"Don't you worry about it at al ," Maddie said. "Tomorrow at noon you'l have a churchful of children waitin' for you."

Grace was thril ed, but she knew she couldn't stay.

Rathe had intimated that he wouldn't be long. She had already been gone for a couple of hours; he was probably back. Was he waiting for her?

Thinking of seeing him brought a strange, unexpected excitement. Warm, insistent memories tugged at her: his hard, driving passion, his delicate tenderness, the warmth in his eyes when he smiled at her. Don't think like this, she told herself sternly. He's a philandering rogue, and you're his mistress.

It's as simple as that.

The sky was just starting to turn gray when she returned the buggy and mare. She found herself skipping across the street, her heart pounding despite her resolve to be nonchalant and even briskly businesslike. When she let herself into their room, her heart was beating joyful y.

His face lit up at the sight of her.

Grace stood stil against the door, unable to prevent herself from gazing at him raptly, taking in every detail of his appearance, from his high black boots, his fine white doeskin breeches, to the casual lawn shirt left open at the throat.

He came to her. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for an hour."

His hands closed on her shoulder. Grace opened her mouth to reply, but it was no longer necessary, his mouth eagerly took hers. "I have something for you," he said huskily. He grinned with the eager look of a schoolboy.

Rathe hadn't been able to stop thinking about her for a single minute of the past few hours. He had experienced many infatuations before, but never one like this. If he didn't know better, he would think he was fal ing in love-which was sil y. Stil , his first and most insistent thought after making love to her, other than doing it again, was buying her a beautiful gift.

If he could, he was going to spend the next year showering her with beautiful gifts.

He had spent a long time choosing something for her. Now he couldn't wait to see her expression when she saw it. He couldn't wait to watch her lift stunned eyes to his-then glow with pleasure. He liked it when Grace glowed with pleasure. His heart was beating uncontrol ably.

"Here," he said, reaching to the bureau behind him, smiling.

Grace saw he was holding out a long, flat jewler's box. An acute feeling of dizziness and nausea wel ed up in her. This was what she needed to remind herself of the exact nature of their relationship. To shake her out of her state of confusion. Respectable ladies did not accept gifts from men, other than their husbands. She felt a moment's pang, because they could have been man and wife. Then her lips finned. She was being rewarded for her favors, which was to be expected. But it was so blatant and hurtful Grace did not want to take the box.

"Grace?"

She looked up at him, trying to contain the hurt behind a facade of coldness. It was so very hard to do.

Rathe stared at her expression. She was not glowing; she seemed upset. He heard his tone change, sounding almost apprehensive. "This is for you."

She wanted to fling it back in his face and tel him she didn't want it, that the deal was off, that she could not go through with it-she could not be his mistress. She wanted to weep. Instead, she resolutely took the box from his hands and opened it.

His gaze riveted on her face.

A bril iant necklace of amethysts and diamonds twinkled up at her. She thought of the men who gave their wives presents like this because they loved them. He was giving her this present because she had earned it by being his whore. Oh, God, it hurt.

"Grace?" he asked, not breathing.

She looked up at him with frozen features. "Thank you."

There was a stricken look on his face, but she only saw it for a second, for he turned away and walked to the table. Grace looked back at the necklace, and she had to admit, through the blur of tears, that it was beautiful. She would sel it the first chance she had. It would pay her mother's bil s, maybe for the next year.

She had her back to him, and she used the opportunity to discreetly brush the few stray tears from her face. Then, elaborately, she tossed the box on the bed, knowing ful wel he was watching. "I think we should come to some sort of agreement," she stated, turning to face him.

His eyes left the black velvet case lying carelessly amidst the rumpled covers. They were singularly icy as they returned to her. "What sort of agreement, Grace?"

Her hands closed over the back of a chair. "In the future," she said, "I would prefer cash."

He sucked in his breath.

"Or a cashier's check wil do."

He shook from head to toe.

Grace actual y shrank back from the intensity of his reaction.

"In the future," he choked, fists clenched, face red, "you wil most certainly have cash." Then he whirled and moved across the room in a maelstrom of rage. Grace was momentarily afraid to breathe.

He tore out of the room like a cyclone, slamming the door thunderously behind him.

Grace sank, shaking, into a chair. She was so confused. Why had he gotten so angry? She had every right to demand cash. And why did she feel guilty and awful, as if she were at fault? And why, oh why, was she crying?

She expected him to return, first for supper, and then to retire for the night.

But he did not.

"I'm out," Rathe said.

A groan greeted his statement. "You no-good bastard," George Farris said good-naturedly. "You've cleaned us up."

Rathe was sitting in the Black Heel with what was left of a ful table of poker players. He pul ed his winnings forward. He knew he had close to five thousand dol ars, but he did not smile. He felt no pleasure, just grim satisfaction. A picture of her formed in his mind's eye, lush and pale and voluptuous and naked.

Anger, icy cold, froze in his veins.

He had been playing for twenty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were circles beneath them from lack of sleep. His face was scruffy with a day's growth of beard. He was rumpled and worn-looking, his shirt opened, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. But he wasn't tired. Far from it.

She wanted cash, did she?

Wel , now she would have it.

He saw her tossing the velvet box aside, and the anger in him threatened to become red and hot. He began folding the bil s careful y. Five thousand dol ars took a while to fold and put away.

His first instincts yesterday had been to wire New York for money. But Rathe had a longstanding policy. Ninety-nine percent of his net worth was tied up in investments. He reinvested every dividend, living off his winnings at the card table. It was easy to do because he was such a successful player, and because he loved the game.

Yet yesterday he had actual y gone to wire New York when he realized it was Friday. It would be days before he could throw the money in her face.

He couldn't wait days. He was too furious. His desire to play her game the way she cal ed it made this poker match the most important and hateful one in his life.

"You look like you could use a hot bath, honey," purred a lush blonde who'd been assigned to looking after the back room after the waiter had gone home exhausted several hours earlier. Players, too, had come and gone, though Rathe had been winning steadily. Even George had only joined in at ten o'clock last night.

"You're right," Rathe said, standing. He patted her shoulder. "A hot bath and a warm bed." He thought of Grace.

"I think I can take care of that," the woman said archly.

Rathe looked at her. "I've got a very expensive lady waiting." He felt another surge of fury.

"Oh, yeah," she spat. "That prissy redhead, I bet. You get tired of those boobs an' that hair, let me know." With that, she stalked off.

The anger boiled again. It seemed to be his perpetual state. He didn't like anyone casting slurs at Grace.

George had the good sense to wipe the smile from his face the moment Rathe turned a cold gaze on him. "Hey, go easy on her, okay?" he offered.

Rathe's icy blue eyes stung him. "If I want your advice," he ground out, "I'l ask for it."

George backed away.

Rathe strode out into the bright afternoon, blinking a few times in the sunlight. Then he strode across the street and up the hil and into the Silver Lady. Even though he moved with the coiled, tightly restrained energy of a mountain cat about to spring, his heart was hammering way too loudly. He imagined her expression when he paid her cold, hard cash.

She wasn't in their room.

He knew it the instant he stepped through the door. He kicked it shut, glancing around. Just where the hel was she? It took him a moment to realize that there was no sign of her in the room at al . He reminded himself that she hadn't brought anything with her the night she had appeared hysterical y at his door. A lump of fear tried to worm its way into his anger. He insisted on ignoring it, on flinging aside the covers of the made-up bed, as if some sign of her might be underneath.

Furious, he kicked a chair over, displaced pil ows, flung open the wardrobe and the drawers of the bureau. Al his things were intact and as he'd last left them. Grace might have never been in this room.

They had a deal. There was no way he was going to al ow her to run out after one night.

No way. Especial y after it had been such an expensive night.

She wasn't at Harriet Gold's either.

"I don't know where she is," Harriet said, catching him as he was about to bound up the stairs. "And I want a word with you."

"Later," Rathe began. "Have you seen her at al since yesterday?"

"Oh no, Rathe Bragg. You're not diverting me. I'm too old for your tricks. Your mommy and daddy aren't here, but I am, and you need a good talking-to."

Resigned, Rathe let her lead him into the kitchen, where she shut the doors. She turned on him. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

Rathe, no fool, knew exactly what she was referring to, and he blushed like a guilty schoolboy.

"That's right, feel guilty. You've taken a good girl and ruined her, dragged her right through the mud. If your daddy knew of this, you know what he'd do?"

"I know," Rathe said grimly. "He'd thrash my hide."

"An' make you marry her," Harriet stated, watching him.

Rathe laughed in disgust. "Hah! Even Derek couldn't make that happen!"

"You underestimate your own pa."

Rathe gave her a look. "Grace isn't interested in marriage, Harriet, and no man, and no amount of talking, cajoling, or threatening is going to change that!"

"She turn you down?"

He felt more color rising. "She made herself very clear. She told me in no uncertain terms that she would not marry me. Not," he added quickly, "that I'd marry her either! She had her chance. I've changed my mind-I like things just fine the way they are."

Harriet glared. "Grace is too good a girl to be set up with you in that hotel and you know it. The damage is done, but it's not too late. You know what to do."

Harriet was right, and that knowledge made Rathe frustrated and furious. But he would not ask her to marry him again. "Harriet, when was the last time you saw Grace?"

Harriet pursed her lips. "You won't like it."

He was overcome by a wave of dread. He already knew what Harriet was about to say. "She was here-with Al en."

Harriet nodded. "Just after breakfast."

Rathe gripped the mantel as hard as he could.

"You tear that off the wal and you'l be putting it back up," Harriet warned.

He spun around. "How long was she here?"

"I don't know, I only saw her when she was leaving. I didn't even know she was here at al . It was a complete surprise when I saw her coming out of Al en's room." Harriet smiled serenely.

Rathe's eyes widened. "They had the door closed? Just the two of 'em?"

"You've got a filthy mind," Harriet said. "Just 'cause you treat her with no respect doesn't mean a good man like Al en Kennedy is the same.

Besides, everyone knows he's got marriage on his mind."

Rathe curse, then turned on his heel and left. What had they been talking about? And where the hel was she now? He recal ed the time he had seen them share that passionate kiss in the buggy in Louisa Barclay's driveway. The image loomed before him now, infuriating him. He had made it very clear that she was his exclusively for the next year. Yet she was already off traipsing around with another man.

He returned to the hotel. As he bounded up the stairs he couldn't help wondering if she'd returned. But his room was as empty as before. He ignored the disappointment, refusing to even recognize it, and drank his second bourbon in twenty hours. It went down like silk.

He could scour the town, looking like a fool, or he could wait.

He decided to wait.

Precisely three minutes later she walked through the door.

They stared at each other for a long, hard minute.

"Where have you been?" Rathe demanded, too aware of his heart's rapid hammering and the blood starting to course through his veins. "I don't want you to wear your hair like that."

She drew herself up as tal as possible. "Your dictating my hairstyle to me wasn't in our bargain. And I might ask the same question-where have you been?"

His eyes glinted. He wished she didn't look so damn gorgeous even with pursed lips and that awful bun. Even the damn gray gown couldn't diminish her beauty. If anything, the soft color made her skin look as pale as magnolias and magnificently translucent. "This isn't a two-way street, sweetheart," he drawled. "My whereabouts aren't your concern, but yours are most definitely mine."

She huffed.

He was glad he had made her mad. He wanted to make her as mad as he was-no, madder. He shoved his hands in his pockets and brought out fistfuls of cash. He flung them at her feet. She jumped back, gasping, as he proceeded to empty his pockets. Soon five thousand dol ars' worth of greenbacks and gold lay strewn around her.

She stared at him, crimson. He felt very, very satisfied. "You can count it if you want."