitable and a scruffy chest of drawers. The grandmother, he decided, had likely pirated the place of any valuables. Good for her.

He walked over and admired the view from the porthole-style window. The sea raged, sliced by the light, churning under it, through it. Small islands, like humped backs, brooded off the ragged coastline. He caught the sway of buoys, heard the hollow bong of them punch through the sweeping crash and suck of sea.

"Great spot. Drama, danger, and challenge."

"It's rarely calm," she said from behind him. "There's a view of the bay from the other window. Some days, or nights, the water there is as smooth as glass. It looks as though you could walk on it, all the way to shore."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Which do you like best?"

"I'm fond of both, but I suppose I'm usually drawn to the sea."

"Restless spirits are drawn to restless spirits."

She frowned at that, brooding after him as he moved out of the room. No one, she thought, would term her a restless spirit. Least of all herself.

Dr. Miranda Jones was stable as granite, she thought. And often, too often, just as boring.

With a vague shrug she followed him into the pilot room.

"Amazing place." He was already ignoring her order and touching what he chose.

The equipment was efficiently modern and hummed along as the great lights circled overhead. The room was round, as it should have been, with a narrow ledge circling outside. The iron rails were rusted, but he found them charming. When he stepped out, the wind slapped at him like an insulted woman and made him laugh.

"Fabulous. Damned if I wouldn't have brought my women here too. Romantic, sexy, and just a little scary. You ought to fix it up," he said, glancing back at her. "It'd make a terrific studio."

"I don't need a studio."

"You would if you worked on your art, the way you should be."

"I'm not an artist."

He smiled, stepped back inside and closed out the wind. "I happen to be a very important art broker, and I say you are. Cold?"

"A little." She was hugging herself inside the jacket. "It's very damp in here."

"You're going to have rot if you don't deal with that. That would be a crime. I'm also an expert on crime." He put his hands on her arms, rubbing to warm her with friction. "The sea sounds different from in here. Mysterious, almost threatening."

"During a good nor' easter, it would sound a lot more threatening. The light still functions to guide ships and keep them from coining too close to the shallows and the rocks. Even with it, there were a number of wrecks off the coast last century."

"The ghosts of shipwrecked sailors, rattling bones, haunting the shore."

"Hardly."

"I can hear them." He slipped his arms around her. "Moaning for mercy."

"You hear the wind," she corrected, but he'd managed to draw a shudder out of her. "Seen enough?"

"Not nearly." He lowered his mouth to nibble on hers. "But I intend to."

She tried to wiggle free. "Boldari, if you think you can seduce me inside a damp and dusty lighthouse, you're delusional."

"Is that a dare?" He nipped around to the side of her neck.

"No, it's a fact." But the muscles in her thighs were already going lax. He had the most inventive tongue. "There's a perfectly good bedroom in the house, several in fact. They're warm, convenient, and have excellent mattresses."

"We'll have to try them out, later. Have I mentioned what a delightful body you have, Dr. Jones?" His hands were already busy exploring it. Those quick and clever fingers flipped open the hook of her slacks, drew the zipper down before she could do more than gasp out a protest.

"Ryan, this isn't the place for—"

"It was good enough for Grandpa," he reminded her, then slowly slipped his fingers inside her. She was already hot, already wet, and he kept his eyes on hers, watching them go blind and dark and desperate. "Just let go. I want to feel you come, right here. I want to watch what I do to you. Take you over."

Her body gave her no choice. It hummed like a well-oiled machine toward one purpose, one goal. The long, deep thrill slid through her, a sudden tangling of circuits, a sparking of nerve ends, then a long liquid wave of pleasure that swamped the system.

Her head fell back on a moan, and he moved in to ravage the exposed column of her throat. "Still cold?" he murmured.

"No, God, no." Her skin was on fire, her blood pumping like a hot river beneath it. Gripping his shoulders for balance, she rocked against his busy hand.

Now, when his mouth came back to hers, she answered the demand with one of her own. Time and place were nothing against the hard and driving need.

Her slacks pooled at her feet, the jacket slipped from her shoulders. Pliant as softened wax, she molded against him as he braced her on the counter where equipment whirred efficiently to send the light circling the sea.

"Lift your arms, Miranda."

She obeyed, her breath snagging on every inhale as he slowly slipped her sweater up. He watched nervy pleasure flicker over her face as he used his thumbs to trace her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra.

"No wine tonight to blur the edges." His fingers skimmed lightly over the swell above the simple white silk. "I want you to feel everything, to wonder what you'll feel next." He nudged one strap down with a fingertip, then the other, lowered his head to nibble at her bare shoulders.

It was like being… sampled, she thought as her heavy eyes shut. Savored, lavishly savored. His tongue licked lightly over her flesh, his teeth grazed, and his fingertips slid up and down, up and down the sides of her body, gradually, thrillingly lowering the thin swatch of cotton at her hips.

He stood intimately between her spread legs while she gripped the edge of the counter and understood what it was to be completely under someone else's control. To want to be. To crave it.

Everything he did to her was a shock, a jolt to the ruthlessly ordered pattern of her mind, that only seconds later was desired again and welcomed.

A part of her brain knew the image she made, almost naked, skin flushed, body arched in surrender while the man who handled her was fully dressed.

But when he slipped the bra aside, lowered that skilled mouth to her breast, she didn't care.

He hadn't known she could be like this, or how powerful an arousal it was to have a strong and cautious woman yield to him completely. She was his, utterly, to take pleasure from, to give pleasure to. But the thrill of that, rather than dark and edgy, was almost unbearably tender.

The backwash from the great light slid over her, turning her skin to brilliant white; then it was gone, leaving her glowing gold in the flicker of candlelight. Her hair, so recently chased by the wind, tumbled like silken fire over her shoulders. Her mouth, soft and swollen, parted under his.

The kiss deepened, wanned, and delved beyond the heady desire neither had anticipated. For a moment they clung together, staggered. And trembled.

It was like a dream now where the air was thick and sweet. Hot candy, melted over slow heat.

Neither noticed the damp or the chill. They lowered to a floor that was layered with dust, that was hard and cold, and drew together as gently as a couple on a feather bed.

Without words, she removed his shirt, her hands steady. And she pressed her lips to his heart, lingering there because she knew that somehow he'd stolen hers.

He wanted to give her tenderness here, the compassion in mating as well as the thrill. So he was gentle with his mouth, with his hands, loving her in a way that gleamed with emotion as well as need.

A murmur, a sigh, a long slow arch toward warm waves that cradled rather than battered.

So when she wrapped around him, pressing her face into his throat, he stroked, he soothed, he gave himself the gift of that same tenderness.

When he shifted her over him, cupping her hips until she took him in, took him deep, she knew what it was to love her lover.