"Mr. Remington. Evan. I'm a reporter. A writer."

"I know what you are. I know what you want. Fame, fortune, recognition. Respect. I know how to get those things for you. I made it my business to get those things for others. You want to be a star, Jonathan. I make stars."

Something seemed to move behind his eyes again, like sharks swimming in a deep pool. Harding shuddered, but couldn't look away. And as his skin crawled cold, he could feel himself being pulled in. His breath came short beneath a terrible pressure in his chest.

"I'm going to write a book."

"Yes, yes. An important book. You'll tell it as it's meant to be told. End it as it needs to be ended. I want them punished." He reached over with his free hand, clasped Harding's limp fingers. "I want them dead."

Something snapped in the air, sizzled, and brought the guard to his feet. "No contact."

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," Harding said dully as a fierce grin flashed on Remington's face.

"No physical contact," the guard ordered and strode toward the table. But Remington was already breaking his grip.

"I'm sorry." Remington kept his gaze averted, his head lowered. "I forgot. I just wanted to shake his hand. He comes to visit me. He comes to talk to me."

"We were just saying good-bye." To his own ears, Harding's voice sounded tinny with distance. "I have to take a trip, and won't be able to visit for a while. I have to go now." Harding got unsteadily to his feet. A headache blasted in his temples.

Remington lifted his gaze one last time. "I'll see you again."

"Yes, of course."

Remington allowed himself to be led away. He kept his head lowered, shuffled obligingly back to his cell. In his heart, black glee bloomed like a fetid flower. For he had discovered that there was power in madness.

By the timeHarding was on the ferry for Three Sisters, he could barely remember his last visit to Remington. It irritated him, made him worry that he was coming down with something. His memory for details was one of his most polished skills. And now an event less than eight hours old was like some sketchy scene behind foggy glass.

He couldn't remember what they'd spoken of, only that he'd been suddenly struck with a blinding headache. It had made him so ill, he'd been forced to stretch out on the front seat of his car and wait for the chills, the pain, the nausea to pass before he'd dared drive away.

Even now, just thinking of it gave him the shakes. His condition wasn't helped by the fact that the seas were rough and a needle-sharp icy rain was pounding. He had to huddle inside his car, dry-swallow more seasickness pills.

He was terrified that he would have to race through that vicious rain and vomit into the pitching sea.

In defense, he once more lay down across the seat, fighting to breathe slowly and evenly. He began to count the minutes until he reached solid land again.

And must have fallen asleep.

He dreamed of snakes sliding under his skin, the slither of them ice cold.

Of a woman with blue eyes and long gold hair who cried out-all pain and pleas-as he brought a cane down, again and again, to batter her.

She's quiet now.Quiet now. Spawn of Satan.

Of a bolt of blue lightning that shot like an arrow out of the sky and into his heart.

He dreamed of terror and vengeance and hate.

He dreamed of a lovely woman in a white dress who wept as she curled on a marble floor.

Of a wood, dark under a new moon, where he stood holding a knife to a smooth white throat. And this time, when it sliced clean and her blood covered him, the world erupted. The sky split and the sea opened its mouth wide, to swallow all who had stood against him.

He awoke with screams strangling in his throat, slapping at himself as if to kill whatever was crawling inside him. For an instant he stared horrified in the rearview mirror.

And eyes that weren't his, eyes pale as water, stared back.

Then the ferry let out its blasting note to herald the docking on Three Sisters. The eyes that stared back at him as he dragged out his handkerchief to wipe his damp face were red-rimmed, haunted, and his own.

Just caught a little bug, he assured himself. He'd been working too hard, traveling too much. Crossing time zones too often. He would take a day or two to rest, to let his system catch up.

Bolstered by the idea, he snapped on his seat belt, started his car. And drove off the ferry ramp and onto Three Sisters Island.

The storm turnedinto a gale. On the second day of it, Mac surfaced from his work and took a good look around. He'd had another shipment of books sent in, and replacement parts for some of his equipment. Right now he had pieces of a sensor spread all over the little kitchen table. A monitor that was acting up stood on the counter with its guts spilling out.

The kitchen still smelled of the eggs he'd burned that morning-which, he had to admit, he'd had no business making when his mind was elsewhere.

He'd broken a glass, too. And had a nice slice in his heel, since he'd gotten distracted before he swept it all up.

He'd turned the entire cottage into a lab, which wasn't so bad. But without a lab assistant cleaning things up behind him, he'd also turned it into a disaster.

He really didn't mind working in a disaster area, but it certainly wouldn't do as a permanent living arrangement.

If the cottage was too small to accommodate him and his work on more than the short term, it was certainly too small to accommodate a ...

Ripley, he thought quickly. He wasn't quite ready to use the term "wife," even in his thoughts.

Not that he didn't want to marry her, because he did. And not because he doubted she would marry him. He would just wait her out in that area until she caved. He'd match his patience against her stubbornness any day of the week.

But first things first.

When a man wanted to settle down permanently, he had to find a place to settle. However much affection he had for the cottage, it wouldn't fill the bill. And he doubted seriously if Mia would sell it.

He rose, and managed not only to tread on a screw but to step on it at the exact point of his recent cut. He spent a little time on some inventive cursing and hobbled out to find the shoes he'd thought he'd already put on.

He found a pair in the bedroom doorway, where they had obviously planted themselves, cagily waiting for him to trip over them.

And holding them, took a look at the bedroom. Winced.

He didn't usually live like a slob. Okay, he admitted, he didn't usuallyintend to live like a slob. It just happened.

Forgetting the shoes, he pushed up his sleeves. He would shovel out the bedroom and use the manual labor to clear his mind. He needed to think about a house.

It needed to be a pretty good size so his equipment didn't get in everybody's way. He would need an office, too.