Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

I t was morning, and it was beautiful. The fall colors remained, flashing by them in a riot of splendor. Carly was alternately frightened and furious and then swept away. She couldn't believe his audacity, that he would dare to carry her away from his own home so openly, with such determination. Her temper skyrocketed, but there was more to it, too, a side she didn't want to admit. The scent of morning was glorious, the colors were splendid, and the rich, full fragrance of the earth was wonderful and heady. The morning was alive with freshness, with the sweet dampness of dew, with the excitement of the new day. It all seemed to fill her with a burst of hot, racing adrenaline, and she was achingly aware of his touch, of the wall of his chest behind her and the feeling of his arms around her. The horse moved beneath them with rugged and fluid power, and the air tore about them. She was angry; she was even still frightened.

But nothing like this could ever have happened in Manhattan.

She didn't know where the mad ride was leading them; he never had any doubts. Time passed and the wind and the colors whipped by them. They came at last to the cottage in the woods, the hunter's cottage where he had brought her that very first night, where he had first kissed her. Where she had admitted to herself that there was so much hypnotism in his kiss that he could have taken it wherever, whenever he chose, when they were mere strangers.

They weren't strangers any longer. They were adversaries, perhaps, but lovers, too, and she could not forget that. Not that he intended to let her.

"Whoa, Satan," he said, and slipped from the animal's back, letting the reins trail. He reached up for Carly, and she fought to remind herself that Jasmine was still missing, that nothing had changed. That he'd really had no right to bring her here. That she was a fool to love a man so blindly.

"Come here." He seemed to growl out the words. She stared down at him. His windswept hair lay across his forehead, and his eyes carried the windswept fever of their brisk ride. He was ready for battle.

"Who do you think you are, Count Vadim?" she asked him coolly. But she was feeling reckless and bold, and she knew she was quite ready to enter into the fray herself.

"Come down," he said.

"I won't."

"You will."

"I won't."

"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed, exploding. His hands encircled her waist, and he dragged her down before him. She slid against his body, her nightgown caught against his belt buckle and her bare limbs entwined themselves with his. He was tense. His leg muscles were rock hard, and the soft flesh of her bare belly was touched by the pressure of his hips and the swelling rise within his jeans. She was so sensitive to his touch that her breath caught and she was stunned into a momentary silence. He allowed her to continue to slide against him as his hands spanned the silky flesh over her hips.

She realized dimly that since he'd first touched her, a part of her had thought of nothing else except being held by him again. She had yearned for the feeling of his lips, his hands. She had ached for his touch, inside and out, and at this moment, as she met the golden electrical storm in his eyes, she felt desire snake into her in a hot fury. She wondered whether this could be Carly Kiernan, reserved, logical, intelligent and wary. He had spoken to her of hunger, and she had learned what it meant. Fear still edged her heart, but the need, the desperate, searing ache, was greater than anything she had ever known.

His arms encircled her neck. She tried to keep her distance, but he laced his fingers at the small of her back and pressed her to him. And still, her voice quavering, she tried to talk. She tried to cling to the anger and deny the desire. "This is hideous behavior."

"Hideous behavior?" he queried.

"Adolescent! Macho."

"Oh, do you think so?"

"Definitely! After you lie—"

"I've never lied to you!"

"Then you evade the damn truth!"

"You ask too many questions."

"Because you lie—"

"I don't lie! I told you that. Not in anything that matters."

"So you do lie—"

"I didn't say that!"

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're a spoiled little brat. When the going is easy, you're all for it. Throw in a little trouble—"

"A little trouble!" She realized she was shouting. She was barefoot and shouting and trembling. She wanted to slam her fists against him until she rocked the truth from him. "My sister is missing, and people are dead—"

"And you turned on me. Right away. You acted as if things between us mattered, then you turned on me."

"Oh!" she exclaimed in exasperation, slamming her fists against him. He caught her and wrenched her close.

"Stop it! I've got you here now, and so help me, you're going to trust me."

"Trust you! After this? You have no right. You have no right whatever to act like this! To force people to your will. To drag a woman off as if you were still living in a cave. You have no right."

"I don't?"

"No."

"Oh, the hell I don't!" he shouted, and kissed her. Hard. Forcefully. He kissed her as if the thought of melding their lips had been with him forever, haunting him to the point of desperation. He molded her body to his and let his hands roam freely over her back and through her hair, and the unleashed fever in him erupted in her. Hot fire leaped and careened through her. She could scarcely breathe, yet neither could she tire of that kiss as it deepened and blossomed. It sowed its seeds deep inside her; its rugged passion filled her mouth, engaged her tongue, then was taken from her. He raked his teeth lightly over her lower lip, and then his mouth claimed hers all over again. Then his lips, just as fervent, just as wild, fell on her throat, and she gasped in abandon, arching her neck in response to his sensual assault.

He lifted her off her feet and, holding her close, carried her into the cottage.

"I had to get you away," he said.

"Yes."

"Things were going too far. I couldn't bear to see you and not touch you."

"I know."

The door fell shut behind them. He lowered her to the bunk. Their lips met, then they looked each other in the eye.

"I couldn't bear the fear in your eyes," he told her.

"I know you couldn't—do such things."

"I had to sit at dinner and look at your hair sweeping over your shoulders. I wanted to stand up and scream and rip you out of your chair and press my lips against your throat and taste your flesh."

"At dinner?"

"At dinner."

She smiled as he stretched himself beside her. "We're not at dinner anymore. What's stopping you?"

"That ridiculous flannel gown."

"It isn't ridiculous!"

"It is when you're longing to kiss a woman's shoulders." His smile was the rueful smile of an enchanting rogue. His eyes held hers while he slipped a hand to the hemline of her gown. His fingers grazed her calves and knees and traveled along her inner thigh, then curved around one hip. He pressed his lips against the curve of her hip, then, impatient, he tugged at the gown, pulling her to him. He buried his head against her shoulder, tossing the offending flannel onto the floor, and the pressure of his mouth sent hot new sensations rushing through her. She dug her fingers into his hair, holding him close. She trembled fiercely and felt the furious thunder of his heart against her breast.

She slipped her hands into his waistband, dragging his sweater upward. In seconds she had cast it on top of her gown on the floor. She stroked the length of his back and lightly bit the hard muscles of his shoulders, moving her breasts against the coarse hair and hardness of his chest.

He let out a harsh oath and pulled away from her to scramble out of his boots and socks and jeans and briefs. She watched him with growing anticipation and restless urgency, then closed her arms around him gratefully when he returned to her. She felt the fever of his body and the male power, and she was desperately eager for him, yet he suddenly held back. He rose above her and grazed her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

His voice was harsh and hard as he said, "You can't be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

Now he was aggressive, fierce in his passion. His touch was no longer gentle as he threaded his fingers into her hair. "You have to believe in me."

"I do." It wasn't a lie. When she stared into his glowing amber eyes, she could think of nothing but him. Doubts and suspicion and uncertainty fled.

He lowered his voice, rumbling like the thunder of the storm. It was as tense and passionate as his hold upon her. "You have to want me."

"I do."

"You have to be—hungry."

"I am," she whispered. She smiled, because she wasn't afraid in the least. Not of the strength in his hands, not of his temper, not of his arrogance or ferocity, his past or his future. She didn't mind the tension in his fingers or the trembling in his body. She stroked his cheek and allowed her fingers to travel down his body as he held his weight over her. She stroked the furrow of hair down to his waist and past it, over the hard contour of his belly and beyond. Staring at him, at his fever, at his tension, she felt curiously at peace—and ragingly alive. She felt wonderfully wicked and mischievous...and pure, because she was really very much in love with him, she realized. Blindly in love, maybe. But deeply, desperately so. She loved the sheen on his brow and the rigid constriction of his sinewy body. Still he held himself away from her. She wouldn't allow it. She feathered her fingers over him to taunt and curled them around him with purpose.

She felt the spasm as he jerked. She marveled sweetly at her power as he shuddered and convulsed. "I am hungry," she promised him, her eyes innocently wide in her seduction. "Hungry as a silver-gray wolf..."

He emitted some hoarse cry and caught her hand. With a sudden movement he wedged his knees between her thighs, cast back his head and, grinding his teeth, entered her swiftly. There was no more finesse, no more play, just the throbbing burst of passion. He sank like a blade into a velvet liner until her body absorbed the shock, then he gave free vent to the frustration of the days that had elapsed between them. She clung to him and rode the storm, though she had never known anything like it. He enveloped her body with his, cried out again, and while he moved in a frantic, sweeping beat, he tugged her nipple into his mouth, and chords of passion rippled through her. She undulated to meet him and dug her fingers into his shoulders, let them drift over the small of his back, then with soaring abandon gripped the tight muscles of his buttocks. Sensations surged like a growing drumbeat, harder and harder, and then burst, showering her in the liquid warmth of his body and leaving her with a delicious lethargy that barely left her the strength to whisper his name as he fell against her.

They lay there, silent, unmoving, just touching, and feeling the rise and fall of their chests as they fought for a normal flow of breath. Their bodies began to cool at last. The air danced around them, chilling, fall air.

Carly shivered. Jon rose quickly, stripped the blanket from beneath them and wrapped it around her. Naked, he walked over to the fireplace and hunkered down to set another piece of wood on the grate and kindling above it. He lit the kindling with a long match and then waited, watching the flame take. Satisfied, he rose. He strode over to one of the cabinets and slammed through them until he found another blanket. He wrapped it around his shoulders, then found a coffeepot and a foil bag of coffee. Carly watched him in silence. She was growing cold, yet she was delighted, for she still felt a part of him. She tried to tell herself that he was a passionate man; he would love any woman so deeply. She didn't want to accept such an idea, so she didn't. She hugged herself and cherished the quivering that remained inside her, the inner warmth that had seeped from his body into hers. She felt very intimate with him. Whatever he was, she longed to remain a part of him.

"This will take a minute," he said to her.

She nodded. She was still shivering. Smiling, he came back to her and lifted her in his arms, blanket and all. He brought her before the fire, and they sank together before the growing golden warmth. He smoothed back her hair and stroked her face. "Better?"

"Yes."

"If you want me to apologize, I really can't," he told her stiffly.

Carly smiled and kept her eyes lowered. "I don't want you to apologize."

"No?"

"No."

He moved her face into his left arm and lifted her chin with his right hand. He searched her eyes and brushed his lips over hers. It was his first real expression of tenderness that day. The other had been exquisite and excruciating and something they had fervently needed. She cherished the explosiveness of need, marveling at her own. But she adored the tenderness, too, and was startled to find she had to blink to hide a sudden surge of tears.

"I love you, you know," he told her. It was almost a casual remark.

Her heart quickened. "Do you?" she whispered. "Can you—really?"

"I do, and I can."

She cradled his clean-shaven chin. "I love you, too."

"I like the way you show it," he said brusquely.

"Me! I didn't drag you out in your nightwear—"

"Well, since I sleep naked, we would have gotten a few stares."

She started to giggle, but then she recalled that he hadn't been naked that morning. She had seen pajama legs beneath his robe.

"Carly, what is it?"

"If you would just quit behaving so strangely!"

"What?" There was a new note in his voice, and his arm tightened.

She didn't answer him right away, and he questioned her again. "What are you talking about?"

"This morning."

"Oh." He was silent for a moment. "Well, I'm sorry. Oh, not for dragging you out here. It was my only chance. You were trying to leave, and I couldn't let you do that. I'm sorry for—whatever I did this morning."

She moved from him, staring into the fire. He reached for her and pulled her back. "Carly! I said I'm sorry."

She swung around. "Yes, yes! Fine, but you're frightening me! Don't you remember?"

"I was—er—half asleep."

"Half asleep? You came after me like gangbusters."

"Yes, well, I was desperate then. I knew you were angry."

He didn't let her reply. He rose and went back toward the rustic stove where the coffee was perking. He found two mugs and poured out coffee. "I hope you can take it black. I have sugar but no cream here."

"It's warm. I'll take it any way that I can get it," Carly replied.

Jon came back with the coffee. He sat down beside her, offering her a mug. She sipped it, nearly burning her lips. His arm encircled her once more, and she relaxed against it. "Why were you so angry with me?" she murmured.

He sighed, rubbing his chin on the top of her head, then taking a long swallow of the hot coffee. "I just thought that you were seeing me as some heinous criminal every time that you looked at me. And then Alexi irritated me, I suppose. His family is as old as mine—we were just richer and more powerful. But I promise you—he has a few skeletons in his basement, too. They were medieval landlords, our ancestors. Hell, you Americans still have capital punishment."

"I never imagined you taking a whip and chain to anyone," Carly told him innocently.

"And I never will," he teased her in reply, "just as long as you behave."

"Jon!"

He laughed and hugged her. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist, though I suppose I should. Under the circumstances."

Carly was silent for a long moment. She swallowed the last of her coffee, then swung on him with determination. "Jon, I do love you, and I believe in you, but you are lying to me."

"Carly—"

She pressed her fingers against his lips. "You are. You're lying, or you're evading the truth. There are things that you aren't telling me."

He caught her hand, curled his fingers around it and held it close to his heart. His eyes seared earnestly into hers. "Carly, if there is anything that I'm not telling you, it's because others are involved. Because I could create more danger. I wouldn't hurt you in any way if I could prevent it. Can you believe that?"

She hesitated, but not for long. The same magic that she had felt from the start was stealing over her. When he looked at her like that, she felt her will slip away. Was it hypnotism, or was it love? she wondered. Were they, perhaps, one and the same?

"Carly?" He tightened his fingers around hers. His eyes were golden fire, burning and consuming, lapping against any pretense she might have made of denial. "It won't be long," he promised. "Believe in me. Believe that I love you."

She tore her eyes from his and stared at the flames that had taken hold in the hearth and were now burning high. "I wish I could see my sister."

"I swear to you, Jasmine is safe."

"She was afraid. She begged me to come."

"She is safe. I'm certain of it. Honestly."

Carly stared back at him. She smiled ruefully. "Everyone implies that you and she were very involved. You deny it."

"Yes. I deny it heartily. Whatever you hear, it isn't the truth. I have never been anything more than a friend to Jasmine."

She believed him. She wanted to believe him. No man could speak so sincerely and not be telling the truth. Setting down her cup she leaned forward, and drew an idle pattern on the floor with her forefinger. "Things are so strange here."

Watching her, he grinned. The blanket was slipping from her shoulders, and he thought he had never seen a more perfect woman in his life. Her breasts were firm and full and high, and they peeped out from the blanket with wide, rouge-crested peaks, setting his adrenaline flowing again. She was delicately built, with smooth ivory skin that was silk to his touch. Her breasts and shoulders tapered to a slim waist, and beneath it her hips flared out again, fascinating and feminine. Her face was shaped like a heart, with high cheekbones that could give her a cool arrogance to rise above any occasion. Her eyes were the color of a tropical sea. Everything about her was feminine and sexually appealing, and yet part of the great fascination she held for him was in the steady determination and intelligence in those beautiful eyes, wonderful eyes that were wiser than time. And then he was in love with her hair, too. Gold like the sun, like honey, like a field of rippling wheat.

He reached out and pushed the blanket from her shoulders. Surprised, she turned to him, but he knew the newly risen passion in his gaze must have been very evident. He shrugged the blanket off his own shoulders and rose to his knees before her. He reached out with both hands, cupped her breasts and moved his fingers over the crests again and again. She gasped and rose to her knees, too, planting her hands against his shoulders. He leaned to kiss the pulse at the base of her throat, and she tilted her head to give him free access. He drew her hard against him and availed himself of her breasts, groaning as he tasted the sweet salt of her body and savored the feeling of her nipple against his tongue, in his mouth. He moved his hands down her body and between her legs. He stroked her thighs and ventured higher, and his whole body tensed and tightened and became fully aroused when he rubbed his thumb against her. She moaned against his shoulder, and he captured her lips and then lifted her high above him and brought her back down. She took him into herself slowly, straddled over him, smiling with shy pleasure. Then a strand of gold fell over her eyes and she shuddered, and he cupped her buttocks and she began to move against him.

He'd never known a woman who could do what she did to him. Just watching her, he became unbearably aroused. He dreamed of her by night, ached for her by day. She rocked against him with shuddering pleasure, and the sensations were wonderful and wildly explosive. He held her, he touched her, he guided her. He swept his hands around her breasts, then cradled her derriere, urging her ever more fiercely against him. He marveled at the beauty in her eyes, at the openness of her passion, and even as the splendor burst in upon him he began to pray that he wouldn't lose her when she learned the truth.

She fell against him. Ruffling her hair, he whispered to her in guttural tones what she had just done for him, and added with tenderness just how much he loved her. He held her close and prayed again.

It wasn't that he was lying; he was evading the truth. Or maybe he was lying, because nothing about him was real. Nothing but his feelings for her.

She lay against him. The fire touched her face and lit up her hair. It sent a bronze cast over the sleek, shimmering beauty of her breasts. She smiled at him, and his heart pounded inside his chest. He stood up, sweeping her along with him. Raising a brow to him in question, she wrapped her arms around him with complete trust.

"The floor got hard," he explained.

"Oh," she said simply. "I could have walked."

"Yes, but I suppose I'm just plain macho and all those other things you called me."

She was silent.

"You're not denying anything," he told her gruffly. He let her down a little hard on the bed, then crawled up beside her.

She smiled, threading her fingers through his hair. "What's to deny?"

"You're still mad."

"It was horrible behavior."

"It was not," he said.

"But I will forgive you this time. Because..."

"Because what?"

She rolled over on her stomach, trailing her fingers over the hair on his chest. "Well, it was obnoxious. But well..."

"Well, what, damn it?"

"I suppose it had its romantic elements, too."

"Hmph," he muttered. She smiled and laid her cheek on the pillow. He put his arm around her. In a few minutes he realized that she had dozed off. He closed his eyes and slept.

Carly woke first. She didn't move, just stared at him and appreciated all the fine little things about him. She liked his nose. It was what they called a Roman nose, she supposed. His brow was fine and wide. His hair was as dark as the night, and it fell over his forehead and his eyes in an enchanting way when he slept. She liked his chest. He had wonderful broad shoulders and taut muscles, and she loved the short, crisp flurry of dark hair on his chest that tapered in a line to his navel, and flared out again below his hips.

She realized that his eyes were open now and that he was surveying her in turn. He stroked her hair. "What happened to your husband, Carly? Jasmine said once that he was very ill."

"Cancer," she said softly.

"It must have been very painful."

"He was one of the bravest people I ever knew." And he had been. He had known that he was dying, but he had never complained about his treatments. His only concern had been his life insurance, because he was old-fashioned and had worried about her when he was gone.

"You must have loved him very much," Jon murmured.

"I did." She propped herself up on an elbow and smiled at him ruefully. "I will always love him. But I love you...too. I really do. So fiercely. It's different. Do you understand that?"

He swallowed. She was so honest with him, he thought. She had opened her heart.

And he was living a lie.

"I understand completely," he replied. "You should always love him, Carly. That doesn't take anything away from us."

She picked up his hand and kissed his fingertips. "Nothing can be taken away from us," she promised him with sweet passion.

He closed his eyes, praying that what she said was so. When he opened his eyes again, he stared at her with all the heat and fever of his emotion gleaming in his gaze. He clutched her shoulders tightly, barely realizing his force. "I do love you. Remember that. I do love you."

She didn't protest his ferocity. She kissed him, slowly, sweetly. "I believe you."

He released her quickly, ruefully, realizing that he was hurting her. "I'm sorry. I just want you to remember that."

"Why?"

"Because—Carly, you just have to trust me for now. There are things happening here that you don't know about, that you can't possibly understand. And I'm not involved alone."

She listened to him and nodded, then sprang out of bed, naked. He lay back, somewhat awed, glad that she could feel so uninhibited and natural with him.

"I'm starving," she said. "Is there anything to eat here?"

"There should be something." He tossed the blankets aside and stood up to join her.

They dug through the cabinets together and found crackers and an assortment of cheeses. Jon found a hard roll of German summer sausage, and they brought the cache back to the bed with them. They ate, spreading different cheeses for each other and dropping tidbits of food into each other's mouths.

Then Jon looked at her in that way again, his eyes glowing gold, filled with tension. He cleared the bed of food and fell on top of her, avidly kissing her, sweeping his tongue over her, devouring her as if she were a necessity of life. Gasping with wonder, she quickly joined him in breathless passion, amazed that it could grow even headier, ever more fervent. With his touch, his kiss, he roamed the length of her, doing things that were achingly intimate. He brought her to the brink of ecstasy, then he forced her over the brink and began all over again, coming to her, filling her.

She slept again and then was stunned to realize that it was dark outside and that they had spent the whole day in the cottage, doing nothing but make love.

"We should go back," she murmured.

He threw one arm over his eyes and answered lazily, "I don't ever want to go back."

Grinning, Carly found her flannel nightgown and threw his jeans none too gently at his replete and outstretched body. "At least you have clothing to go back in!" she chastised him.

He grinned. "Everyone—and I do mean everyone—will know exactly what we've been up to all day."

"And you don't care."

"I don't give a bloody damn. I'm in love."

She laughed. She slipped back into her gown, but couldn't help chiding him one more time. "Mr. Macho! You do what you will, take what you want, and whoever might not like it can go to the devil."

He grinned. "I feel just like Tarzan. I'd love to beat my fists against my breast in triumph."

In return, Carly sniffed. He laughed and rose, sweeping her against him. He kissed her, then regretfully released her. "I guess we do have to get back." He stepped into his jeans and zipped them up.

Carly said, "This is going to be awkward for me. At seven o'clock at night, I'm going to reappear in a flannel nightgown."

"What will people think?" Jon teased her.

"Well, Tanya shouldn't think anything," Carly mused. "She has a man in her room almost every night."

"What?"

Jon spun on her so suddenly that she nearly jumped. He was rigid, she saw, and dead serious.

"She—she meets someone," Carly said.

"You've seen him?" Jon demanded.

"No," Carly said, troubled. She hugged her knees, watching him. "I thought at first that it might be you."

He pulled his sweater over his head. She guessed that he was taking the time to regain his composure.

"No, it's not me," he said. "And you know that." He paused, frowning. "You do know that, don't you?"

She smiled. "Yes."

He sat on the foot of the bed to put on his socks and boots. "But you don't know who it is?" he asked her slowly, not looking her way. "Not at all? I mean, is it one of the servants or Geoffrey or Alexi—or who?"

"I have no idea," Carly said. "Why? Why is it so important?"

"Oh, it's not. I'm just curious. I wonder why she and this man—whoever he is—would want to hide an affair."

Carly shrugged. She didn't know and didn't care. As long as the man wasn't Jon.

"The earring bothers me," she murmured.

"What earring?"

"Jasmine's earring."

He smiled, shaking his head ruefully, "Carly, what are you talking about?"

She straightened, looking at him reproachfully. "I swear, sometimes I think that you're trying to make me insane. You run hot and cold, fire and ice. The earring. I told you about it this morning."

He looked down at his boot. "I'm sorry. I don't remember."

Carly frowned. That icy little finger of doubt and fear was scratching at her heart again. "We had a fight about it. That's why I almost left. That was why you trailed after me. That's why...today," she said lamely.

He sat down beside her. He pressed his temples with his palms, then shook his head. "Carly, I'm sorry. Bear with me, please. What is this about the earring?"

"I found Jasmine's earring in the carpet."

"Well, Jasmine has been at the castle. Recently."

She shook her head. Was he losing his mind, or was she losing hers? "I know that. But how come I didn't see the earring before?"

"Maybe it isn't even Jasmine's," he said. But she was certain that he was concerned, and puzzled, too.

"No, I'd know the earring anywhere," she replied. "It was a present from Dad. There can be only two of them in the world, I'm certain."

He rose but didn't face her. "Well, then, she must have lost it before. And you just didn't notice it."

Carly wondered if he himself believed what he said, yet she was certain that if Jasmine had been near, he would be just as surprised as she.

"Let's go back," he told her, reaching out to her. He pulled her close and kissed her again, long and passionately. "I don't ever want to forget this day," he said. "I want to cherish it forever."

"Yes...." she whispered.

"Even though you spent it with a manhandling, manipulative caveman?"

"It sounds much worse with an English accent," Carly told him.

He laughed and went over to kill the fire. Satisfied, he caught her hand. He threw open the door, and the night came in upon them, dark and misty. And dangerous.

"Satan!" Jon called. "Where are you?"

They heard a loud snort. Satan, with a mouthful of grass, ambled over to them. "Well, thank goodness you stayed around this afternoon," Jon told the animal affectionately.

Carly was amazed that the stallion could be so well behaved. She smiled ruefully with sudden doubt. "He ran off on Halloween," she reminded him.

"Yes, he did, didn't he."

"And he's such a well-mannered horse. He wasn't tied all day, and he's still right here, ready and waiting."

"Some days are better than others."

"You know what I think?"

"What?" Jon grinned. He lifted her up, setting her upon the horse's back.

"I think you let him run away on purpose."

"Do you think that I would do such a thing?" He mounted behind her.

"Yes," Carly said bluntly.

"Well, maybe."

"So you admit it?"

"I don't admit a thing," he said.

She leaned against him as they rode along. "And then there's that wolf...."

It seemed that his arms tightened around her and that he waited expectantly. "Yes?" he murmured, and she detected a wary note in his voice.

The wolf, the silver-gray timber wolf, she recalled. She had feared he meant to consume her on Halloween. But then he and Jon had been there with her together, and they had seemed to blend into one. When the one disappeared, the other seemed to appear.

"Never mind," she said. It was just too ludicrous.

"Hold tight," he told her.

Satan moved swiftly through the mist. In the darkness Carly could see Castle Vadim high above them, grim and foreboding and hauntingly gothic. The lights were on, lights that should have promised warmth.

They clattered back into the courtyard. It was almost dinnertime. Geoffrey, Alexi and Tanya, all dressed to the hilt, were already on the terrace, watching as Satan stopped in the courtyard.

Carly decided she just had to brave it out. She slid down from the horse without Jon's help. "That was really a beautiful ride. Thank you," she told him. She met Tanya's wide eyes. "Oh, are we really that late? I'll dress quickly." No one said anything. She offered them all a sweeping smile and hurried up the stairs.

She was in love. When she closed the door behind her, she burst into laughter and realized that she was already dreaming of the night to come.

She bathed and dressed with special care, because she was euphoric and dreamed of meeting him again that night. She longed to sleep beside him in a comfortable bed. She longed to feel his warmth through the night. She longed for him to waken and want to make love.

She wore a black velvet sheath dress with a string of pearls and let her hair fall over her shoulders. At dinner, she chatted with Geoffrey about the play, and laughed with Alexi over the region's superstitions. She met Tanya's openly curious stare with a shrug and waited for Jon to appear.

She and Jon laughed together so easily that evening, sitting by each other. Their knees brushed, and he held her fingers and kissed her often. He was devastating, she reflected. Black was his color. He was rugged and masculine and elegant and sophisticated. She had never been happier than now, knowing that his golden gaze fell upon her and that his whisper was for her ears only.

His whisper...promising that he would come to her, that he would be with her by midnight.

She escaped the dinner table early. She wanted to change and brush her hair and freshen her cologne and await his arrival.

She still walked on clouds as she returned to her room. He would come to her. She was smiling when she opened and closed her door. In a fog she kicked off her high heels and unclasped her pearls. Then she saw the dark-haired woman in the middle of the room, the beautiful woman with the wealth of black curls and the huge sapphire-blue eyes.

"Jasmine!" Carly gasped.

"Shh!"

But they rushed for each other, hugging fiercely. Relief flooded through Carly. Jasmine was alive and well, and she was seeing her and touching her at last.

Carly pushed away from her sister. Uncharacteristically, Jasmine was wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

"What in God's name are you up to?" Carly began severely. "You had me scared to death! You made me travel halfway across the world and worry myself silly."

"Stop, please!" Jasmine begged.

"Then give me some explanations. Quickly."

"Don't scold!" Jasmine protested sulkily. "And please, keep your voice down. You don't understand! I'm in danger! There are very strange things going on."

Carly hesitated, watching her sister worriedly. "I thought you'd been here. I found your earring today."

Jasmine smiled and touched her ear. "I hadn't even realized I'd lost it."

"But you were in here."

"Yes. Oh, it's a long story."

"Well?"

Jasmine took her hands earnestly. "Carly, we're in danger. We're really in danger."

Jasmine never had been able to tell a story from beginning to end, but as Carly looked into her luminous blue eyes she knew that her sister was really frightened.

"We have to tell the count—" Carly began.

"What!" Jasmine protested, shaking her head furiously. "Don't be ridiculous. That isn't Jon Vadim."

Carly felt as if a two-ton rock had slammed her in the face. "What?" she demanded sickly.

"That isn't Jon Vadim. That isn't the count. Carly—" Jasmine broke off, growing pale. "It's him !"

Carly nodded, unable to speak as Jon called, "Carly! Damn it, open this door. Are you all right? Carly, I'm coming in."

He would come in. She sensed it; she knew it. He would throw his shoulder against the wood and break the lock. Jon would do something like that.

Except that it wasn't Jon Vadim.

"Answer the door!" Jasmine pleaded. "He'll come in!"

Carly stared from her sister to the door. He was calling her again, and he sounded tense, worried.

She ran over to answer it. He had lied to her. He wasn't even Jon Vadim.

Who the hell was he? an inner voice screamed.

She ran to the door and turned around.

Jasmine had disappeared.

"Carly!" he yelled.

The door burst open.