iranda awoke beside Ryan for the second morning in a row, and on another continent. It was an oddly thrilling experience that seemed both carelessly wicked and decidedly sophisticated. Sinning in style.

She had an urge to comb her fingers through his hair, play them over his face, explore that dashing little scar over his eye. Foolish, sentimental little strokes and pats that might lead to slow and lazy morning sex.

It was so odd, all these feelings crowding inside of her, taking up room she hadn't known she had in store, warming up places she'd assumed would always stay cool and uninhabited. So much more inside her now, she thought, than that first hot gush of lust. Too much more, and it left her completely vulnerable. And that was terrifying.

So instead of touching what she wanted to touch, she eased out of bed and tiptoed into the shower as she had done the morning before. This time, however, she'd barely dunked her head under the spray, when arms slid around her waist.

"Why do you do that?"

She waited until her heart had dropped back in place. "Do what?"

"Sneak out of bed in the morning. I've seen you naked already."

"I didn't sneak." She tried to wiggle free, but his teeth clamped lightly on her shoulder. "I just didn't want to wake you."

"I know a sneak when I see one." He lifted a brow at her mutter. "And saying 'pot' and 'kettle' doesn't apply. I have never sneaked out of a woman's bed. In yes, out no."

"Very funny. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm trying to shower."

"I'll help you." More than willing to assist, he picked up the soap, sniffed it, then began to rub it over her back. It was, he thought, a very excellent back.

"I mastered the art of the shower years ago. I can do it solo."

"Why?" Because her voice had been delightfully prim, he turned her around, snuggling her wet, slippery body against his.

"Because it's…" She could feel her color rise and hated it. "It's personal."

"Oh, I see," he said, tongue planted in cheek. "And the sex wasn't personal?"

"It's different."

"Okay." With his eyes laughing into hers, he skimmed his soap-slicked hands over her breasts. "We'll compromise and combine the two."

It was far from the brisk and basic hygiene she'd had in mind.

When she was gulping in steam and quaking from the aftershocks, he nuzzled at her throat. "That," he said, "was personal." Then he sighed. "I have to go to Mass."

"What?" She shook her head, sure there was water in her ears. "Did you say you had to go to Mass?"

"Easter Sunday."

"Yes, yes, it is." Struggling to keep up with him, she shoved dripping hair out of her eyes. "It seems like an odd line of thought, under the circumstances."

"They might not have had the benefit of indoor plumbing in biblical times, but they had plenty of sex."

She supposed he had a point, but it still made her vaguely uncomfortable to think of religion when his wet hands were sliding over her wet butt.

"You're Catholic." At his lifted brow she shook her head. "Yes, I know, Irish and Italian, what else could you do? I didn't realize you practiced."

"Mostly I'm lapsed." He stepped out of the shower, handed her a towel and got one for himself. "And if you tell my mother I said that, I'll swear you're a dirty, rotten liar. But it's Easter Sunday." He gave his hair a quick rub, then draped the towel around his hips. "If I don't go to Mass, my mother will kill me."

"I see. I feel obliged to point out that your mother isn't here."

"She'll know." He said it mournfully. "She always knows, and I'll go straight to hell because she'll see to it." He watched her align the ends of the towel, wrap, then neatly tuck them between her breasts. The efficiency of the gesture did nothing to detract from the sexiness of it. The room smelled of her—clean soap with woodsy overtones. Abruptly, he didn't want to leave her, not even for an hour.

The realization had him rolling his shoulders as if he needed to displace a sudden and uncomfortable weight.

"Why don't you come with me? You can wear your Easter bonnet."

"Not only don't I own a bonnet, of any kind, but I have to get my thoughts in order." She took a portable hair dryer from the cabinet beside the sink. "And I need to talk to Andrew."

He'd been toying with the idea of afternoon Mass so he could slip the knot on her towel. But he put that aside now. "What do you intend to tell him?"

"Not very much." And it shamed her. "Under the circumstances, as long as he's… I hate that he's drinking like this. I hate it." It shamed her too that when she drew in a breath it was shaky. "And for a minute last night, I hated him. He's all I've ever had, and I hated him."

"No you didn't. You hated what he's doing."

"Yes, you're right." But she knew what had bloomed inside her when she looked up and saw him weaving at the top of the steps. "In any case, I have to talk to him. I'll have to tell him something. I've never lied to him before, not about anything."

There was nothing Ryan understood more than family ties, or the knots they could tie themselves into. "Until he deals with his drinking, he's not the man you know, or one you can trust."

"I know." It was eating at her heart.

In the bathroom in the next wing, where the smell of stale vomit still hung in the air, Andrew leaned on the sink and forced himself to study the face in his mirror.

It was gray, the eyes bloodshot, the skin pasty. His left eye was a sunburst of bruising and above that was a shallow cut perhaps an inch in length. It ached like a fever.

He couldn't remember more than pieces from the evening before, but what did swim back into his mind made his raw stomach clench again.

He saw the image of himself, standing at the top of the stairs, waving a nearly empty bottle and shouting down, slopping the words out while Miranda stared up at him.

And there had been something like loathing in her eyes.

He closed his own. It was all right, he could control it. Maybe he'd stepped over a line the night before, but he wouldn't do it again. He'd take a couple of days off from drinking, prove to everyone he could. It was the stress, that was all. He had reason to be stressed.

He downed some aspirin, pretended his hands weren't shaking. When he dropped the bottle and pills spilled out on the tile, he left them there. He walked out, carrying his sickness with him.

He found Miranda in her office, dressed casually in a sweater and leggings, her hair bundled on top of her head and her posture perfect as she worked at her computer.

It took him more time than he cared to admit to gather the courage to step inside. But when he did, she glanced over, then quickly clicked her data to save and blanked the screen.

"Good morning." She knew her voice was frigid, but couldn't find the will to warm it. "There's coffee in the kitchen."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you are. You may want to put ice on that eye."

"What do you want from me? I said I'm sorry. I had too much to drink. I embarrassed you, I acted like an idiot. It won't happen again."

"Won't it?"

"No." The fact that she didn't give an inch infuriated him. "I went past my limit, that's all."

"One drink is past your limit, Andrew. Until you accept that, you're going to continue to embarrass yourself, to hurt yourself and the people who care about you."

"Look, while you've been off having your little fling with Boldari, I've been here, up to my ears, dealing with business. And part of that business is your screwup in Florence."

Very slowly, she got to her feet. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, Miranda. I'm the one who's had to listen to our mother and our father complain and bitch about the mess with that bronze of yours. And I'm the one who spent days looking for the goddamn documents on the David—that you were in charge of. I'm taking the heat for that too because you're out of it. You can waltz off and spend your time fucking some—"

The crack of her hand across his face shocked them both, left them staring and breathless. She curled her fingers into her stinging palm, pressed it to her heart, and turned away from him.

He stood where he was, wondering why the new apology that ached in his heart couldn't be forced out of his mouth. So, saying nothing at all, he turned and walked out.

She heard the slam of the front door moments later, then looking out the window, saw his car drive off.

All of her life, he'd been her rock. And now, she thought, because she simply wasn't capable of enough compassion, she'd struck out when he needed her. And she'd pushed him away.

She didn't know if she had it in her to pull him back.

Her fax phone rang, then picked up the transmission with its high-pitched squeal. Rubbing the tension out of the back of her neck, Miranda walked over as the message slid into the tray.!!!Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you enjoy Florence, Miranda? The spring flowers and the warm sunshine? I know where you go. I know what you do. I know what you think. I'm right there, inside your mind, all the time.!!!You killed Giovanni. His blood's on your hands.!!!Can you see it?!!!I can.

With a sound of fury, Miranda crushed the paper into a ball, heaved it across the room. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, waiting for the red haze that was fury and fear to fade. When it had, she walked over calmly, picked up the paper, smoothed it out with great care.

And put it neatly into the drawer.

Ryan came back with an armload of daffodils so bright and sunny she couldn't do anything but smile. But because it didn't reach her eyes, he tipped up her chin.

"What?"

"It's nothing, they're wonderful."

"What?" he repeated, and watched her struggle to overcome her habitual reluctance to share trouble.

"Andrew and I had a scene. He left. I don't know where he's gone, and I know there's nothing I can do about it."

"You have to let him find his own level, Miranda."

"I know that too. I need to put these in water." On impulse she picked up her grandmother's favored rose medallion vase, and taking it to the kitchen, busied herself arranging the flowers on the kitchen table. "I've made some progress, I think," she told him. "I've put together some lists."

She thought about the fax, wondered if she should tell him. Later, she decided. Later when she'd thought it all through.

"Lists?"

"Organizing thoughts and facts and tasks on paper. I'll go get the hard copies so we can go over them."

"Fine." He opened the refrigerator, perused the contents. "Want a sandwich?" Since she was already gone, he shrugged and began to decide what an inventive man could put together.

"Both your lunch meat and your bread are on the edge," he told her when she came back in. "But we risk it or starve."

"Andrew was supposed to go to the market." She watched him slice undoubtedly soft tomatoes and frowned. He looked very much at home, she decided. Not just helping himself to the contents of the kitchen, but preparing them.

"I suppose you can cook."

"No one got out of our house unless they could cook." He glanced her way. "I suppose you don't."

"I'm a very good cook," she said with some annoyance.

"Really? How do you look in an apron?"

"Efficient."

"I bet you don't. Why don't you put one on and let me see?"

"You're fixing lunch. I don't need an apron. And just as a passing observation, you're a bit locked into regular meals."

"Food's a passion." He licked tomato juice, slowly, from his thumb. "I'm very locked into regular passions."

"So it would seem." She sat and tapped the edges of her papers together to align them. "Now—"

"Mustard or mayo?"

"It doesn't matter. Now, what I've done—"

"Coffee, or something cold?"

"Whatever." She heaved out a breath, telling herself he couldn't possibly be interrupting her train of thought just to annoy her. "In order to—"

"Milk's off," he said, sniffing the carton he pulled out of the fridge.

"Dump the damn stuff down the sink then, and sit down." Her eyes flashed as she looked up, and caught him grinning at her. "Why do you purposely aggravate me?"

"Because it puts such pretty color in your face." He held up a can of Pepsi. "Diet?"

She had to laugh, and when she did, he sat down at the table across from her. "There, that's better," he decided, pushed her plate closer, then picked up his own sandwich. "I can't concentrate on anything but you when you're sad."

"Oh, Ryan." How could she possibly defend her heart against these kinds of assaults? "I'm not sad."

"You're the saddest woman I've ever known." He kissed her fingers. "But we're going to fix that. Now what have you got?"

She gave herself a moment to regain her balance, then picked up the first sheet. "The first is an amended draft of the list you had of personnel with access to or contact with both of the bronzes."

"Amended."

"I've added a tech who I remembered flew in from Florence to work with Giovanni on another project during the given time period. He was only here for a few days, as I recall, but for accuracy's sake should be included. His name wasn't on the records we accessed because he was, technically, employed by the Florence branch and only here on temporary loan. I also added length of employment, which may factor into loyalty, and base salaries, as it could be assumed that money is a motivation."

She'd also alphabetized the names, he noted. God love her. "Your family pays well." He'd noted that before.

"Quality staff demands appropriate financial reward. On the next list I worked up a probability ratio. You'll note my name remains, but the probability is low. I know I didn't steal the originals. I've taken Giovanni off as he couldn't have been involved."

"Why?"

She blinked up at him. His blood's on your hands. "Because he was murdered. He's dead."

"I'm sorry, Miranda, that only makes him dead. It's still possible he was involved, and killed for any number of reasons."

"But he was testing the bronzes when he was killed."

"He'd have needed to, to be sure. Maybe he was panicking, demanding a bigger cut, or just pissed off one of his associates. His name stays on."

"It wasn't Giovanni."

"That's emotion, not logic, Dr. Jones."

"Very well." Jaw stiff, she added Giovanni's name. "You may disagree, but I've rated my family low. In my opinion they don't apply here. They've no reason to steal from themselves." He only looked at her, and after a long moment, she pushed the sheet aside.

"We'll table the probability list for now. Here I've made a time line, from the date the David came into our hands, the length of time it remained in the lab. Without my notes and records, I can only guess at the times and dates of the individual tests, but I believe this is fairly close."

"You made graphs and everything." He leaned closer, admiring the work. "What a woman."

"I don't see the need for sarcasm."

"I'm not being sarcastic. This is great. Nice color," he added. "You put it at two weeks. But you wouldn't have worked on it seven days at a stretch or twenty-four hours a day."

"Here." She referred him to another chart and felt only a little foolish. "These are approximated times the David was locked in the lab vault. Getting to it would have required a key card, security clearance, a combination, and a second key. Or," she added, tilting her head, "a very good burglar."

His gaze slid over to hers, dark gold and mocking. "I was in Paris during this time."

"Were you really?"

"I have no idea, but in your probability ratio I don't compute because there would have been no reason for me to steal a copy and get sucked into this mess if I'd already taken the original."

Head angled, she smiled sweetly. "Maybe you did it just to get me in bed."

He glanced up, grinned. "Now, there's a thought."

"That," she said primly, "was sarcasm. This is a time line of the work period on The Dark Lady. We have the records on this, and it's very fresh in my mind, so this is completely accurate. In this case, the search for documentation was still ongoing, and the authentication not yet official."

"Project terminated," Ryan read, and glanced at her. "That was the day you got the ax."

"If you prefer to simplify, yes." It still stung both pride and heart. "The following day, the bronze was transferred to Rome. The switch had to be made in that small window of time, as I'd run tests on it just that afternoon."

"Unless it was switched in Rome," he murmured.

"How could it have been switched in Rome?"

"Did anyone from Standjo go along for the transfer?"

"I don't know. Someone from security, perhaps my mother. There would have been papers to sign on both ends."

"Well, it's a possibility, but only gives them a few extra hours in any case. They had to be ready, the copy fully prepared. The plumber had it for a week—or so he said. Then the government took it over, another week for them to fiddle with the paperwork and contract Standjo. Your mother contacts you and offers you the job."

"She didn't offer me the job, she ordered me to come to Florence."

"Mmm." He studied her chart. "Why did it take you six days between the phone call and the flight? Your description doesn't lead me to believe she's a patient woman."

"I was told—and had planned—to leave the following day, two at the most. I was delayed."

"How?"

"I was mugged."

"What?"

"This very large man in a mask came out of nowhere, put a knife to my throat." Her hand fluttered there as if to see if the thin trickle of blood was indeed only a bad memory.

Ryan took her fingers to draw them away and look for himself, though he knew there was no mark. Still, he could imagine it. And his eyes went flat.

"What happened?"

"I was just coming back from a trip. Got out of the car in front of the house, and there he was. He took my briefcase, my purse. I thought he was going to rape me, and I wondered if I had a chance to fight him off, against that knife. I have a bit of a phobia about knives."

When her fingers trembled lightly, he tightened his grip. "Did he cut you?"

"A little, just… just enough to scare me. Then he knocked me down, slashed my tires, and took off."

"He knocked you down?"

She blinked at the cold steel in his voice, at the unbearable tenderness of his fingers as they stroked over her cheek. "Yes."

He was blind with fury at the thought of someone holding a knife to her throat, terrorizing her. "How bad were you hurt?"

"Nothing, just bruises and scrapes." Because her eyes began to sting, she lowered her gaze. She was afraid that the emotions flooding through her were showing—the wonder and bafflement of her feelings for him. No one but Andrew had ever looked at her with that kind of concern, that kind of care.

"It was nothing," she said again, then stared helplessly as he tipped up her chin and touched his lips to each of her cheeks.

"Don't be kind to me." A tear spilled over before she could blink it away. "I don't handle it well."

"Learn." He kissed her again, lightly, then brushed the tear away with his thumb. "Have you ever had trouble like that before around here?"

"No, never." She managed one hitching breath, then a steadier one. "That's why I was so shocked, I guess, so unprepared. It's a very low-crime area. The fact is this was such an aberration it played on the local news for days."

"They never caught him?"

"No. I couldn't give them a very detailed description. He wore a mask, so I could only give them his build."

"Give it to me."

She didn't want to recall the incident, but knew he would push her until she relented. "White male, six four or five, two-fifty, two-sixty, brown eyes. Muddy brown. Long arms, big hands, left-handed, wide shoulders, short neck. No distinguishing scars or marks—that I could see."

"Seems like you gave them quite a bit, considering."

"Not enough. He never spoke, not a word. That was another thing that frightened me. He went about everything so quickly, so silently. And he took my passport, driver's license. All my ID. It took me several days, even pulling strings, to arrange for new ones."

A pro, Ryan concluded. With an agenda.

"Andrew was furious," she remembered with a ghost of a smile. "He walked around the house every night for a week with a golf club—a nine iron, I think—hoping the man would come back so he could beat him to a pulp."

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"That's a man's reaction. I'd have preferred to handle it myself. It was humiliating to know that I hadn't fought back, I just froze."

"Someone holds a knife to your throat, freezing is the intelligent choice."

"I was more frightened than hurt," she murmured, and stared hard at the surface of the table.

"I'm sorry you were either. He didn't go for the house?"

"No, just grabbed my purse, my briefcase, slugged me, and ran."

"Jewelry?"

"No."

"Were you wearing any?"

"Yes, I was wearing a gold chain and watch—the police wondered about that too. But I had my coat on. I don't suppose he saw them."

"This watch?" He held up her wrist, examining the slim eighteen-karat Cartier. An idiot could fence it for a grand, minimum, he mused. "A hit and grab like that doesn't sound like an amateur who'd miss this sort of easily liquidated asset. And he doesn't force you into the house, steal any number of excellent and portable items."

"The police figured he was someone passing through, short of cash."

"He might figure you had a couple hundred on you if he was lucky. Not worth armed robbery."

"People kill for designer tennis shoes."

"Not this kind of deal. He was after your ID, darling, because someone didn't want you to get to Florence too soon. They needed time to get to work on the copy, and couldn't afford you underfoot until they had it under way. So they hired a pro. Someone who wouldn't be messy or make stupid mistakes. And they paid him enough so he wouldn't be greedy."

The explanation was so simple, so perfect, she only stared, wondering why she hadn't made the connection herself. "But the police never suggested that."

"The cops didn't have all the data. We do."

Slowly, she nodded, and slowly the anger began to inch up into her chest, into her throat. "He held a knife to my throat for my passport. It was all to delay me. To give them more time."

"I'd say the probability ratio is very high. Run through it again for me, step by step. It's a long shot, but maybe some of my connections can tag your man."

"If they can," she said soberly, "I don't want to meet your connections."

"Don't worry, Dr. Jones." He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. "You won't."

There was no place to buy a bottle on Easter Sunday. When he caught himself driving around and around, looking for one, Andrew began to shake. It wasn't that he needed one, he told himself. He wanted one, and that was different. He just wanted a couple of drinks to smooth out the edges.

Damn it, everybody was on his back. Everything rested on him. He was sick to death of it. So fuck them, he decided, tapping his fist on the wheel. Fuck them all.

He'd just keep driving. He'd head south and he wouldn't stop until he was damn good and ready. He had plenty of money, what he didn't have was any fucking peace.

He wouldn't stop until he could breathe again, until he found a goddamn liquor store that was open on a goddamn Sunday.

He glanced down, stared at the fist that was ramming over and over into the steering wheel. The fist that was bloody and torn and seemed to belong to someone else. Someone that scared the hell out of him.

Oh God, oh God. He was in trouble. With his hands trembling, he jerked the car to the curb, and leaving the engine running, rested his head on the wheel and prayed for help.

The quick knuckle rap on the window had him jolting up and staring through the glass at Annie's face. Head cocked, she made a circling motion with her finger, telling him to roll down the window. It wasn't until he saw her that he realized he'd headed for her house.

"What are you doing, Andrew?"

"Just sitting here."

She shifted the small bag she carried and studied his face. It was a mess, she noted, bruised, sick in color, worn out. "You piss somebody off?"

"My sister."

Her eyebrows rose high. "Miranda punched you in the eye?"

"What? No. No." Embarrassed, he probed around the ache with his fingertips. "I slipped on the stairs."

"Really?" Her eyes were narrowed now, focused on the fresh cuts and seeping blood on his knuckles. "Did you punch the stairs?"

"I…" He held up his hand, his mouth going dry as he stared at it. He hadn't even felt the pain. What was a man capable of when he stopped feeling pain? "Can I come in? I haven't been drinking," he said quickly, when he saw the rejection in her eyes. "I want to, but I haven't been."

"You won't get a drink in my place."

"I know." He kept his gaze steady. "That's why I want to come up."

She studied him another moment, then nodded. "Okay."

She unlocked her door and walked in to set her bag on a table covered with papers and forms and files, some of which were anchored with an adding machine.

"I'm doing my taxes," she explained. "That's why I went out to get this." She took an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Excedrin out of the bag. "You got a Schedule C, you got a headache."

"I've already got the headache."

"Figured. Let's do some drugs." With a half-smile, she turned to pour two glasses of water. She opened the bottle and shook out two tablets for each of them. Solemnly, they swallowed.

She moved back, took a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer. "Put that on your hand for now. We'll clean it up in a bit."

"Thanks." He might not have felt the pain when he'd pounded the steering wheel, but he was feeling it now. From wrist to fingertip his hand was one obscene scream. But he bit back the wince as he laid the cold bag over it. He'd done enough to damage both ego and manhood in front of Annie McLean.

"Now, what did you do to piss off your sister?"

He very nearly lied, made up some idiotic sibling spat. Ego and manhood aside, he couldn't manage to lie to those quiet, assessing eyes. "It might have been getting stinking drunk and humiliating her in front of her new boyfriend."

"Miranda's got a guy?"

"Yeah, sort of sudden. Nice enough. I entertained him by falling down the stairs, then throwing up part of my stomach lining."

Sympathy fluttered in her stomach, but she only cocked her head. "You've been a busy boy, Andrew."

"Oh yeah." He tossed the bag of peas into the sink so he could pace. He had jitters tangled around his jitters. Couldn't keep still. His fingers patted at his thighs, at his face, at each other as he prowled. "Then this morning, I decided to round things out by jumping all over her about work, family problems, her sex life." He traced his fingers over his cheek, remembering the jolt of shock when she'd slapped him.

Because she caught herself taking a step toward him, Annie turned and rooted out antiseptic from a cabinet behind her. "It was probably the sex life crack that did it. Women don't like their brothers poking into that area."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. But we've got a lot of trouble at the Institute. I'm under a lot of stress right now."

She pursed her lips, glanced down at the piles of papers and forms, the envelopes of receipts, the worn-down stubs of pencils, and the reams of adding machine tape. "If you're breathing, you have stress. You drink yourself blind, the stress is right there when your vision clears up."

"Look, maybe I've got a little problem. I'm going to deal with it. I just need to take a little time, give my system a rest. I—" He pressed his fingers to his eyes, swayed.

"You've got a big problem, and you can deal with it." She crossed to him, took his wrists and tugged his hands down so he would look at her. "You need a day, because it's only today that has to count."

"So far today sucks."

She smiled, rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. "It's probably going to get worse. Sit down. I'll doctor those knuckles, tough guy."

"Thanks." Then he sighed, said it again. "Thanks, Annie."

He kissed her cheek in turn, then rested his head against hers just for the comfort of it. She still held his wrists, lightly, and her fingers felt so competent, so strong, her hair smelled so fresh and simple. He pressed his lips to it, then to her temple.

Then somehow his mouth was on hers, and the taste of her was flooding his ragged system like sunlight. When her fingers flexed in his, he released them, but only to frame her face with his hands, to draw her into him, hold her there while the sheer warmth of her soothed like balm on a wound.

So many contrasts, was all he could think. The tough little body, the soft sweep of hair, the clipped voice and generous mouth.

The strength and the softness of her, so endearing, so familiar. And so necessary to him.

She'd always been there. He'd always known she'd be there.

It wasn't easy to break free. Not from his hold—she could have easily stepped away. His hands were gentle as bird wings on her face. The mouth both needy and tender.

She'd wondered, had let herself wonder once, if it would be the same. The feel of him, the taste. But that was long ago, before she'd convinced herself that friendship was enough. Now it wasn't easy to break free of what that one long quiet kiss stirred, what it asked, what it took out of her.

She needed all of her strength of will to step back from the slowly kindling need he'd brought back to life. A need, she told herself, that wouldn't help either of them.

He nearly pulled her back, was already reaching out blindly when she held up her hands, palms out, in warning. He jerked back as if he'd been slapped a second time.

"Oh Christ. I'm sorry. Annie, I'm sorry." What had he done? How could he have ruined the single friendship he didn't think he could live without? "I didn't mean to do that. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

She let him wind down, let the miserable guilt settle on his face. "I bounced a two-hundred-pound man out of my bar last night because he thought he could buy me along with a beer and a bump." She clamped her hand around Andrew's left thumb and gave it a quick twist. His eyes widened, his breath hissed as she held it. "I could have you on your knees, pal, whimpering if I gave this one little digit a good yank back. We're not seventeen anymore, not quite so stupid and a hell of a lot less innocent. If I hadn't wanted your hands on me, you'd have been flat on your back, checking out the cracks in my ceiling plaster."

Sweat began to pearl on his forehead. "Ah, could you let go?"

"Sure." Obligingly, she released his thumb, and kept her eyebrows arrogantly cocked. "Want a Coke? You look a little sweaty." She turned and stepped to the refrigerator.

"I don't want to ruin things," he began.

"Ruin what?"

"Us. You matter, Annie. You've always mattered."

She stared blindly into the refrigerator. "You've always mattered too. I'll let you know when you ruin things."

"I want to talk about… before."

He waited while she popped the tops on two bottles. Grace in economy of motion, he thought, a steel spine in a well-toned body. Had he noticed those things before? Noticed the little flecks of gold in her eyes? Or had he just stored them up so they'd all come to him in a flood in a moment just like this?

"Why?"

"Maybe to face things—something I didn't realize until lately was stuck inside me." He flexed his fingers, felt the ache. "I'm not in the best shape right now, but I have to start somewhere. Sometime."

She set the bottles on the counter, forced herself to turn, to meet his eyes. And hers were swimming with emotions she'd struggled to keep locked in for years. "It's painful for me, Andrew."

"You wanted the baby." The breath he released hurt his chest. He'd never spoken of the baby before, not out loud. "I could see it in your face when you told me you were pregnant. It scared the hell out of me."

"I was too young to know what I wanted." Then she closed her eyes because it was a lie. "Yes, yes, I wanted the baby. I had this idiotic fantasy that I'd tell you, and you'd be happy and just sweep me up. Then we'd… Well, that's as far as it went. But you didn't want me."

His mouth was dry as dust, his gut raw. He knew one drink would smooth it all away. Cursing himself for thinking of that at such a time, he snagged one of the bottles off the counter and gulped down soda that seemed sickly and sweet. "I cared about you."

"You didn't love me, Andrew. I was just a girl you got lucky with on the beach one night."

He slammed the bottle down again. "It wasn't like that. Goddamn it, you know it wasn't like that."

"It was exactly like that," she said evenly. "I was in love with you, Andrew, and I knew when I lay down on the blanket with you that you weren't in love with me. I didn't care. I didn't expect anything. Andrew Jones of Jones Point and Annie McLean from the waterfront? I was young, but I wasn't stupid."

"I would have married you."

"Would you?" Her voice went chilly. "Your offer didn't even hit lukewarm."

"I know it." And that was something that had eaten away at him slowly, a nibble at a time, for fifteen years. "I didn't give you what you needed that day. I didn't know how. If I had, you might have made a different choice."

"If I'd taken you up on it, you would have hated me. When you offered, part of you already did." She moved her shoulders, picked up her own Coke. "And looking back, I can't blame you. I'd have ruined your life." The bottle froze halfway to her lips as he stepped toward her. The hot glint of fury in his eyes had her bracing against the counter. He snatched the bottle out of her hand, set it down, then took a hard grip on her shoulders.

"I don't know how it would have been—and that's something I've asked myself more than once over the years. But I know how it was. Maybe I wasn't in love with you, I don't know. But making love with you mattered to me." And that, he realized, was something else he'd never said aloud, something neither one of them had faced. "However badly I handled things afterward, that night mattered. And damn it, Annie, damn it," he added, giving her a brisk shake, "you might have made my life."

"I was never right for you," she said in a furious whisper.

"How the hell do you know? We never had a chance to find out. You tell me you're pregnant, and before I can absorb it, you had an abortion."

"I never had an abortion."

"You made a mistake," he said, tossing the words she'd once heaved at him back in her face. "And you fixed it. I would have taken care of you, both of you." Pain, long and shallowly buried, cracked through the surface in pummeling fists. "I would have done my best for you." His fingers tightened on her arms. "But it wasn't good enough. Okay, it was your decision, your body, your choice. But goddamn it, it was a part of me too."

She'd lifted her hands to push him away and now curled them into his shirt. His face was sheet-pale under the bruises, his eyes burning dark. The ache around her heart was for both of them now. "Andrew, I didn't have an abortion. I lost the baby. I told you, I had a miscarriage."

Something flickered deep in his eyes. His grip relaxed on her shoulders, and he stepped back. "You lost it?"

"I told you, when it happened."

"I always thought—I assumed you'd…" He turned away, walked to the window. Without thinking he yanked it open, and resting his palms on the sill, dragged in air. "I thought you told me that to make it easier on both of us. I figured that you hadn't trusted me enough to stand by you, to take care of you and the baby."

"I wouldn't have done that without telling you."

"You avoided me for a long time afterward. We never talked about it, never seemed to be able to talk about it. I knew you wanted the baby, and I thought—all this time—I thought that you'd terminated the pregnancy because I hadn't stood by you the way you needed."

"You—" She had to swallow the hot ball in her throat. "You wanted the baby?"

"I didn't know." Even now he didn't know. "But I've never regretted anything more in my life than not holding on to you that day on the beach. Then everything drifted, almost like it never happened."

"It hurt me. I had to get over it. Over you."

Slowly, he pulled the window down again. "Did you?"

"I made a life for myself. A lousy marriage, an ugly divorce."

"That's not an answer."

When he turned back, his eyes very blue and level on hers, she shook her head. "It's not a fair question just now. I'm not going to start something with you that's based on what was."

"Then maybe we'd better take a look at where we are, and start from there."