he ringing of the doorbell, when it came, startled her. She had no idea how much time had lapsed. "R-Richard?"

The bell rang again, and she realized her voice had been too weak to penetrate the wood. She took a deep breath, holding it to buy herself a few seconds free from shivering. "Richard," she called, not letting herself think what she would do if someone else was at the door.

"I'm here. Open the door."

"It's u-unlocked."

He opened the door, looked down, and saw her curled on the floor and said, "Shit," in a very quiet, very controlled tone. He closed and locked the door, then bent down and effortlessly lifted her in his arms.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked as he swiftly carried her to the couch.

"S-since I woke up. A-about n-nine."

"It feels like the Sahara in here," he said grimly. He placed her on the couch and unwrapped the blanket, then with sure, brisk movements unfastened her jeans and stripped them down her legs.

"H-hey!" Sounding indignant and outraged was difficult when your teeth were chattering, she discovered.

"Don't argue," he said, and pulled her sweatshirt off over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, because she never did when she was at home. Her nipples had pinched into tight little points. She started to cover her breasts with her hands, then abandoned that idea in favor of wrapping her arms around herself to conserve heat. Her eyelids drooped heavily.

"Don't let yourself go to sleep," he ordered.

"I w-won't," she promised, and hoped she wasn't lying.

He left her socks on and went to work on his own clothes. He wasn't wearing a suit today, she noticed, just slacks and a silk shirt. He unbuttoned the shirt, his fingers moving swiftly, and dropped it to the floor. He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt at the same time, stripping himself as efficiently as he had her. His pants hit the floor, he jerked off his socks, and then he was with her, wrapping her in his arms and all but crushing her against the back of the couch. "Easy," he murmured, feeling her convulsive shaking, and pulled the blanket over them.

He pushed his feet under hers and placed one big hand on the back of her head, tucking her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, forcing her to breathe air heated by his body.

The shock of his heat was so intense she thought she might faint. At first all she was aware of was warmth, surrounding her, seeping through her skin and penetrating down to her marrow. He held her tightly against him, helping her contain the shivering, adding his strength to hers. "Don't cry," he whispered, making her aware that she still was, and wiped her face with the blanket.

After what seemed like hours but could have been as little as five minutes, the shivering eased for a moment, allowing her to relax. She lay bonelessly in his arms, breathing heavily, then the monster seized her in its jaws again and shook her until her teeth rattled.

The next respite lasted a little longer, long enough that she began to hope it was over. Richard's body heat continued to pour over her, through her, reaching that central core of ice that no amount of coffee, hot water, or heated air had been able to touch. He was sweating; she could feel the moisture on his skin. She tried to stretch, ease her tired and cramped muscles, but the movement triggered more shivering.

He held her through that, too, whispering reassurances in her ear. She didn't need to be reassured, she thought fuzzily. Richard was here, so of course he would get her warm. Funny how she was so positive of that.

She stilled again, lying quietly in his arms. The minutes ticked by, the room silent except for the sound of their breathing and the strong, steady thumping of his heart under her ear.

She was all but naked, wearing only panties and socks. He had on even less, nothing but a pair of tight boxers. The crisp hair on his chest rasped her nipples, keeping them puckered even though she was no longer cold. He was very hard, she thought drowsily, brushing her lips against his shoulder without quite realizing what she was doing. Muscular, too. Her fingers moved over his shoulder, feeling the power beneath his sleek, warm skin as she stroked down to the hard bulge of his triceps. Even his belly was hard, and his legs were heavy with muscle.

His erection prodded her stomach. A different kind of heat gathered in her, pooled between her legs. Instinctively she shifted, pushing her hips against him in an acceptance she knew was dangerous, but the knowledge came a split second after the action. Even then she didn't withdraw. The contact felt too good, too right.

He kissed her forehead, the caress slow and tender. "Warm now?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Good." His breath sighed over her closed eyelids. "Sleepy?"

"Um hmm."

"Go to sleep then, Sweeney." At least she thought he said Sweeney. Something about her name sounded different, but she couldn't quite place what it was. She inhaled with slow, deep precision, drawing his heated scent into her lungs and feeling something deep inside loosen and give way.

His hand covered her breast, his callus-roughened thumb rubbing over her nipple. She had never thought breasts were the great source of pleasure portrayed in books and movies, having never felt more than irritation when some boy grabbed hers and pulled the nipples and expected her to become incoherent with pleasure when what she really felt like doing was punching him in the face. She didn't feel like punching Richard. His circling thumb produced a prickling sort of heat in her nipple, then there was an almost unbearable tightening, and a hot wire of sensation ran from her breast straight to her loins, exploding there and spreading a different kind of heat throughout her body. She moaned, a quiet little whimper of delight.

He repeated the motion over and over, the pleasure building with every second until it seemed to take over her body. She was glowing with heat now, inside and out. She surged against him, back and forth like the gentle, inexorable wash of the tide. A faint remnant of caution was swamped by the flood of pure physical delight.

He tugged on her hair, pulling her head back. His mouth closed over hers, leisurely intensifying the pressure until her lips parted. He slanted his head then and kissed her, deep and hard, taking her with rhythmic thrusts of his tongue. Sweeney didn't open her eyes, couldn't open them, lost in a combination of fatigue and desire that both demanded and beguiled. Her fingers dug into the deep ridge of his back, slippery with sweat.

He moved a little, adjusting his position so that the hard ridge of his penis nestled against her mound. She felt the soft folds between her legs open, just a little, and he rested between them. She started, a sliver of alarm working through the haze of desire, and that small movement rubbed her against his shaft in a way that sent pleasure rioting along her nerve endings. If the two layers of their underwear hadn't been between them, he would have been inside her then, because she couldn't stop the convulsive thrust of her hips. He groaned, deep in his throat, the sound vibrating in her own mouth.

She felt as if her body were a bow, the hot wire of sensation pulling her tighter and tighter, arching her against him. She made a small, desperate mewling sound, all but clawing at him in her urgency, her thighs opening as she tried to ride the ridge of his erection. She was in pain again, a different kind of pain, hot and empty, almost mindless with need. Richard gripped her bottom and rubbed her against him, and everything inside her tightened, holding her on the verge of shattering for one long, unbearable moment before the tension released and she convulsed on great waves of pleasure. She heard her own cries, thin and wild, muffled by his kiss, and then for a while she didn't know anything. Her dazed senses gradually regained their function. She was sweating, she realized with astonishment; her body sheened with moisture. As her heartbeat slowed, she realized that his hadn't, but his touch was gentle as he settled her so that her head was pillowed on his arm. "Go to sleep," he whispered.

She didn't have any other choice. Her muscles were like water, unable to function. "I had a climax," she managed to say, and heard her own surprise.

"I know," he said on a low chuckle, his amusement strained but genuine. She nestled her face against him, breathed deeply, and like a child, was asleep.

Richard pushed the sweltering blanket down a little. He didn't want to trigger another of those alarming chills, but neither did he want either one of them to have a heatstroke. The apartment was so hot he could barely breathe. Sweat poured off him, and he hadn't helped the situation by what he had just done. Foreplay with Sweeney was more erotic than any full sex act he had ever experienced; her response was swift and intense, and utterly beguiling. He had never before enjoyed so much something that left him so frustrated; he thought one touch of her hand would take him over the edge.

He could have had her. She wouldn't have accused him afterward of taking advantage of her, because she had the kind of bedrock honesty that made her take responsibility for her own actions. But he would have been taking advantage, and he knew it. She had been alarmingly weak, all her energy sapped by that constant, convulsive shivering. Her defenses had been down, and he could have done anything with her he wanted.

What he had wanted most, it turned out, was to take care of her.

He didn't know how he had managed to control himself. He closed his eyes as he remembered the sight of her high, round breasts with the delicate blue tracery of veins and her small, tightly puckered nipples. Those soft mounds were flattened against his chest now, her nipples plumped but still firm enough that he could feel both of them.

Her cheek was flushed now with warm color, her skin smooth and supple instead of roughened with chills. Something was very, very wrong, but he couldn't begin to imagine what it was. There was no medical condition he knew of that would let body heat warm her but prevent any other means of heat from doing the same thing. Her condition this time had seemed far more extreme than it had during the other episode; she'd had all the symptoms of hypothermia, including the slurred speech. That was why he had stripped their clothes off, knowing she would get warm faster without the buffer of clothing between them. He had also known the other likely outcome and fought to keep himself under control while he deliberately aroused her.

When she woke, and got some clothes on, he intended to hustle her pretty little ass into the car and get her to a doctor. He knew a couple of very good diagnosticians who would see her without an appointment, as a favor to him. Though he had been acquainted with her for several years, he was only now beginning to know her, to plumb the treasure chest of her personality, and he refused to let anything endanger his intoxicating discovery.

She was damp with sweat, her own as well as his. The crisis, whatever it was, was over for now, and he was about to pass out from the heat. He eased away from her and got up, tucking the blanket around her as a safeguard, then went in search of the thermostat. When he found it, he winced at the setting and nudged it down to seventy-five.

The heat had made him thirsty. He opened cabinet doors until he found the drinking glasses, then stood in front of the sink and guzzled two full glasses of water. He wanted a cool shower, but didn't want to leave her alone in case her nap was a short one. She deserved to be held when she woke up after her first orgasm.

He didn't know what made him so certain that had been her first. Her surprise, maybe. He had always thought her totally oblivious to men, so focused on her work that there wasn't room in her life for anything else, and now he knew his supposition had been right. Her experiences were probably few and a long time ago, very likely with boys her age, and had produced damn little pleasure for her. She had probably said to hell with the whole process; she had better things to do. He didn't know why she had suddenly responded to him, but he wasn't about to question his good luck.

He went back into the living room, where he could keep an eye on her. The sweat was evaporating on his body, but he still felt too hot to put on his clothes.

When he had been here before, he hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings; he had been almost totally focused on her. Now he looked around, relieved beyond measure that everything wasn't stark white, or black lacquer. Her furniture was traditional, and functional. Her artistry was revealed in her use of color, a deep blue bowl placed where the sunshine would fall on it and make it glow, a light green vase filled with red flowers, a purple afghan thrown across a chair. He noticed the abundance of plants and thought she must have a very green thumb, because all of them had glossy, abundant leaves and several of them were blooming in a riot of color, yellows and pinks and reds.

She had a lot of books, too, most of them on shelves but some stacked on the coffee table. He picked one up, his eyebrows lifting as he read the title, The Ghost Detectives. He picked up another book, Paranormal Phenomena. Funny, he wouldn't have thought she was the type to be hooked on this paranormal stuff, but he enjoyed The X-Files himself and he wasn't normally a science fiction fan, so he couldn't knock her interests.

A third book was Spirit Sightings. Another was Ghosts Among Us. She was evidently fascinated by ghosts.

He was a little interested himself. When his grandfather died, Richard had gone home for the funeral and stayed for a week with his mother in the tiny run-down house where he had grown up. The entire time he was there, he kept sensing his grandfather's presence, catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and then, when he turned, finding no one there. He was a logical man, but logic didn't mean rejecting everything he couldn't touch or see or taste. He couldn't see electricity, but he could see its effects, and maybe in death the body left behind a lingering energy field. He thought it must be at least possible, though he admitted it was equally possible his brain had been playing tricks on him, because he was so accustomed to his grandfather being in that house that he expected to see him.

Richard put the books down and checked on Sweeney. She was still sleeping soundly, one hand tucked under her cheek, her lips rosy and her finger-tips pink.

Her entire body had been icy when he first arrived. He frowned. He had thought, the first time, that she seemed almost to be in shock, and the impression was stronger now. Had anything happened both times to trigger such an extreme reaction? Or was her blood pressure dropping suddenly because of some physical condition? One way or another, when she woke, he was going to get to the bottom of this.

She slept for over an hour. When she began stirring, he slipped back under the blanket with her, crowding her against the back of the couch. Her legs felt like silk; her breasts flattened gently against him, making his head spin. Gently he rubbed the back of one finger against the underside of a plumped-out breast, reveling in the satiny smoothness. He wanted to taste her, suck her, but his frustration level was so high he knew if he did, there wouldn't be any stopping.

She stirred again, wrinkling her nose and making a disgusted sound, as if she hated waking up. Richard watched her closely, anticipating that moment when her eyes opened and awareness hit her. He couldn't wait to hear what her first words would be.

She stretched, the movement rubbing her body all along his and making him grit his teeth. Her eyelashes fluttered, and sleepy blue eyes looked at him. "Hi," she murmured, an incredibly sweet, drowsy smile curving her lips. She blinked a couple more times, focused, and he saw her eyes widen. She froze in his arms. "Oh my God," she said.

He laughed quietly and kissed her temple. "Don't panic." He didn't think his balls could survive another attack from her knee, even an inadvertent one.

Her face was crimson. "We—I—" she stammered, unable to look at him. She put her hand on his chest and then snatched it away, as if startled by the feel of bare skin.

"It's okay, sweetie. Nothing happened."

"The hell it didn't," she blurted, then blushed even more.

"I made you come." He kept his voice calm. "I did it deliberately, to get you warm."

"I would call that something," she snapped.

"Then call it heavy petting, to use a high-school term. I sure as hell wouldn't call it anything more, or I wouldn't be as damn frustrated as I am." Gently he brushed a curl back from her flushed face. "We need to talk."

She paused, looking truculent, but finally sighed. "Okay. Let me get up and get dressed, and put on a fresh pot of coffee—"

"I like you right where you are." Once she put some distance between them, she would throw up her defenses again, and he wanted some answers. Until he had them, he intended to keep her mostly naked and half under him. Touch was a powerful force, making babies thrive and gentling the most fractious of women. It had a powerful effect on him, too. Slowly he stroked his hand over her back, feeling the delicate vertebrae of her spine, the smooth warmth of her skin.

She must have sensed his determination, because she was motionless in his arms, waiting. "Unless you have an explanation for what's causing you to go into shock this way, I'm taking you to a doctor," he said. "Today. Even if I have to wrap you in this blanket and carry you the way you are. "

She exhaled through her nose, huffing her displeasure. She didn't look at him but stared over his shoulder. Her evasion made him think there was indeed something going on that was causing her to have such drastic reactions. "Richard—"

"Sweetie," he countered, with the exact level of impatience she had used. She darted a suspicious glance at him, not quite certain what he had said. He managed not to smile.

"All right," she said abruptly. "I'm usually cold, but not like—not like today."

"Or day before yesterday?"

"Or then," she agreed. "Both times, I walked in my sleep the night before." She pressed her lips together, looking both mutinous and worried.

She evidently thought that was explanation enough, but Richard didn't. "I've never heard of sleepwalking causing anyone to go into shock."

Mutiny began to override worry in her expression. "Well, that's what happened, whether you believe it or not."

There was more, and she was determined not to tell it. Without another word Richard got up and tucked the blanket around her, wrapping it tight so she couldn't get even her arms free. Then he picked up his pants from the floor and stepped into them.

"Hey!" She began wiggling frantically, trying to fight her way out of the blanket.

"Don't bother." He zipped his fly and buckled his belt. "I'd just have to wrap you up again before I take you to a doctor, and you know I can do it. I'm a helluva lot bigger than you, and a helluva lot stronger."

"Bully!" she threw at him.

"Yep, but a concerned one." He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Whether it was the concern or the kiss that did it, or maybe her realization that he meant what he said, he saw her expression change. The look she gave him was almost frightened. "It isn't just sleepwalking," she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her. "Both times I've painted something in my sleep, too."

Sleep-painting? Interested, he sat down on the edge of the couch, trapping her between his hip and the couch back. "Why would that be such a shock to your system?"

She bit her lip. "There was an old hot dog vendor who worked a corner about four blocks from the gallery He had the sweetest expression of anyone I've ever seen. Day before yesterday, when I got up I noticed the canvas I'd been working on had been moved, and another one was on the easel in its place. The ppainting on the easel was of the hot dog vendor, with blood coming out his nose and pooled around his head. In the painting he was.dead. That was the first time it happened."

"Painting in your sleep, or being so cold?"

"Both. That afternoon, I found out the vendor really was dead, though I had seen him just the day before."

He didn't know what to say to that. Bad coincidence? That was stretching the boundaries of logic, but unless she had a lot more to tell him, he couldn't think of anything else it could be but coincidence. "And this morning?"

She gave a low, harsh laugh. "This morning, when I saw the canvas had been moved again and another was in its place, all I could think was that someone else I knew had died. I was too scared to look at it, because I was afraid—terrified—that I had painted you."

The meaning behind that admission went through him like a bolt of lightning. He clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching for her. He didn't dare touch her now, or they wouldn't get out of bed until sometime tomorrow. The look she gave him was stripped bare of the layers of prickly defenses she usually kept between her and the world.

"Did you?" he asked, and managed to keep his voice calm. He had the feeling she was grateful he hadn't pounced on that telling admission.

She laughed again, this time with real amusement. "No. I painted shoes. Two of them. One man's, and one woman's."

He grinned at the incongruity "Shoes, huh? This may start a new trend. Some people would be able to read all sorts of deep meaning into two lonely, mismatched shoes."

She snorted. "Yeah, the same people who buy a VanDern and think they've bought anything a monkey couldn't reproduce."

The disdain in her voice made him laugh. Now he felt able to touch her again, so he lifted another curl and watched it wrap around his finger. He examined the curl, rubbed his thumb over it to separate the silky strands, and carefully considered his next question. Maybe it shouldn't be a question at all. "Now tell me why you were convinced that if you had painted me, I would be dead."

He glanced at her in time to see the panic in her eyes. "You'll think I'm crazy," she said.

"Try me. I'm not leaving you alone until I know what's going on."

She wiggled again, frowning impatiently at the blanket. "Let me out of this thing. I feel as if I'm in a straitjacket, and considering what I just said, it's making me very uncomfortable."

Smiling, he tugged hard on the blanket, loosening it. She started to push it aside, then remembered she was almost naked and settled for tucking it under her arms. She sighed. "About a year ago, weird things began happening."

"Weird, how?"

She waved her hand. "Oh, traffic lights turning green whenever I approached, parking spaces at the front of the row emptying just as I got there, that sort of thing."

His eyebrows lifted. "Convenient." He remembered how fast the trip from the gallery to here had been. It had been almost miraculous, the way traffic had cleared out of their way. It had irritated the hell out of him, because he had been looking forward to spending more time with her.

"Yeah, I kind of like that part. And I like the way the plants look. Before, they tended to die on me, but now, no matter what I do, they just keep growing and blooming." She pointed at a plant with delicate pink blossoms. "That's a Christmas cactus. This is the sixth time already it has bloomed this year."

He rubbed his jaw. "I assume it isn't supposed to do that."

"Well, it never has before."

"What else?" There had to be something else. Traffic signals and parking spaces wouldn't make her this uneasy

She shivered suddenly, alarming him. But her skin remained smooth, and he realized it was her thoughts that had made her shiver. She stared at him, blue eyes stark and haunted. "I began seeing ghosts," she whispered.