"Who?"

"Romeo. The guy who wanted to take me out for dessert. He's one of my regulars. Only this time he called himself Fred and got by Kevin." Taylor explained what had happened, along with the background on her amorous caller.

"No." Reed didn't look happy. "I missed Romeo's performance. I just picked up on something in your voice--a kind of edgy quality. I thought a gla.s.s of wine might help."

"It's been one of those days. Romeo was just the straw that broke the camel's back." Taylor slanted Reed a look. "By the way, I'm also not used to being so easily read."

"That part you'd better get used to. I admit you've established one h.e.l.l of a facade. Me, too. One problem. We're unusually attuned to each other--or hadn't you noticed?"

"I noticed."

They were silent for the rest of the ride, but it was a companionable silence, not a strained one.

"You look pretty exhausted yourself," Taylor commented, once they were settled on her living room sofa with two gla.s.ses of Cabernet. "In fact, as long as we're being so up-front, I got the distinct feeling that the restructuring of your life you mentioned yesterday involves something major--something that's throwing you for a loop. Care to share? I'm a good listener."

He smiled. "No arguments there. I heard your listening skills on the air tonight. Unfortunately, none of your advice would work for me. I'm not a teenager anymore."

"That's interesting, because you're acting like one," she noted. "Evading my questions and my offer to help. Typical teenage behavior. I take it you don't want to open up."

Reed's smile vanished, and he sank back against the sofa cushion. He didn't look offended; he looked weary. "It's not that I don't want to. It's that I can't. Not yet. The situation is fluid. To discuss it would be unethical."

"Ah. It involves a client you're uncomfortable representing." Taylor took a sip of wine. "I imagine you've had a fair share of those."

"Too many." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a can. "Here's the pepper spray I promised. It's still one of the best deterrents out there. Burns the a.s.sailant's eyes like h.e.l.l, and gives you time to run and to scream for help."

"More peace of mind." Taylor gave him a grateful smile, taking the can and tucking it into her pocketbook. "Thank you."

"Taylor." Reed set down his winegla.s.s. "We're not playing t.i.t for tat. I can't get into what's going on with me. When I can, I will. Your predicament is different--and a lot more dire than mine, based on what I'm seeing. Tell me what's got you so upset. You're even more strung out now than when I saw you yesterday. And you look tired enough to collapse."

Taylor wished he weren't so d.a.m.ned insightful. "Reed, stop." She heard the ambivalence in her voice.

"I hardly know you. It's a little soon to spill my guts."

"Fair enough. So who have you been spilling your guts to--your parents? Friends? Therapist?"

She knew where he was going with this. And she was too worn-out to play dodgeball. "My parents aren't the gut-spilling type. My friends are aware of the basics. And my therapist knows my state of mind only up through Thursday of last week. Satisfied?"

"No, just proven right. The bottom line is that you've confided in no one." Reed turned to face her. "Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because you see yourself?"

"Bingo." A pause. "At least tell me the basics--the part you told your friends."

The wine and the fatigue were mingling together, swirling slowly through Taylor's consciousness.

Dulling her inhibitions. Lowering her reserves.

She polished off her Cabernet and put down her gla.s.s, twisting around to face Reed. "You want honesty? You got it. When I heard your voice on the phone tonight, I saw an opportunity for two things--to numb my fears with wine and to drown them out with physical pleasure. I leaped at both chances. I've got a low tolerance for alcohol, so one gla.s.s of wine, maybe two, and the numbing's a fait accompli. As for the drowning--that kiss we shared yesterday was amazing. Thinking about it was the only thing that got me through the past twenty-four hours. So ..." She scrambled to her knees, tilting up her chin and leaning closer so their faces were practically touching. "The wine's right on track. What about you--are you game?"

He reached out, threaded his fingers through her hair, his palm gliding beneath to caress the nape of her neck. "You do realize you just announced that you're using me?"

"Mmm." Taylor's eyes slid shut, and she moved her head against his hand. "I'm not using you. I'm losing me."

"Does that mean I get to find you?" He pulled her onto his lap, lifting her arms around his neck.

"Tonight? Yes." She'd barely breathed the word when his mouth came down on hers, absorbing the sound with his lips. He slid one arm under her back and lifted her up and into the kiss, devouring her with a hungry intensity Taylor felt to the tips of her toes. She twisted closer, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s flattened against his chest, her breath emerging in short, shallow pants that mixed with his. His tongue slid inside, took hers in prolonged, erotic strokes.

Taylor heard herself moan. She went with the sensations, her heart slamming against her ribs, her entire body starting a slow burn that spread and intensified at an almost frightening rate.

She had no idea how long they sat there, kissing as if they wanted to consume each other. All she knew was that it felt wonderful, that he felt wonderful. His hand was under her sweater, ma.s.saging the bare skin of her back, but he made no move to unhook her bra, although his fingers paused there more than once. Nor did his lips leave hers, except to move to her neck, the pulse at her throat, and, finally, to feather soft kisses across her cheeks and nose before he raised his head.

Taylor's own head was spinning. She relaxed her grip around Reed's neck, sinking back on his lap and blinking as she gazed up at him. He was as winded as she, and a fine sheen of perspiration dotted his forehead.

He watched her from beneath hooded lids. "You okay?"

She nodded, licking her swollen lips. "I'm fine. You didn't have to--"

"Yes, I did," he interrupted. "Nothing else is happening. Not tonight. I told you slow. I meant it."

She searched his face. "You're an unusual man, Reed Weston."

"Not really. I'm crazed as h.e.l.l to get inside you. But I have an ulterior motive for my patience. I'm determined to make you trust me. And that's not going to happen overnight--especially not if I rush you into bed. So I'll take things in increments, physically and emotionally." His fingers slid gently up and down her arms. "Talk to me. I'll settle for the basics, as you put it. What's got you so freaked out?"

Taylor released a sharp breath. She didn't want to descend to reality. She wanted to stay where she was, floating in the removed and exquisite pleasure of the past few minutes. But, as she so often told her students and callers, escape was no solution. Your problem either followed you wherever you went, or waited to sink its claws into you when you returned.

It was time to practice what she preached.

She told Reed about the incident at the cemetery on Sat.u.r.day and about the disturbing phone call in the wee hours of Monday morning.

"My common sense tells me the two incidents were unconnected, that the whole thing's just an eerie coincidence, but--" She broke off, sliding to her feet and walking over to the window, staring out into the night sky.

"But?" Reed grilled her.

"But it's thrown me. I'm a mess. Suddenly everyone seems suspect.

I start shaking when guys flirt with me on the street, when my regulars-who-hit-on-me-for-a-date call the station; you name it. This kind of paranoid behavior is so unlike me, I can't tell you."

Reed rose, came to stand behind her. His hands were tense as he planted them on her shoulders, urging her around to face him. "Taylor, do you think you're being stalked?"

The straightforward question and the harsh expression on his face sent chills up her spine. "Not stalked," she replied, opting for the least ominous interpretation. "Watched. At least that's what my instincts say. But I'm not sure those instincts are objective--not in this case."

"Why?"

She paused before answering. "Let's say I have a heightened sensitivity when it comes to this issue."

"A heightened sensitivity. That means it relates to Gordon's a.s.sault."

She nodded.

"Go on."

"Okay. When Gordon left that day, he promised me he'd be back. He said we'd finish what we started. He cautioned me to be patient, to be good, and to be mindful. And, at the very end, he warned me that he'd be watching me. Those words, the brutal look in his eyes--those memories just won't go away."

A muscle flexed in Reed's jaw. "I can understand why--"

"There's more." Taylor met his gaze head-on. "I was pretty messed up by what happened. But I told myself that it was one sick, spontaneous incident, exacerbated by the fact that Gordon had been drinking. Then the holidays came. With them came two e-cards."

She went on to describe the creepy e-cards to Reed, keeping her tone as impa.s.sive as possible, although she was unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Even though I canceled my e-mail account, I still dread every holiday, wondering if there's some ominous e-card floating around in cybers.p.a.ce. The feeling of violation never seems to go away."

Reed's jaw tightened another fraction. "So between the premeditated attack and the e-cards, it's no leap to a.s.sume he was fixated on you."

Taylor lowered her gaze and gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, but these past few days I find myself making a one-eighty. Given what's been going on, I'm actually praying Gordon did send those cards, and that we had proof to that effect. A leftover sense of violation beats the h.e.l.l out of an ongoing sense of fear and vulnerability. What if those cards weren't from Gordon? What if his s.e.xual a.s.sault wasn't a fixation, but just a one-shot deal? What if someone else sent those e-cards--someone who's alive, and still out there watching me and stalking me? It's happened to other on-air personalities. What if this time it's me? What if whoever's doing this is the one who was at the cemetery and the one who called me last night?"

"Hey." Reed cut off her escalating outburst, pulling her against him and wrapping her in a fierce, comforting embrace. He rubbed his chin slowly across the top of her head and frowned as he felt her tremble. As he stared out the window, his thoughts took a turn in an unpalatable direction--one he'd hoped never again to revisit. But he couldn't ignore it. The pattern was there.

The fixation. The mind games. The egocentric determination. The sense of imperviousness.

He couldn't say a word to Taylor. He had to check things out on his own first. Hopefully, what he learned would put his nagging concerns to rest.

If not, he'd be screwed. Talk about being crammed between the proverbial rock and the hard place.

He turned his attention back to Taylor and the challenge of doing what he could for her. "No wonder you're at the end of your rope," he murmured. "You're coping with a h.e.l.l of a lot--and you're doing it alone."

Taylor didn't reply. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing deeply. She was half relieved that she'd blurted out the whole twisted scenario, half appalled that she'd done so with a man she'd known less than a month-- a man who had a much longer, stronger relationship with those closest to Gordon Mallory than he had with her.

Well, it was too late for regrets.

"That emotional outburst I just subjected you to was far more than I planned on," she mumbled into Reed's shirt.

"Yeah, I figured as much." He drew back, framed her face between his palms, his expression dead serious. He had to buy himself time. Just a day to poke around for his answers. After that, he'd know how to proceed. In the meantime, he had to keep her safe, calm, and in control.

"You trusted me to listen," he said. "Now trust my advice. Don't let your imagination run wild--not yet. Like you said, the weirdo at the cemetery and the intimidating phone call could be two isolated incidents. As for your gut instinct that someone's watching you, I'm all for listening to gut instincts. Still, even if yours are dead-on, this person could be someone as innocuous as an overzealous fan. So, yeah, take extra precautions. Double-lock the door of your apartment. Use the inside chain. When you leave, stay among crowds. That means no solitary strolls on Seventh Avenue at eleven o'clock at night. Keep your eyes open and your pepper spray on hand. If anything else happens--another phone call, a stranger you spot hanging around your apartment, school, or radio station--anything suspicious, then you'll take action."

"What action?" Taylor demanded. "The police won't be interested without evidence. They're not big fans of gut feelings."

"Fine. Then you'll hire a PI. I'll call my brother out in San Francisco. He has a bunch of contacts in Manhattan. We'll get someone. Till then, hang tight. Go about your life. Build your confidence by improving your self-defense skills. On Sat.u.r.day, we'll have our next lesson. And right now, we'll have our next gla.s.s of wine."

Taylor blinked at the change in subject. "Our wine?"

"Yup. Relaxing your mind and body, staying calm--all that's part of the process. That's where the Cabernet comes in." He gripped her hand and led her back to the sofa. "Sit. I'll refill our gla.s.ses."

She complied, sinking into the sofa as Reed took the goblets over to the sideboard and refilled them.

"Not too much," she reminded him. "I told you, two's my limit. Otherwise, I'll be a headachy zombie at school tomorrow."

"Not to worry," he a.s.sured her, slowly completing his task. "I won't ruin the school counselor's reputation by letting her stagger in with a hangover. I'm only giving you half a gla.s.s--just enough to take the edge off. While you're nursing your wine, I'll give you a neck-and-shoulder ma.s.sage. Then I'll send you off to bed. How does that sound?"

How did that sound? Spectacular.

Taylor felt herself smile. "You know, if you're trying to charm me by playing knight in shining armor, you're doing a d.a.m.ned good job."

"Glad to hear it." He winked as he walked over with their drinks. "Knights in shining armor are very trustworthy."

"So I hear."

He sat down beside her, savoring his wine for a few minutes and watching her do the same. When he saw her begin to visibly relax, he set down his goblet and turned her around so her back was facing him. "Keep sipping," he directed, settling his palms on her shoulders. "And shut your eyes."

Taylor didn't need a second invitation. She was drained from the day, from their conversation, from her own apprehension and emotional outburst. All she wanted to do was slip into mental oblivion.

She took another sip of wine and let out a soft sigh as Reed began ma.s.saging the tension from her shoulders. He found the knots in her muscles and worked them away, his fingers gliding up her neck, ma.s.saging each vertebra, then shifting back down so his thumbs could knead the tight spots in her upper back.

"Feel good?" he murmured.

"Beyond good. Unbelievable." She moved her neck from side to side, leaning into the pressure of his hands. "Do they teach this in law school?"

"Nope. At least not at Harvard. There, they you teach you to kill yourself in order to succeed. Over the summers, I signed up for a few stress management courses. One of them was in ma.s.sage."

"Lucky me." Taylor's words were m.u.f.fled, and she didn't resist when Reed leaned forward, took the goblet from her hand, and set it down on the coffee table.

"That was about to hit the floor," he observed, making no move to ease away from her and return to his original position. "Besides, I think you've had enough."

"Yes, Counselor." The wine was swirling through her, dulling some senses, heightening others. She shivered as Reed's breath brushed her neck. "About that decision you made for us to go slow--are you sure I can't change your mind?"

"I'm positive." He gathered up her hair, moved it aside so he could kiss the nape of her neck.

"Frustrated, but positive."

She turned, angling her face up to his, her gaze open, if slightly cloudy. "You don't have to be frustrated."

Tiny sparks burned in his midnight eyes. "Yeah, I'm afraid I do."

"Why?"

"Because right now you're vulnerable." He kissed her, tasting her mouth in a way that made her heart slam against her ribs. "You're also not completely sure you can trust me--not yet." Another kiss, this one deeper than the last, his hands kneading her back simultaneously. "And you're also a little too drunk." He felt her slump against him, and he smiled, supporting her weight with his. "But, most of all, because you're asleep."

He scooped her up in his arms and headed down the hall, peeking into each of the two bedrooms. It wasn't hard to figure out which was Taylor's. Stephanie's was stark, almost bare. All that was left were a few pieces of furniture and, on the dresser, a few funky knickknacks and some Broadway-show CDs.

The adjacent bedroom was definitely Taylor's. Reed could smell her perfume as he carried her inside. The beveled cherry furniture and touches of beechwood were as cla.s.sy and understated as she, and the bookcase on the far wall was filled with psychology texts. On the nightstand, a neat pile of paperwork with the Dellinger letterhead was stacked--probably for Taylor to review before going to sleep.

Gently, he stretched her out on the bed, studying her elegant features and delicately curved body, thinking that he'd never wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one. Maybe that explained the painstaking care he was taking with his timing. Either that, or he was insane for putting off something he wanted so badly he was throbbing with it.

But something told him that whatever was happening between him and Taylor was significant.

So he'd take a cold shower. h.e.l.l, he'd take as many of them as he had to. The wait would be worth it.

He leaned over and tucked the pillow beneath Taylor's head and covered her.with the afghan blanket that was draped across her rocking chair, pulling it way up to her chin. He threaded his fingers through her hair, smiling at her almost inaudible murmur of pleasure at the contact. Then, with a soft sigh, she snuggled into the blanket.

Reed stood up, pausing only to set the alarm on Taylor's clock radio. She'd kill him if she was late for school. That done, he tiptoed out of the room. He stopped in the kitchen, glancing at the telephone and jotting down the unlisted number that was printed there. He'd call her tomorrow before her radio show, make sure she was all right.