he needed time, Malory admitted. She'd been on a roller coaster since the first of the month, and though there'd been a thrill in riding those fast dips and sharp turns, she needed a break.

Nothing in her life was the same as it had been, she thought as she let herself into her apartment. She'd always counted on consistency, and that single element had slipped through her fingers.

Or been tossed aside on impulse.

She didn't have The Gallery. She wasn't completely certain she had her sanity. On one of those dips and turns, she'd stopped being sensible, dependable Malory Price and had become irrational, emotional, fanciful Malory Price—a woman who believed in magic, in love at first sight.

All right, maybe third sight, she corrected as she closed her curtains and crawled onto her bed. But it was the same thing, essentially.

She'd taken money that could have seen her through several lean months and invested it in an enterprise with two women she'd known for less than four weeks.

And trusted implicitly, she decided. Without reservation.

She was about to embark on a business of her own, without any stock, any solid plan, any safety net. Against all logic, the idea of it made her happy.

And still her head was pounding, her stomach churning. Over the thought that she might not be in love at all. That the blissful confidence and pleasure she felt in Flynn was only an illusion.

If the illusion shattered, she was afraid she would grieve for the rest of her life.

She bunched the pillow under her head, curled into a ball, and begged for sleep.

It was sunny and warm when she woke, and the air smelled like summer roses. She snuggled in for a moment. Warm sheets carrying the faint scent of her man, the soft drift of silence.

She rolled over lazily, blinked. Something odd hung over her mind. Not really unpleasant, just odd.

The dream. The strangest dream.

She sat up and stretched, feeling the healthy pull of muscles. Naked, and easy with it, she slid out of bed, sniffed the butter-yellow roses on the dresser before picking up her robe. She paused by the window to admire her garden, draw in the fragrant air. She pushed the window open wider and let the sound of birdsong follow her out of the room.

The odd feeling was already fading—as a dream does on waking—as she glided down the stairs, trailing a hand over the silky wood of the banister. Jewel lights from the window over the door played on the floor. More flowers, exotic sprays of white orchids, speared out of the antique vase on the entrance table.

His keys were tossed beside them, in the little mosaic bowl she'd bought just for that purpose.

She wound her way through the house to the kitchen, then grinned. He was at the stove, sliding a battered slice of bread into the skillet. There was a tray beside him, already topped with a flute of sparkling juice, a single rose in a bud vase, her pretty coffee cup.

The back door was open. Through it, she could hear the birds continuing to sing and the dog's occasional happy barks. Blissful, she crept forward, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

"Watch it. My wife could wake up any minute."

"Let's risk it."

He turned, caught her up in a long, hard kiss. Her heart leaped, her blood fired, even as she thought, Perfect. It's all so perfect.

"I was going to surprise you." Flynn ran his hands over her back as he eased her away. "Breakfast in bed. The Hennessy Special."

"Make it a better surprise, and have breakfast in bed with me."

"I could probably be persuaded. Hold on." He grabbed a spatula, flipped the bread over.

"Mmm. It's after eight. You shouldn't have let me sleep so late."

"I didn't let you get much sleep last night." He winked at her. "Seemed only fair to let you catch a little this morning. You've been working so hard, Mai, getting ready for your show."

"I'm nearly done."

"And when it's over, I'm going to take my incredibly beautiful and talented wife on a well-deserved vacation. Do you remember that week we spent in Florence?"

Sun-drenched days, love-drenched nights. "How could I forget? Are you sure you can take the time off? I'm not the only one who's been busy around here."

"We'll make time." He flipped the French toast onto a plate. "Why don't you grab the paper, and we'll crawl back into bed for an hour… or two."

Sleepy cries began to sound from the baby monitor on the counter. Flynn glanced toward it. "Or maybe not."

"I'll get him. Meet me upstairs."

She hurried up, part of her mind acknowledging the paintings lining the walls. The street scene she'd done in Florence, the seascape from the Outer Banks, the portrait of Flynn sitting at his desk in his office.

She turned toward the nursery. The walls there were decorated with her paintings as well. The bright faerie-tale scenes she'd done the entire time she'd been pregnant.

And in the crib with its glossy spindle bars, her little boy cried impatiently for attention.

"There now, sweetheart. Mama's right here." She picked him up, cuddled him close.

He would have his father's hair, she thought, as she cooed and swayed. It was already coming in dark, with those hints of chestnut shining through when the light caught it.

He was so perfect. So absolutely perfect.

But as she carried him toward the changing table, her legs went weak.

What was his name? What was her baby's name? Panicked, she clutched him close, then whirled as she heard Flynn come to the door.

"You look so beautiful, Malory. I love you."

"Flynn." Something was wrong with her eyes. It was as if she could see through him, as if he were fading away. "Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Everything's exactly right. Everything's just the way you wanted it to be."

"It's not real, is it?" Tears began to sting her eyes. "It's not real."

"It could be."

A light flashed, and she was standing in a studio awash with light. Canvases were stacked against the walls or rested on easels. She faced another, brilliant with color and shape. A brush was in her hand, and she was already daubing it on her palette.

"I've done this," she whispered as she stared at the canvas. It was a forest, misty with green light. The figure walking on the path was alone. Not lonely, she thought, but solitary. There was home at the end of the path, and a bit of time yet to enjoy the quiet and the magic of the woods.

Her hand had done that. Her mind, her heart. She could feel it, just as she could feel and remember every brushstroke on every canvas in the room.

The power of that, the glory of it with all its pain and pleasure.

"I can do this." With a kind of frantic glee, she continued to paint. "I have to do this."

The joy was like a drug, and she was greedy for it. She knew how to mix just the right tone of color, when to sweep it on, when to switch for the fine, fine details.

How to create that light, that shadow so one might feel as if he or she could slip inside, walk that path, and find home at the end of it.

But even as she painted, tears began to run down her cheeks. "It's not real."

"It could be."

The brush clattered to the floor, splattering paint, as she whirled.

He stood beside her, with the sun's rays flooding over him. And still he was dark. His hair, black and glossy, spread like wings to his shoulders. His eyes were a strong stone gray. Sharp, high cheekbones hollowed his cheeks, and his mouth was full, appealingly wicked.

Beautiful, she thought. How could he be beautiful?

"Did you think I'd look like a demon? Like something out of a nightmare?" His amusement only added charm.

"Why should I? They've made you think poorly of me, haven't they?"

"You're Kane." Fear was alive in her, with its cold hands closing around her throat. "You stole the souls from the Daughters of Glass."

"It needn't concern you." His voice was beautiful as well. Melodic, soothing. "You're an ordinary woman in an ordinary world. You know nothing of me or mine. I wish you no harm. The opposite, in fact." With a dancer's grace, he wandered the room, his soft boots silent on the paint-splattered floor. "This is your work."

"No."

"Oh, yes, you know it." He lifted a canvas, studied the sinuous lines of a mermaid lounging on a rock. "You remember painting this, and the others. You know now how it feels to have that power. Art makes gods out of men." He set the canvas down again. "Or women. What are we, in my world, but artists and bards, magicians and warriors? You want to keep the power, Malory?"

She swiped at the tears, saw her work through them. "Yes."

"You can have it, all of it, and more. The man you want, the life, the family. I'll give them to you. The child you held in your arms? It can all be real, it can all belong to you."

"At what price?"

"So little." He slid a finger over her damp cheek, and the tear he stole flamed on its tip. "So very little. You've only to stay within this dream. To wake and sleep within it, to walk, to speak, to eat, to love. All you can wish for will be here for you. Perfection—without pain, without death."

She let out a shuddering breath. "There are no keys in this dream."

"You're a clever woman. Why care about keys, about bastard goddesses who have nothing to do with you? Why risk yourself and those you love for foolish girls who should never have been born? Would you give up your own dream for strangers?"

"I don't want a dream. I want my life. I won't trade my life for your illusions."

His skin went white, his eyes black. "Then lose all!"

She screamed as he reached for her, and again when the cold speared through her. Then she was pulled clear, tumbled free, to wake gasping in her own bed.

She heard the banging on the door, the shouting. Terror leaped out of bed with her. She made it to the living room at a stumbling run and spotted Flynn on the other side of her patio doors, about to smash one of her chairs through the glass.

He tossed it aside as she unlocked the door, shoved it open.

"Who's in here?" He grabbed her shoulders, lifted her right off her feet, and set her out of his way. "Who hurt you?"

"Nobody's here."

"You were screaming. I heard you screaming." He strode into the bedroom, fists ready.

"I had a nightmare. It was just a bad dream. No one's here but me. I have to sit down." She braced a hand on the couch, lowered herself.

His own legs felt a little shaky. She'd screamed as if something was tearing her to pieces. He'd had a good taste of terror the night before, but it had been nothing compared to what had pumped into him on the other side of that glass door.

He marched into the kitchen, poured a glass of water. "Here, drink some. Take it slow."

"I'll be okay in a minute. I woke up, and you were pounding and shouting. Everything's still confused."

"You're trembling." He glanced around, spotted a chenille throw. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he sat on the couch beside her. "Tell me about the dream."

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to talk about it, or think about it right now. I just want to be alone for a while. I don't want you here."

"That's the second time today you've said that to me. But this time you're not getting your way. In fact, I'm calling Jordan and letting him know I'm staying here tonight."

"This is my apartment. Nobody stays here unless I invite them."

"Wrong again. Get undressed, get in bed. I'll make you some soup or something."

"I don't want soup, I don't want you. And I certainly don't want to be coddled."

"Then what the hell do you want?" He lunged to his feet, vibrating with fury and frustration. "One minute you're all over me, telling me you're in love with me, you want to spend your life with me. Then the next you want me to hit the road. I'm sick to death of women and their mixed signals and capricious minds and their goddamn expectations of me. Right now, you're going to do what I want, and that's getting into bed while I make you something to eat."

She stared at him. A dozen vile and vicious words leaped into her throat. And she lost them all in a burst of tears.

"Oh, Christ." Flynn scrubbed his hands over his face. "Nice job. Take a bow, Hennessy."

He stalked to the window, stared out while she wept wildly behind him. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do about you. I can't keep up. You don't want me here, fine. I'll call Dana. But I don't want you to be alone."

"I don't know what to do about me either." She reached in the drawer for a pack of tissues. "If I've sent you mixed signals, it hasn't been deliberately." She mopped at her face, but the tears simply wouldn't stop. "I don't have a capricious mind—at least I never used to. And I don't know what my goddamn expectations of you are. I don't even know what my goddamn expectations are of me anymore. I used to. I'm scared. I'm scared of what's happening around me and inside me. And I'm scared because I don't know what's real. I don't know if you're actually standing over there."

He came back, sat beside her again. "I'm here," he said as he took her hand firmly in his. "This is real."

"Flynn." She steadied herself by staring at their joined hands. "All my life I've wanted certain things. I wanted to paint. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be an artist. A wonderful artist. I studied, and I worked. And I never came close. I don't have the gift."

She closed her eyes. "It hurt, more than I can tell you, to accept that." Steadier, she let out a breath, looked at him. “The best I could do was work with art, to be around it, to find some purpose for this love." She fisted a hand on her heart. "And that I was good at."

"Don't you think there's something noble about doing what we're really good at, even if it wasn't our first choice?"

"That's a nice thought. But it's hard to set a dream aside. I guess you know that."

"Yeah, I know that."

"The other thing I wanted was to love someone, to be loved by him. Absolutely. To know when I went to bed at night, woke in the morning, that this someone was with me. Understood me and wanted me. I never had much luck with that one either. I might meet someone, and we'd seem to click. But it never got inside me. I never felt that leap, or the burn that eases into that wonderful, spreading warmth. When you just know this is the one you were waiting for. Until you. Don't say anything," she said quickly. "I need to finish."

She picked up the water again, soothed her throat. "When you wait all your life for something and then you find it, it's like a miracle. All the parts inside you that've been on hold, they open up and start beating. You were okay before, you were good. You had purpose and direction, and everything was just fine. But now it's more. You can't explain what that more is, but you know, if you lose it, you'll never be able to fill those empty spaces in just the same way again. Not ever. That's terrifying. I'm afraid that what's inside me is just a trick. That I'll wake up tomorrow and what's beating in here will have stopped. It'll be quiet again. I won't feel this way. I won't feel the way I've waited all my life to feel."

Her eyes were dry again, her hand steady as she set the water down. "I can stand you not loving me back. There's always the hope that you will. But I don't know if I can stand not loving you. It would be like… like having something stolen from inside me. I don't know if I can handle going back to the way I was."

He brushed a hand down her hair, then drew her close to his side so her head rested on his shoulder. "Nobody's ever loved me, not the way you're talking about. I don't know what to do about it, Malory, but I don't want to lose it either."

"I saw the way things could be, but it wasn't true. Just an ordinary day that was so perfect it was like a jewel in the palm of my hand. He made me see it and feel it. And want it."

He eased back, turning her to face him. "The dream?"

She nodded. "It hurt more than anything I've ever known to let it go. It's a hard price, Flynn."

"Can you tell me?"

"I think I have to. I was tired. I felt like I'd been through this emotional wringer. I just wanted to lie down, have it go away for a while."

She took him through it, the waking with that sensation of absolute well-being, of moving through a house that was full of love, finding him in the kitchen making her breakfast.

"That should've clued you in. Me, cooking? An obvious delusion."

"You were making me French toast. It's my favorite lazy-morning treat. We talked about going on vacation, and I remembered all the other places we'd gone, what we'd done. Those memories were inside me. Then the baby woke up."

"Baby?" He went icy pale. "We had—there was… a baby?"

"I went up to get him out of the crib."

"Him?"

"Yes, him. Along the walls on the way were paintings I'd done. They were wonderful, and I could remember painting them. Just as I could remember painting the ones in the nursery. I picked the baby up, out of the crib, and this love, this terrible love for him. I was full of it. And then… and then I didn't know his name. I had no name for him. I could feel the shape of him in my arms, and how soft and warm his skin was, but I didn't know his name. You came to the door, and I could see through you. I knew it wasn't real. None of it was real."

She had to stand up, to move. She walked over to open the curtains again. "Even as I started to hurt, I was in a studio. My studio, surrounded by my work. I could smell the paint and the turpentine. I had a brush in my hand, and I knew how to use it. I knew all the things I'd always wanted to know. It was powerful, like having the child who had come from me in my arms. And just as false. And he was there."

"Who was there?"

She drew in a sharp breath, turned back. "His name is Kane. The stealer of souls. He spoke to me. I could have it all—the life, the love, the talent. It could be real. If I just stayed inside it, I'd never have to give it up. We would love each other. We'd have a son. I'd paint. It would all be perfect. Just live inside the dream, and the dream's real."

"Did he touch you?" He rushed to her to run his hands over her as if to check for wounds. "Did he hurt you?"

"This world or that," she said, steady again. "My choice. I wanted to stay, but I couldn't. I don't want a dream, Flynn, no matter how perfect it is. If it's not real, it means nothing. And if I'd stayed, isn't that just another way of giving him my soul?"

"You were screaming." Undone, Flynn laid his forehead on hers. "You were screaming."

"He tried to take it, but I heard you shouting for me. Why did you come here?"

"You were upset, with me. I didn't want you to be."

"Annoyed," she corrected and slid her arms around him. "I still am, but it's a little hard to get through everything else to my irritation. I want you to stay. I'm afraid to sleep, afraid I might go back and this time I won't be strong enough to come out again."

"You're strong enough. And if you need it, I'll help pull you out."

"This might not be real either." She lifted her mouth to his. "But I need you."

"It's real." He lifted her hands, kissed each one in turn. "That's the only thing I'm sure of in this whole damn mess. Whatever I'm feeling for you, Malory, it's real."

"If you can't tell me what you feel, then show me." She drew him to her. "Show me now."

All the conflicting emotions, the needs and doubts and wants, poured into the kiss. And as she accepted them, accepted him, he felt himself settle. Tenderness spread through him as he picked her up, cradled her in his arms.

"I want to keep you safe. I don't care if it irritates you." He carried her to her room and laid her on the bed, began to undress her. "I'll keep getting in the way, if that's what it takes."

"I don't need someone to look out for me." She lifted a hand to his cheek. "I just need you to look at me."

"Malory, I've been looking at you from the beginning, even when you're not around."

She smiled, arched up so he could slip off her blouse.

“That's a strange thing to say, but it's nice. Lie down with me."

They were side by side, faces close. "I feel pretty safe right now, and it's not particularly irritating."

"Maybe you're feeling a little too safe." He skimmed a fingertip over the swell of her breast.

"Maybe." She sighed when he began to nuzzle the side of her neck. "That doesn't scare me a bit. You're going to have to try a lot harder."

He rolled over, pinned her, then plundered her mouth with his.

"Oh. Nice work," she managed.

She was trembling, just enough to arouse him, and her skin was flushing warm. He could steep himself in her, in the tastes and textures. He could lose himself in that low, driving urge to give her pleasure.

He was tied to her. Perhaps he had been even before he'd met her. Could it be that all the mistakes he'd made, all the changes in direction, had been only to lead him to this time, and this woman?

Was there never any choice?

She sensed him drawing back. "Don't. Don't go away," she begged. "Let me love you. I need to love you."

She wound her arms around him, used her mourn to seduce. For now, she would trade pride for power without a qualm. As her body moved sinuously under his, she felt his quiver.

Hands stroked. Lips took. Breathy moans slid into air that had gone dim and thick. Long, lazy kisses built in intensity and ended on gasps of greed.

He was with her now, locked in a rhythm too primal to resist. The hammer blows of his heart threatened to shatter his chest, and still it wasn't enough.

He wanted to gorge on the flavors of her, to drown in that sea of needs. One moment she was pliant, yielding; the next, as taut as a bunched fist. When her breath sobbed out his name, he thought he might go mad.

She rose over him. Locking her hands in his, she took him into her, a slow, slow slide that tied his frantic system into knots.

"Malory."

She shook her head, leaning down to rub her lips over his. "Want me."

"I do."

"Let me take you. Watch me take you."

She arched back, stroking her hands up her torso, over her breasts, into her hair. And she began to ride.

Heat slapped him back, a furnace blast that had his muscles going to jelly, that scorched his bones. She rose above him, slim and strong, white and gold. She surrounded him, possessed him. Spurred him toward madness.

The power and pleasure consumed her. She drove them both faster, harder, until her vision was a blur of colors. Alive, was all she could think. They were alive. Blood burned in her veins, pumped in her frenzied heart. Good healthy sweat slicked her skin. She could taste him in her mouth, feel him pounding in the very core of her.

This was life.

She clung to it, clung even when the glory climbed toward the unbearable. Until his body plunged, and she let go.

He made good on the soup, though he could tell it amused her to have him stirring a pot at her stove. He put on music, kept the lights low. Not for seduction, but because he desperately wanted to keep her relaxed.

He had questions, a great many more questions, about her dream. The part of him that felt that asking questions was a human obligation warred with the part that wanted to tuck her up safe and quiet for a while.

"I could run out," he suggested, "grab some videos. We can veg out."

"Don't go anywhere." She snuggled closer to him on the couch. "You don't have to distract me, Flynn. We have to talk about it eventually."

"Doesn't have to be now."

"I thought a newspaperman dug for all the facts fit to print, and then some."

"Since the Dispatch isn't going to be running a story on Celtic myths in the Valley until all of this is finished, there's no rush."

"And if you were working for the New York Times?"

"That'd be different." He stroked her hair, sipped his wine. "I'd be hard-boiled and cynical and skewer you or anybody else for the story. And I'd probably be strung out and stressed. Maybe have a drinking problem. Be working toward my second divorce. I think I'd like bourbon, and I'd have a redhead on the side."

"What do you really think it'd be like if you'd gone to New York?"

"I don't know. I like to think I'd have done good work. Important work."

"You don't think your work here's important?"

"It serves a purpose."

"An important purpose. Not only keeping people informed and entertained, giving them the continuity of tradition, but keeping a lot of them employed. The people who work on the paper, deliver it, their families. Where would they have gone if you'd left?"

"I wasn't the only one who could run it."

"Maybe you were the only one who was supposed to run it. Would you go now, if you could?"

He thought about it. "No. I made the choice. Most of the time I'm glad I chose as I did. Just every once in a while, I wonder."

"I couldn't paint. Nobody told me I couldn't or made me give it up. I just wasn't good enough. It's different when you're good enough, but someone tells you you can't."

"It wasn't exactly like that."

"What was it like?"

"You have to understand my mother. She makes very definite plans. When my father died, well, that must've really messed up Plan A."

"Flynn."

"I'm not saying she didn't love him, or didn't mourn. She did. We did. He made her laugh. He could always make her laugh. I don't think I heard her laugh, not really, for a year after we lost him."

"Flynn." It broke her heart. "I'm so sorry."

"She's tough. One thing you can say about Elizabeth Flynn Hennessy Steele, she's no wimp."

"You love her." Malory brushed at his hair. "I wondered."

"Sure I do, but you won't hear me say she was easy to live with. Anyway, when she pulled herself out of it, it was time for Plan B. Big chunk of that was passing the paper to me when the time came. No problem for me there, since I figured that was way, way down the road. And that I would deal with it, and her, when I had to. I liked working for the Dispatch, learning not just about reporting but about publishing too."

"But you wanted to do that in New York."

"I was too big for a podunk town like Pleasant Valley. Too much to say, too much to do. Pulitzers to win. Then my mother married Joe. He's a great guy. Dana's dad."

"Can he make your mother laugh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he can. We made a good family, the four of us. I don't know that I appreciated that at the time. With Joe around, I figured some of the pressure on me was off. I guess we all figured they'd work the paper together for decades."

"Joe's a reporter?"

"Yeah, worked for the paper for years. Used to joke that he'd married the boss. They made a good team too, so it looked like everything was going to work out fine and dandy. After college, I figured to build up another couple years' experience here, then give New York a break and offer my invaluable skills and services. I met Lily, and that seemed to be the icing on the cake."

"What happened?"

"Joe got sick. Looking back, I imagine my mother was frantic at the idea that she might lose somebody else she loved. She's not big on emotional displays. She's sort of contained and straightforward, but I can see it, hindsight-wise. And I can't imagine what it was like for her. They had to move. He had a better chance of copping more time if they got out of this climate, and away from stress. So either I stayed, or the paper closed."

"She expected you to stay."

He remembered what he'd said about expectations. "Yeah. Do my duty. I was pissed off at her for a year, then irritated for another. Somewhere in year three I hit resigned. I don't know exactly when that became… I guess you could say contentment. But around the time I bumped into contentment, I bought the house. Then I got Moe."

"I'd say you're off your mother's plan and on your own."

He let out a half laugh. "Son of a bitch. I guess I am."