ichard didn't have a downtown office. Instead he had converted the bottom floor of his town house into a small office complex: an office for him, with the state-of-the-art computer with which he worked his market magic; small offices for his two assistants; a tiny kitchen; two bathrooms, one connecting to his office and the other shared by his assistants; and two rooms for storage and files. The arrangement was extremely convenient should he want to work late into the night or even all night.

Every day, he had one objective: to make as much money as possible.

He had spent most of his adult life amassing wealth. He enjoyed the challenge of anticipating and outguessing the market, but the pleasure was only moderate. He had known poverty and he hadn't liked it, so when he was old enough to do something about it, he left home, joined the army, and set about learning skills that would enable him to make money. He hadn't learned quite fast enough. Pops, his grandfather, had died before Richard could do much to alleviate the grinding poverty of the little farm in western Virginia where he had been born and raised. At least his mother's last years had been better; if she planted a garden, it was because she wanted to, not because she had to in order to eat.

Poverty ground you down, turned you into a social parasite, or it made you tough. Pops had eschewed welfare as charity, and instead worked his small acreage as well as taking any other work he could find. Richard's mother had taken in sewing and ironing. When he himself was old enough he had not only helped with the farming chores but hired himself out for small jobs such as cutting the grass, helping cut and haul hay, the odd carpentry job where function mattered more than appearance.

He had only a vague, maybe wishful image of his father, and a grave in the small country graveyard to visit a few times a year, but from his grandfather he had learned that men didn't lie around all day drinking beer and collecting what the old man called "damn government handouts" once a month, men got out and worked. So Richard worked, and worked hard. Survival of the fittest. You either surrendered, or you fought like hell to better your position.

He'd never been ashamed of his poor country roots, the roots that made him strong, though Candra was embarrassed enough by his origins to insist he say only that he was "from Virginia. " If he had let her, she would have invented an antebellum mansion in his background and had one of his ancestors signing the Declaration of Independence.

He had taken steps to ensure he was never poor again. His investments were varied, to weather the hiccups and burps of the market, and he had put money into gems and precious metals as a hedge against a market crash. It was a high, a challenge, a game, to gather tiny details of information and decide which stocks would increase in value and which were in trouble. He seemed to have a sixth sense for it, and he had long ago gained the amount he had set in his mind as "enough," but he kept playing the market, and kept getting richer.

It was eating at Candra's soul that she couldn't get a bigger share of his wealth.

The thought of her brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He supposed he had loved her, in the beginning, though she might have been just a challenge, like the market. From a distance of over ten years he couldn't remember exactly how he had felt about her, though he knew what had attracted him. Candra had been—still was—very attractive, with impeccable social credentials backed by old money, and blessed with an outgoing, friendly personality. If anything, she was too friendly, especially with other men.

Their marriage had already been in trouble when he first learned about her affairs, and by that time he simply hadn't cared enough about her infidelities to do anything about them. She thought he knew about only one lover, but he was far from a fool. He had made it his business, over the years, to find out about all her lovers. He knew about Kai. He knew about Carson McMillan. He knew about all the artists she slept with, which social acquaintances found their way into her bed. After he stopped caring, he used her occasionally for sex, and used a condom, even though she was on birth control pills. She had never asked why. He supposed she knew.

Unfortunately, condoms sometimes tore. Two years ago, one had, and combined with some antibiotics she had been taking, that had been enough for her to get pregnant. Not that she had told him, not at the time. Instead she had gotten an abortion.

He wanted children, had always wanted them. When they were first married, Candra had wanted to wait, and he had agreed because his financial position hadn't been as strong as he wanted it to be before he had any children. By the time he felt prosperous enough, Candra had already begun taking lovers and he had lost all desire to have any children with her. But when she told him what she had done, threw the words at him like weapons, everything inside him had hurt at the thought of that small lost life, and from that second on he hated her.

He hadn't spent another night under the same roof with her, but packed her bags and carried her to a hotel, with her crying and cursing, and swearing that she hadn't really done it, that she had only said so because she wanted to hurt him. And he had rousted a locksmith out in the middle of the night and had the locks changed on the town house. Candra had been forced to make appointments to pick up the rest of her belongings, a humiliation that had galled her soul.

He knew she had told all her friends and acquaintances that the decision to divorce was mutual. He didn't care what she said. All he wanted was to get the divorce finalized and never see her again. This was something he should have done years ago, rather than burying himself in the pursuit of wealth. He had known for quite a while, in the back of his mind, that the time would come when he would look at her and realize he couldn't bear living in their sham of a marriage a moment longer. He had stayed with her for his own reasons, using her sexually with little emotion, as if she were a stranger, and because of that his child had died. He should have left her long before that tiny lost life had been conceived.

Lately he had been restless, consumed by the sense it was time to move on. He had made his millions sifting through stock information, but he sure as hell didn't want to spend the rest of his life staring at a computer screen analyzing profit margins and product demand. There was no challenge in it any longer, and he was a man who thrived on challenge. He had enjoyed his army years because of the sheer challenge of the specialized training in the rangers, the sense of testing himself in life-and-death situations. He could have made a career of the military, if he hadn't been driven by the need to make a lot of money, enough so his mother and grandfather would never have to worry about money again.

Mission accomplished. It was time to move on.

Sweeney's face flashed in his mind, and he leaned back in his chair, grinning. Now, there was a challenge.

After Candra's laxity in the morals department, Sweeney's refusal to go out with him because the divorce wasn't final and he was still legally married gave him the feeling of having held something clean and fresh in his arms. His mother and grandfather had possessed that same stringent attitude, seeing behaviors as black and white. The concept of doing whatever you wanted, because you wanted, was foreign to them. That was common enough in their generations, in that part of the country. How had Sweeney come by those standards?

Because he wanted to know everything about her, he'd had a copy of her application for the apartment faxed to him. Paris Samille Sweeney, age thirty-one, artist. She hadn't lied about her name, though he bet she cringed at the pretentiousness of being an artist and having Paris as a first name. Anyone else would have played it up for all it was worth, but instead she ignored her given names, to the extent that she was known exclusively by her surname.

Her mother's occupation was also listed as artist, but he didn't recognize her name, and after ten years of marriage to Candra he was very familiar with the art world. He did recognize Sweeney's father's name; the man was moderately successful in Hollywood. A brother was down as next of kin. Richard wondered why she hadn't listed either of her parents.

Bare facts weren't enough. He wanted to know her, what she liked to eat for breakfast, her favorite books and movies, whether she slept sprawled out or curled in a ball. He wanted to strip her naked and spend all night on top of her, inside her. He knew she wanted him, too, though she seemed surprised by her own lust. He grinned again, remembering the look on her face when she jumped away from him as if he were a lit stick of dynamite. This was going to be fun, and frustrating as hell. He'd had a hard-on for two days, and it didn't show any signs of going away soon. All he had to do was think about Sweeney and his dick started throbbing, and he hadn't been able to think about anything else. The abstinence of the past year had been a bitch anyway, and now it was becoming unbearable.

In attitude, she was Candra's polar opposite. Candra was very conscious of her beauty, her appearance, and dressed according to the image she wanted to project. Sweeney had no idea how pretty she was, and from what he could tell, she threw on whatever was closest to hand. Candra was socially adept; Sweeney was constitutionally unable to play social games, assuming she even recognized them. Candra was social, period; Sweeney was a loner. Getting her to admit him into her life was going to take perseverance and careful planning—perseverance more than anything else. Most of all, Candra's attitude toward sex was casual and permissive, while Sweeney was so exclusive she was startled by a kiss.

He wanted her. In bed, out of bed, it didn't matter. If he couldn't coax her into a relationship so he could seduce her, then he would have to seduce her in order to coax her into a relationship. He didn't want her just for sex; he wanted to spend time with her; she was the only woman with whom he had ever wanted to watch the evening news, just to get her take on things. Sweeney might be in the same parade, but she was definitely marching along to a different rhythm.

And Candra. was in the way.

He picked up the phone and called his lawyer, Gavin Welles. He was put through immediately. "This has been going on long enough," he said without preamble. "Get it finished."

"Considering the amount of your assets, a year isn't a long time. Be patient," Gavin advised. "Your position is strong. and sooner or later Candra will realize she's throwing away a fortune in legal fees. She'll cut her losses."

"I'm going to make her losses bigger every day she delays. Call her lawyer and tell her I'm reducing the settlement offer by ten thousand every day. After five days, if she hasn't signed the papers, I'm rescinding my offer to sign over the gallery to her."

Gavin was silent a moment. "She'll fight to the bitter end for the gallery, and you know it."

"And she knows that in the bitter end she'll lose. I want her out of my life. This isn't a bluff, Gavin. I should have forced her hand months ago, but I wanted to do what I thought was right. That's over. Give her lawyer the message." He hung up and sat back, his expression grim.

In his downtown office, Gavin Welles shrugged and placed a call to Olivia Yu, Candra's attorney. When she heard Richard's ultimatum, her responding blast nearly ruined Gavin's eardrums. "That bastard! Was he serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack," Gavin said.

"What the hell brought this on? I could have eventually convinced Candra she had the best offer she was likely to get, but she's going to hit the ceiling over this. He must have her replacement waiting in the wings."

Gavin had already thought of that possibility, but he was too discreet to say so. "Not to my knowledge."

"Bullshit. He has a little honey lined up and you know it."

"So what if he does?" Richard could have slept with a different woman every night, in the middle of Times Square, and his position wouldn't have been weakened.

Olivia knew it. Only Candra's reluctance to settle for what she thought was an unfairly minuscule amount had kept her from signing the papers before now. Olivia had tried to make her see she couldn't hope for anything more, but Candra had seemed almost desperate for more money. "All right, I'll call her. You'd better take cover under your desk."

"What?"

Contrary to Olivia's expectations, Candra's reaction was a horrified whisper, not an outraged shriek. Olivia repeated the terms.

"He can't do that! We've already agreed—"

"You haven't signed the papers," Olivia said pointedly. "Legally, he isn't bound by his offer because you refused it. He can do anything he likes."

"But the gallery is mine. I'm the one who searched out artists, who built their reputations and made the gallery profitable. He can't take it!"

"His money bought the building. His money backed the gallery, got it started. His name is on all the checks paying all the bills. A smart lawyer—and believe me, Gavin Welles is smart—could make the argument that Richard is the driving force behind the gallery and you were little more than window dressing. You should have incorporated the gallery in your name, but that's hindsight." In Olivia's profession, she saw incredible financial stupidity every day.

"I would have if I'd had any warning," Candra said. Her voice was wretched. "One day we were fine, then we had that argument and the next day he filed for divorce. I didn't have time to do anything to protect myself."

The time to protect yourself, in Olivia's opinion, was while everything was still fine. The point was moot, the water long since passed under the bridge. She wondered what the argument had been about; Candra had never said, but it must have been total war, to have triggered such an abrupt and final break. Whatever the reason, in their meetings Richard had been cold, ruthlessly controlled, and absolutely unyielding. He hadn't compromised on a single issue, and now he was taking an even more hard-ass position.

"I'll talk to him," Candra said. She sounded on the verge of tears.

"Candra…" Olivia sighed. "What good can it do? Name one tiny detail he's budged on. Sign the papers, before you lose another ten thousand."

"I'll get him to reinstate that ten thousand. I'll— I'll promise to sign the papers if he does."

Candra hung up and closed her eyes. She felt sick to her stomach, so ill she thought she might actually throw up. A year ago ten thousand had seemed like pocket change to her, but now it was essential. She hadn't heard from Carson, but then she hadn't expected to so soon. Blackmail wasn't a sure thing, and until Carson came through with the money, she couldn't afford to let a penny slip away. After all, what could she do if he refused to pay blackmail? Making the photos public would ruin his career, perhaps even initiate a criminal investigation because of the drug use, but that wouldn't put any money in her pocket. It would, in fact, totally negate that threat. Her only hope was that he feared exposure enough to pay the money.

God, what had set Richard off? When he had come to the gallery two days before, he had been as cold and stubborn as ever, but though he had tried to convince her to sign the papers then, he hadn't issued any threats. She didn't have any choice about signing, of course, not now. Why hadn't he done this then?

He had to have a reason. Richard always had a reason. He was the least emotional, most logical person she had ever met, something that had made her feel very secure when they were married. No matter what, she had always been able to count on Richard to figure out the best way to handle any situation.

This ultimatum wasn't a bluff; he would do exactly what he, said. He wanted the papers signed and the divorce expedited. The question was: Why now? Why not two days ago, or two months ago? He could have done this at any time and the outcome would have been the same.

He had an urgent reason now, one that he hadn't had two days before. It had to be a woman. Just because she hadn't found out about any women he'd had since they separated didn't mean he'd been living like a monk. She knew Richard's sexual appetite, and she also knew women automatically gravitated to him, as if he gave off subliminal signals that said he liked it slow, and often. He also held some ridiculously old-fashioned opinions; if he had accidentally gotten some woman pregnant, he would insist on marrying her. That was another thing she knew about Richard, she thought bitterly: He didn't take a pregnancy lightly.

On the other hand, neither did he tend to repeat his mistakes. Accidents happened, but he would be doubly careful now.

No, more than likely he was interested in another woman. Candra thought of someone taking her place, sleeping in her bed, waking up with Richard, eating breakfast with him, and she wanted to scream. She would have done anything to be able to turn back the clock, undo this past year, but she couldn't and she had to stop wasting time with useless regrets. She had to think.

Sweeney. Of course!

A flash of intuition told her she was right. She hadn't been wrong about that flare of attraction, or the way Richard had stared at Sweeney. Maybe Sweeney was oblivious to Richard—if any woman could be, Sweeney was that woman—but that didn't mean he was oblivious to her. On the contrary, he would enjoy the challenge of enticing her into a relationship.

Candra could work this to her advantage. She knew she could.

"You're plotting something," Kai said, coming into her office without knocking. She frowned; he was becoming entirely too cocky. She would have to trim his wings soon.

On the other hand, at least she could talk to him. "I think I was right about Richard and Sweeney. All of a sudden he's in a hurry to finalize the divorce."

"He's agreed to your terms?" Kai's eyes glittered. The thought of money did that to him.

"No, he's still playing hardball, but now I think I can at least get in the game."

"You're playing with fire," he warned. "Richard won't tolerate threats."

"Then he shouldn't make them," she snapped.

"Oh? What threats has he made?"

"Never mind." Kai didn't know Richard owned the gallery. If he did, he might well quit on the spot and leave her in the lurch. She had no illusions about his loyalty. He was, however, a valuable asset; many of her female clientele were blunt about his attractions and abilities.

"What are you going to do?"

"Talk to him." Rising, Candra. picked up her expensive leather tote that doubled as briefcase and purse. Luckily she hadn't gone home to change; she was still wearing the conservative suit she had worn to D.C. that morning. She would take any edge she could get, no matter how tiny.

"Why not just call?" K ai suggested.

"I'd rather talk to him in person." If she called, Kai wasn't above listening in, and he would find out about the gallery.

"What makes you think he'll see you?"

A couple of times Richard had refused to let her in, to Kai's malicious amusement and Candra's fury. "Oh, I think he's expecting me this time

Richard's gaze flickered immediately over the suit. "Trying out for a part on Broadway?" he asked, letting her know he saw through the little subterfuge. She controlled her irritation. She should have remembered how detail-oriented he was, noticing everything.

"I had a business appointment this morning," she said, which wasn't a lie.

Rather than take her upstairs to the living area, he led her to his bottom-floor office, telling her without words she no longer belonged here, if the notion needed to be reinforced. To him, she was nothing more than unfinished business—unpleasant business, at that.

She was always surprised at how small and spartan his office was, though of course he had been limited in space by the size of the town house. He could have done more with the furnishings or let her do more. Everything in the office was utilitarian, even his big, custom-made leather chair.

"I see your lawyer told you about my new terms," he said coolly, taking a seat and leaning back, hooking his hands behind his head. His dark eyes were unreadable.

She took a seat across the desk from him and cut right to the chase. "Sweeney's been having problems with her painting for quite a while now," she said. "She finally brought some of her new work in yesterday, but she's very uncertain about it. I told her it was wonderful, of course, but the truth is, I may have a difficult time selling any of it."

His expression didn't so much as flicker. "And you're telling me this because…?"

Damn him, could she have been wrong? No, she couldn't have been, and she hated him for making her feel uncertain.

"I know you, darling. I saw how you were looking at her. " As if he wanted to fuck her right then, right in front of everyone, Candra thought with sudden viciousness. Jealousy seared her, and she pushed it away.

"With my eyes?" he suggested mildly.

"Don't be witty, please. I can destroy her career. I wouldn't enjoy doing it—I really like Sweeney—but if it's necessary…" She shrugged.

"And I can replace you at the gallery tomorrow, if necessary." Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward. His expression wasn't impassive now; it was so grim she found herself drawing back from him. "If you do the slightest thing to harm Sweeney's career, hell will freeze over before you get a dime from me."

"So I was right," she managed to say, but inwardly she was alarmed. Somehow, she hadn't expected him to counter her threats with more of his own.

"Are you?"

"Why else would you care?"

"I can think of several reasons why I wouldn't give in to blackmail," he said.

She wished he hadn't used that word. She paled slightly. "I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it? If I pay up, you'll refrain from ruining a career. That sounds remarkably like extortion to me." He got up and seized her by the arm, forcing her up from the chair. "Get out."

"Richard, wait!"

"I said get out." He propelled her toward the door, past the astonished faces of his two assistants. Embarrassment turned her face dark red.

She jerked her arm free and whirled to face him. "I'll make you regret treating me like this," she said in a voice clogged with angry tears.

"Sign the papers," he said, opening the door and ushering her out. "Or you'll regret it."