he was wrapped in a blanket when Richard arrived, a freshly nuked cup of coffee in her hand. She was cold, but the cold wasn't unbearable, at least not yet. He bent down for a quick kiss, then started to take her in his arms to battle the chill.

"Wait," she said. I want you to see the painting first."

He went with her into the studio and in silence studied the canvas. The scene was graphic in its violence. The woman's body was sprawled in a pool of blood, which had soaked into a pale carpet. Her chic black dress had been slashed to pieces, and one arm, the only one Sweeney had completed, was covered with wounds.

The man standing over her was relaxed, the knife he had used in his right hand, which was hanging at his side. Working from his shoes up, she had completed him to just above the waist. He wore black pants, perhaps jeans, though jeans were a bit incongruous with the wing tips. She had also painted the beginnings of a black shirt.

"A burglar, maybe," Richard said with the cool distance in his voice that said he had switched into his analytical mode. "They're both in black, but she looks as if she's been to a party. The shoes are wrong, though; a burglar would wear track shoes, or something else with a soft sole."

"I thought there was something strange about the shoes, too. They look awkward." She didn't like the way she had done the feet; they were vaguely out of proportion. But when she had begun studying how she could correct them, the mental image refused to form. Perhaps she was just exhausted and she would be able to think better after she had rested.

"I need to get this finished," she said, and even though she heard the fretful tone, she couldn't do anything about it. She was just about an inch short of whining. "I have to know who she is."

"Honey—" He clasped her shoulders and turned her toward him. "You have to assume you won't know until after the fact. That's the way it was with Elijah Stokes—"

"But this thing, whatever it is, is getting stronger all the time. Or maybe I'm just getting better at it. What I'm painting now is in the future, so why shouldn't the scope broaden and let me see her identity before it's too late?"

"This might not be a burglary that went sour. This might be a planned murder."

She didn't follow him. "What difference would that make?"

"The plan could already be formed. If I were going to commit murder, I'd have it planned down to the ground. So what you're picking up on could be a plan that exists now, not in the future. "

She gave him a sour look, or at least as sour as she could make it when she was shaking like a leaf "Don't be so analytical," she said, even though she knew he was right.

"Being analytical is how I got rich. Come on; there's nothing you can do about this right now. At least when the painting is complete, you'll also have the murderer's face. You probably can't save her, but you can help in other ways." With her firmly clamped against his side, he began easing her toward the door.

"You're handling me, right? I hate being handled. I'm not one of those temperamental artistes who get hysterical if the least thing goes wrong."

"I know," he said soothingly, and smiled at the ferocious look she threw him.

He got her settled on the couch, in his lap, with the blanket wrapped around them. He wasn't going to take his shirt off today, she thought, disappointed. Nor was he going to lie down with her. She understood; the temptation was just too great. The transfer of body heat wasn't as efficient with their clothes on, but neither was the need as great.

He held her locked tight against him, absorbing the force of her shivering. "I didn't think it would happen this time," she said, with her face buried against his chest. "I was awake. I worked on the painting last night and felt fine, so why am I cold this morning?"

"Depth of involvement, maybe, or the length of time you worked."

Trust Richard, she thought, to come up with a reasonable, logical explanation for what was innately illogical. At least he took her seriously and didn't assume she was having panic attacks or was hysterical. He believed her, about something she herself had a difficult time believing.

She lay quietly for a time, letting his heat soak through her skin, and felt herself begin to grow drowsy as she warmed. With this to look forward to, she was beginning to think getting severe chills wasn't such a bad thing. Remembering the time he had stripped them both down to their underwear made her breasts tighten and caused an ache deep inside. Maybe, she thought mischievously, if she put off calling him until she was really, really cold, he would do that again. Her entire body flushed as she remembered the explosion of pleasure she had experienced just rocking against him. She wanted to do that again. Often.

Sitting in his lap, she discovered, wasn't much better than lying down with him, in terms of temptation. She ached with a physical need that shook her with its intensity. His erection was rock hard against her hip, and only sheer determination kept her from squirming around until she was astride him. "Sheer" described her determination very well. It was gossamer thin, and getting thinner every day.

He stroked her hair back from her temple and pressed his lips to the fragile skin. "Good news," he murmured. "Candra has an appointment to sign the papers tomorrow. She would have done it today, but there had to be some additions and corrections made. I've already arranged to have the petition come before a judge next week."

She tilted her head back a little, staring at him. Considering the well-known backlog in New York City's civil court, she was astounded. He had "arranged" a small miracle. "How did you manage that?"

"Money." His tone was careless. "I have it, so people come to me for favors. I collected on a lot of debts." His hand on the back of her head, he settled her against him once more. His mouth lightly brushed her temple, and over to her eyelid. "After next week, when you get cold, I'll be able to warm you from the inside out."

Oh, God, he managed it now. Her heart leaped, and her pulse rate jumped to double time. "You're doing just fine as it is," she gasped.

"The way you shake and shudder, I won't even have to do any work. All I'll have to do is set you in place, then lie back and enjoy the ride."

Laughter burst out of her. Her arms were confined by the blanket he had wrapped around her, but she punched him with as much force as she could muster. Grinning, he subdued her by the simple method of kissing her.

She had never before had so much fun, she thought as she relaxed in his arms, her head cradled on his shoulder. Even under the circumstances, she enjoyed every moment with him. She managed to work one hand free and curled it around the back of his neck, nestling her fingers in his hair. The sensation was delicious; his hair, silky soft, was warm close to his scalp and cool on the outside. Evidently he detected some remnant of rebellion, because he kept on kissing her.

She wanted him to deepen the kisses. She waited for him to do so. But he pulled back with a sigh, his face taut, and she knew his determination was in the same shape as hers. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded, and a faint flush rode his high cheekbones. "If this keeps up, I won't be able to even kiss you," he said gruffly.

"Keeps up, or stays up?" She meant to tease, but her voice came out too husky for that.

The sound he made was more growl than laugh. "Either. Both." He breathed hard through his nostrils. "Talk. Distract me. "

"What do you want to talk about?" Her mind felt mushy. She didn't know if she could muster a conversation, at least not a detailed one.

"Anything. Were you really born in Italy?"

"Really. Florence, to be exact. My mother felt the need to make some sort of pilgrimage—for her art, you understand. I was two weeks early, which evidently really fouled up her itinerary. I couldn't keep the formula down and was losing weight, so I stayed in the hospital while she salvaged as much of her trip as she could. Hardy woman, my mother. She was back on the road two days after having me. When she was ready to come home, she swung by the hospital to pick me up, but when she tried to leave the country, there was a problem with the paperwork—she hadn't done any of it—so I ended up staying another week until everything was straightened out."

She said it humorously, because she had long since become accustomed to her mother's lack of concern for her offspring—not just for Sweeney, but for her brother, too. Richard didn't laugh, though. He didn't even smile. His gaze turned flinty. "Do you mean," he said in an almost toneless voice, "that your mother left her sick baby in the hospital while she resumed her vacation?"

"Yeah, well, that's Mom." Sweeney tried to lighten the mood with an awkward laugh. It didn't work.

"Where was your father?"

"Working on a movie somewhere, I guess. I don't think I've ever heard."

Fascinated, she watched his jaw set. If it got any harder, it would probably shatter under the pressure. His reaction startled her. She had long since stopped worrying about her parents' behavior; she neither justified or analyzed. "Hey," she said mildly, "they didn't beat me. They didn't pay any attention to us, period, but there are worse things."

"Us?"

"I have one full brother, and several half-brothers and -sisters from my father's various marriages. It's possible he's added to the total since I last heard from him."

'Are you close to your brother?"

"No. He went by the 'if you can't beat them' philosophy. His goal in life is to be stoned and trendy. I haven't heard from him in… oh, I guess it's been three years or longer."

"Jesus," he muttered.

"I sent everyone a postcard when I moved, so they would have my current address and telephone number, but I haven't heard from anyone. I don't know if their addresses were current. What about your family?"

"I don't have any immediate family. My father died when I was three, and my mother and I lived with my grandfather. He died eight years ago, and Mom's been dead five years. I have two uncles and an aunt on my father's side, and a lot of cousins, most of them in Virginia. I get home for family reunions and the odd Christmas every now and then, but Candra hated being around my relatives, so I always went alone."

Just from the way he talked, she could tell he enjoyed being with his relatives. She tried to imagine a big, noisy family reunion where everyone was glad to see each other. "Excuse me while my mind boggles," she said. "I can't imagine a family reunion in my family."

"What do you do for Thanksgiving and Christmas?"

"Nothing." She shrugged. "Work. We aren't big on holidays, either."

"We'll spend the holidays in Virginia, then," he said.

She sat up, surprised. "You mean you want to take me with you?"

"Well, I sure as hell don't mean to leave you here alone."

Now she was more than surprised; she was downright astonished. She hadn't thought about their relationship in terms of the future. She was so new—to this relationship business that she had no idea what the normal expectations would be; she certainly hadn't thought about where she would spend the holidays.

"Do you think we'll still be… you know?" she said hesitantly.

"Oh, yeah." His tone was as confident as hers was hesitant.

"Well." She rubbed her nose. "Okay."

He grinned. "Don't overwhelm me with your enthusiasm." He glanced at his watch. "I have an appointment I need to cancel if—"

"No, go ahead," she said swiftly, sitting up. "I'm toasty warm; I was just enjoying sitting here."

He eyed her, judging her color for himself. He took her hand to feel if her fingers were cold. They weren't, and he dropped a quick kiss on them. "Okay. You know how to reach me if you need me. I have business dinners tonight and tomorrow night, but after that my week is clear." He winked at her. "I think it's time for a second date."

At eleven-thirty that night, Candra let herself into her apartment. She usually loved parties, but she hadn't been able to enjoy the one tonight, even though it had been attended by a lot of her favorite people. She couldn't stop thinking about the coming day. Tomorrow, she would sign the papers on the divorce settlement, and she couldn't help thinking that the best part of her life was over. She would likely never see Richard again. Perhaps someday she would meet another man who could compare with him, but she didn't really think so.

He had won. If there was a winner, there had to be a loser, and she was it. She had played him all wrong, because her mistake was in trying to play him at all. If she had simply given him his freedom with the least fuss possible, and tried to salvage some dignity for herself, he would likely have been more generous. Richard couldn't be coerced; it was that simple.

She felt ineffably weary. Even though she had no doubt Carson would come through with the money, at the moment she couldn't summon up much enthusiasm for the future.

She had left lamps on in the living room and foyer because she didn't like walking into a dark apartment. Once she hadn't worried about anything like that, because Richard had been with her. Sometimes, when she couldn't bear the thought of being alone, she would have Kai spend the night, but tonight she would rather be alone than be with him. He seemed to enjoy seeing Richard get the best of her. She would fire him, she thought. His looks were undoubtedly an asset to the gallery, but there were a lot of good-looking young men in New York who were looking for an in to the art world, and a side door was as good as a front one.

She dropped her tiny antique beaded purse on the hall table and set the locks. Her heels tapped on the faux marble tiles as she crossed the foyer and stepped onto the plush oatmeal-colored Berber pile of the living room carpet. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled, panic momentarily robbing her of her voice. Pressing her hand to her chest as if she could calm her racing heart, she said, "How in hell did you get into the building?"

"I have a key. Convenient, isn't it?"

"A key! I don't believe you. How would you get a key to my apartment?"

"You know the old saying, it isn't what you know, it's who you know."

"I don't care who you know; no one has a key to this apartment but me."

"Obviously, my dear, you're wrong."

The smugness rasped on Candra's nerves. She let her gaze drift downward, and put a hint of contempt in her tone. "Are you going to a costume party, or have you mistaken the date for Halloween?"

"I'm not the one who's made a mistake. You are."

There didn't seem to be any point in pretending ignorance. Candra was too tired and too angry to try, anyway. "This is because of the money. Look, it isn't personal. I need money, a lot of it, and this is the only way I can think of to get it. It's a onetime thing."

Her assurance seemed to pass unheard. "Did you really think I'd let you wreck what I've worked so hard for?"

"You knew what you were getting into, so don't play the victim."

"What I know is that if there's a victim, I won't be it." The words were soft, almost serene. The approach was not.

Suddenly alarmed, Candra backed up. "Get away from me! Get out of my apartment."

"You aren't giving the orders now, darling." A gloved hand lifted, and in it was a long-bladed kitchen knife.

Candra made an instant decision, feinting to her left as if she would make a break for the door. Immediately she cut back right and dived for the telephone. It wasn't a cordless; she had gone for style over convenience and chosen an ornate European desk model. She had time to punch in the 9 before the blade slashed downward, catching her on the arm. She screamed and threw herself backward, catching her right heel on the leg of the telephone table and sprawling on her back. She rolled, still screaming, and managed to gain her feet before the knife plunged into her back. An agony that was both icy and burning-hot speared through her, almost making her faint.

Desperately, her vision dimming, Candra threw herself forward, away from that searing blade. "No no no," she heard herself babbling. She lurched to the side, trying to throw herself over the back of the sofa to gain some time, but she was clumsy from shock. Her elegant high heel caught on the carpet and her ankle turned with a sickening wrench that almost overrode the pain in her back. The shoe twisted off, and she fell on her hands and knees. Another tongue of cold fire pierced her, below her right shoulder blade. And again, farther down in her side.

The pain convulsed her, drew her body tight with agony. She couldn't even scream. Her mouth gaped open in a silent battle for air, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Somehow she rolled again, gained her hands and knees, and crawled. The effort was superhuman, and yet she knew it wasn't enough. She knew.

She toppled over onto the thick carpet and feebly kicked out. Through a dark haze she saw the blade flashing down again, and she managed to raise her left arm. She felt the shock of the blow, but no pain. Then there was another thud, this time in her chest; her ribs gave under the force of the impact. Another blow, into the soft flesh of her belly.

She gasped, flopping on the carpet like a landed fish. Time slowed to a feeble crawl, or perhaps it only seemed as if a long time passed. The terrible pain ebbed, to be replaced by a growing lassitude. Something must have happened to all the lamps; all she could see was a faint glimmer of light coming through the darkness. She needed to move… The knife… but the knife wasn't there anymore. She could just lie there, in the dark, feeling an odd coldness spread through her body, feeling her heartbeat slow… slow… slow… stop.

Her assailant watched the moment of death. The disgusting release of bladder and bowels was somehow pleasing; the bitch deserved to be found in her own embarrassing waste.

The scene had already been set. The apartment had been thoroughly searched, but no interesting packet had turned up, damn it. That was a problem, a big one. It was a good thing they had been smart enough to take precautions.

Thank God for the phone call warning that Candra had left the party early and was on her way home, otherwise the outcome could have been very different. What money Candra kept in the apartment, as well as her jewelry, had been gathered. The refrigerator door was open, which would suggest a burglar had been in the kitchen when Candra surprised him. That would also explain the use of one of the knives from the expensive set Candra. kept next to the cutting board: a weapon of opportunity.

The gloved fingers opened, let the knife drop to the floor beside the body. The knife belonged here; it couldn't be tied to anyone but the victim.

A screwdriver was taken from a hip pocket. A few minutes at the door with the tool made the lock look as if it had been carefully jimmied. No real damage done, not enough for a woman coming home to a dimly lit hallway to notice, but the police certainly would. An unforced entry would mean she either opened the door herself, which would imply she knew the person, or that a key had been used. A forced entry would indicate a stranger.

The money and the jewelry—mostly jewelry, very little cash—were in a small black bag. That bag would be put in a very, very safe place—just in case it were ever needed.