A moment later, he returned with whiskey. "Drink this. It will help with the chill, until I can get you more tea."

She looked into the bottom of the glass.

"Just drink it, Rachel."

She did as he asked, gasped, and choked on whiskey that was potent even for her. He took the glass from her hand and set it on the bedside table. She thought she glimpsed amusement in his eyes. "Did you step on any glass?" he asked.

She'd started to say no, until Ryan knelt before her, and she decided she liked having him on his knees in front of her. "I'm not sure."

He wrapped his hands around one ankle and turned her foot toward him. "Where?" His thumbs caressed the arch.

Her fingers tightened their grip on the chair. "Nearer to the heel, maybe."

Absorbing the sensuous glide of his fingers, she wriggled her toes to maintain stamina, but she was slowly sinking back into the chair. "Higher...lower."

"Here?" he asked, none too gently.

She closed her eyes. His flesh on her flesh mixed with whiskey for a potent rush of heat through her veins. "And the toes."

He raised his gaze. Rachel released her death grip on the chair.

"Why don't you hop around on both feet to make sure?" His smile was flat, and she realized he was annoyed with her. "Though I wouldn't want you to impale yourself on shards of porcelain."

She wanted to impale herself on something else entirely, and it must have shown in her eyes, for his gaze grew dangerous. She felt desperately hungry and thirsty. Hot and cold. His very presence consumed her and panicked her. "Heaven forbid that I should ever know how to flirt," she said off handedly, mortified by her behavior.

"Heaven help any man should you learn to flirt." He came to his feet. "I like you better honest."

She rose. They stood less than a foot apart, so close she could smell the heat from his body. "I've sent someone to bring back Elsie," he said, his voice taking on a discordant note. "She'll be here shortly to help you dress and get you safely from here." He slipped a finger beneath her chin. "I have work to do tonight. Lots of work, just so you can have unimpeded access to all the D&B records your heart desires. I'll have a team of bookkeepers and accountants make copies of everything tomorrow. Will that be enough for now?"

The concession left her momentarily speechless.

"What else do you want, Rache?"

She wanted to understand him.

"I want an honest conversation with you for once."

Swearing softly, he leaned against the bedpost. "Maybe that's what we've been having all along, and neither of us has figured that out yet."

Rachel didn't know what he meant by that, but she did understand the rift between them went deep. "Do you have a heart and soul, Ryan? Something...or someone that you would fight for to the exclusion of all else?"

"My daughter." He stared at the ceiling, drew in a breath, and met her gaze. "Do you understand the importance of that?"

She could not bear the pressure of his gaze. He intended to honor the contracts he'd signed with Devonshire. He'd never lied to her about that. Suddenly, the last thing she wanted was for him to see that today had softened her any more than it had him.

"I understand."

"I'm glad you do. Because I sure as hell don't. A temporary business truce doesn't nearly encompass the issues surrounding us."

"No, it doesn't. And if I were a man, we would not have even made that truce."

"If you were a man...I would not have taken you from the Rathdrum project. Hell, if you were a man, I' d let someone shoot me for what we just did in the carriage." He shook his head. "I've put the reputation of this company at risk all because I've allowed my head to get muddled with lust and friendship and a hundred other things I can't interpret. Or maybe I can, and I'm only just now beginning to understand them myself."

She'd been so accustomed to looking after herself for so long, of having to remain strong for other people, that she felt caught by his tenderness. Restrained by his kindness. Clearly, he knew how to home in on her vulnerability. By asking her to agree to any truce, he could not be asking her to aid and abet her demise more, or that of Donally & Bailey, she thought, thinking of all her workers and her agreement with Lord Bathwick.

"My fight isn't over a desire to chair the board," she said. "Even if the public could accept a chairman with bosoms, I have no experience-"

Ryan suddenly laughed. "You never cease to astound me."

"You can hardly deny that what is beneath my clothes is more important to everyone than what is between my ears."

Resting an elbow on his forearm, he scraped a palm over his jaw, finally fixing his gaze on hers. To her disbelief, his eyes were laughing. After a moment, realizing the humor in her comment, she laughed, too.

Ryan sensed the tension leaving her body.

"I've seen your work, Rachel. You have nothing of which to be ashamed."

And looking at her, Ryan recognized all that she'd overcome to get to her place. He understood her passion and her loyalty toward the people who worked for her. He understood it more than she knew.

Then as carefully as if she was made of spun glass, he touched her cheek. "For the record, I like what is between your ears equally as much as I like what is beneath your clothes." His thumb touched her mouth. "I'm especially fond of what is between your ears."

To her obvious horror, his teasing statement made her smile if only briefly. "That still doesn't make us on the same side," she pointed out.

Her statement was fact. He might be supportive, but he was not remotely close to seeing the future her way. Yet, for the few seconds they stood facing each other, the walls crumbling between them, he truly wondered what a future with her would hold.

Then he was no longer wondering.

His gaze found the fullness of her mouth, the mask of her displeasure no longer evident, her unbound hair a cascade of inviting warmth, and he knew a certain disturbing reluctance that she held the power to

captivate him continuously in every way. A striking realization from a man who felt only a jarring foreboding at the direction of his thoughts.

He made no move to touch her and dropped his hand. He looked out the window, a perplexed thinness

to his lips as he focused on the pewter skies that seemed to become the storm brewing inside him."Today wasn't supposed to have happened," she whispered."You're right." He turned, forcing her chin up. One step more, and he violated the invisible barrier separating them. "Today shouldn't have happened. But it did. And therein lies the crux of the problem."

The backs of her knees caught the chair, and she sat abruptly. "There is no crux." Her voice was husky

as he braced his palms on the armrests and leaned over her. "I won't fight a dissolution to this marriage."Her head pressed against the chair back. "You can have your solicitor draw up the necessary papers.""Don't we need to think about this, Rachel?" he asked.Her eyes liquid bright in the dim light held his. "A real marriage between us would be a disaster," her voice whispered.

"I'm asking you to consider a future with me."

She was so stunned by the implication beyond his declaration that all she could do was stare.

"We can both agree to disagree about the future of Donally & Bailey," he said. "We can also agree that if

I stay married to you, my life will be altered immeasurably," he managed, with a barely exhaled abortive laugh as he sank to one knee in front of her. He was already considering what it would take to break the contracts he'd signed with Devonshire. "But we have to agree to agree that there is something between us worth exploring. Something that has always been there."

"We can't just divorce ourselves from who we are.""Maybe we shouldn't try."She turned her face away, or tried to, but he caught her chin, and wondered at her fear. No whisper of cooling air offered solace or refuge from emotions that hand-tied him to a disadvantage-that pumped through his body and filled his veins with fire and made him territorial, as if his possessiveness gave him some prerogative to his temper.

"Tell me you don't bloody feel something, Rache."She held her palms against him. "Please, move away.""Or you'll punch me?" He stood and looked down into her face. "Maybe you'd rather kiss me instead. If I weren't in the mood to play the gentleman, I'd show you just what it is you really want to do with me.Or maybe you'll just miss me if I walk away.""I hate it when you turn into a tyrant, Ryan. I really do.""You just hate it when I'm right."

"I can't, Ryan."

Looking into her eyes, he knew her feelings had to be inseparable from his. Yet, she wasn't going to allow herself to trust him. Perhaps she understood him better than he did himself, he acknowledged.

Even if what they shared on the erotic level was nothing short of staggering-one didn't base an entire future on the quality of a climax. Either he was acting impulsively, which he seemed to want to do around her, or deliberately, which was a known character trait-one that had made him hated by many. He no longer knew.

This fight was as much about them as it was about D&B. Hell, he'd give her the damn company if he thought it wouldn't be a foolish act blindly awash in noble sacrifice, but he knew their differences went deep down to the core of who they were.

Where he'd never found satisfaction to remain in one place, she'd never veered from her roots, never pretended to be anything but what she was. Never asked for more than she could deliver. Rachel didn't fit among the gilded, teardrop chandeliers and Heppelwhite armchairs he collected. She didn't attend soirees or wear beaded gowns and diamond tiaras. Lady Gwyneth fit into his vision of the future. Not she.

So why was he willing to throw away so bloody much for a woman who had been historically disposed, nay eager, to foist him off on other women her entire life.

The thought stumped him. He turned in the doorway of his bedroom and met the startled hazel of her gaze, half-veiled by a thick fringe of black lashes. She stood beside his bed. He let his gaze slide over her. The pale lamp glow at her back picked the warm hues from her red-gold hair. A pink flush had stolen over her cheeks. She was a conflicting blend of virtue and sin, her self-assurance a sham, her allure far deeper than physical beauty.

He was in love with her.

More deeply in love than he'd ever thought capable.

Men had laid sieges to cities and fought epic battles for that kind of love. He was no less motivated, but far more practical.

He wanted only to lay siege to what was in her heart.

For he saw in that raw glimpse, before she closed her eyes and looked away, that she loved him, too.

Ryan stood in the doorway overlooking the gardens surrounding the London Royal Yacht Club. The atmosphere was sizzling. Cassavas catered to an international clientele, a European consortium that included sheiks, princes, and an occasional American or British tycoon who had made his fortune on speculation-where old money continued to ignore the nouveaux rich. But if a man could pay the price, he could pass through the gilded doors reserved for the elite, dine on caviar, and wallow in his own self-importance.

Many looked up from their meals as Ryan passed. Dressed in black swallowtail coat and trousers as was befitting the formal dress required, he turned briefly to thank the attendant who had directed him to the gazebo, where he could see the shadow of a man inside. With his long legs outstretched in front of him, Lord Bathwick was holding an expensive Bordeaux in one hand and a cheroot in the other. The scent of tobacco drifted on the faint breeze and mingled with the river smell, which wasn't pleasant in the summer heat. A flash of lightning disturbed the distant sky.

"I'll announce myself," Ryan said.

Bathwick turned his head at Ryan's approach, his eyes widening in wary surprise before he adeptly screened his surprise behind a bland gaze. "Donally." He didn't move from his comfortable pose.

"Where is your father?"

"I am not his keeper, Donally." Bathwick sipped from his glass before setting it on the table. "But have you tried at his London home? He is known to be there on occasion."

Ryan felt the corners of his mouth tilt. He didn't bother taking a seat. He didn't plan to be there long. Bathwick had been a bone in his craw for years, even before Ryan acquired Ore Industries. They ran in many of the same social circles. There had never been any affection lost between them. Six months ago, Bathwick had been responsible for spreading rumors that sent D&B shares plunging, with a substantial loss that D&B did not have to sustain. In the process, Bathwick had gained a foothold into the door of his company, one that Ryan did not intend to allow him to keep.

He withdrew a bank draft and slid it beneath the small lamp sitting in the center of the table. "Twenty-two thousand pounds," he said. "More than your shares are worth. Go purchase yourself a nice country estate and retire away from the influence of your father."

The false smile faded from Bathwick's eyes. Whatever he'd been expecting from Ryan, receiving a bank draft clearly wasn't one. "Those are arrogant words for someone who doesn't know what I want."

"I know that revenge tastes sweet no matter which slice of the pie you eat. But I won't let you use Rachel to get to me."

Bathwick scraped his thumbs over the corners of the check. The breeze had picked up with the approach of the storm, and banners that rimmed the terrace flapped on their standards. "Did Rachel"- Bathwick emphasized Ryan's inadvertent use of her name-"send you over here to dispense with me?"

Ryan leaned both palms on the table. "She didn't have to. Your name came up on a list handed over to me today. Miss Bailey is not part of the problem between your family and mine. Don't put her between something she doesn't understand."

"Or maybe you only want to halt her quest to take control of your company. She has the power to do that."

"Don't believe it, Bathwick."

"Then why haven't you stopped her? Maybe you don't believe she has the stomach for a fight. Or are you concerned she may actually grow to like me?" Amused Bathwick sat back in his chair. "Would that be a problem, Donally?"

The breeze had picked up with the approach of another storm and banners that rimmed the terrace flapped on their standards. He wasn't there as a businessman but as a husband. Bathwick didn't know that. "Take that draft to my personal banker at the Bank of London with the proper papers signing over your shares of D&B, and he will give you the funds. You'll surrender your interest in all of my holdings. If you are intelligent, you will persuade your father to do the same."

Bathwick peered at Ryan more directly. "I'm assuming this is the first salvo at something bigger aimed against my father. Something more direct. And not related to business."

"Good night, my lord." Ryan turned to leave.

"I hope you have a bigger arsenal than this." Bathwick called after him.

One foot still on the stairs, Ryan turned. A wind gust whipped the bushes, then faded. Lord Bathwick descended the stairs. "War with Father is an ugly thing."

He bid Ryan good evening, his coat flapping in the wind, and no amount of acquired social polish could hide the look behind Ryan's lengthening silence as he watched his lordship stroll away. Though Ryan had made his living in the corporate trenches and had not gained his reputation for nothing, when it came to the truth of the matter, he would pay whatever price it took to free himself of Devonshire.

"Purchase the hat, Miss Bailey."

Rachel stood on the busy Bond Street walkway so engrossed in her perusal of the beautiful items in the window that she'd failed to note Lord Bathwick's approach. Her startled gaze snapped to his eyes reflected in the glass before she turned to face him.

"You've been staring at it for half an hour."

"I said I would meet you at St. Anthony's tomorrow."

"I'm not Catholic." He shrugged. "One would only think our meeting clandestine."

"Of course, a meeting on a busy street is a much better place to conduct business."

Rocking back on his heels, he tipped his hat at two women as they bustled past. "What better place to make a clandestine meeting less obvious?" he asked with humor. "It is only my good fortune that I saw you leaving Hyde Park, left my cab, and followed." Turning to give his full attention to the object in the window, he said, "In my humble opinion, you should purchase the hat, Miss Bailey. You obviously want it."

Feeling a blush heat her cheeks, Rachel turned, embarrassed that he should always be catching her doing something that appeared desperate. They both surveyed the item in question. Unlike the bonnet she'd eyed at the fair, this one was a wide-brimmed French affair with red ribbons and a festoon of cheerful feathers. Nothing that represented practical. Maybe just once, she wanted pretty.

It had been over a week since Ryan had made love to her in the carriage. Eight days since she'd seen him. Eight measly days, and she'd vanquished her principles to the romantic mirage hovering over her. She had begun to miss him.

For too many years, she had followed his life through the scandal sheets, making these past weeks surreal. Like the way she felt about the frilly, feminine hat she gawked at today and in the booth at the fair, knowing that purchasing either one would be the same as admitting her life was a failure, that what she'd worked so hard to achieve was not what she really wanted. She didn't know why the hat was the unseemly metaphor, but it was.

She was afraid of wanting more. Afraid of sacrificing her soul for her heart.