Then Reed covered Taylor's fingers--still wrapped around her champagne flute--with his, and eased the gla.s.s the rest of the way to her lips. "Drink. It'll fortify you for our weekend."

"I don't need fortifying." A hint of a twinkle. "But you might, after three days alone with me in that cabin."

Laughter rumbled from Reed's chest. "I'll take my chances."

Several feet away, Adrienne was watching Taylor and Reed's exchange with great interest. While she couldn't hear their actual words, the chemistry between them was impossible to miss.

She stepped behind Douglas, who was chatting with a colleague, and leaned toward Jonathan.

"Whatever fantasies you might be harboring about Taylor Halstead, you can forget them," she murmured. "The woman is head over heels in love with Reed Weston. And the feeling is mutual.

Very mutual. See for yourself." She gestured with her eyes.

Jonathan glanced in that direction, then continued drinking his Scotch. "Shut up, Adrienne," he muttered. "Just shut the h.e.l.l up."

"It wouldn't have worked out anyway," she said in a low, taunting voice. "She's the kind of woman who wants a man with innate strength and power--not one who inherits it from Daddy or wears it like a practiced veneer."

"Dammit, Adrienne, I'm warning you . . ."

Douglas freed himself up at that moment, wrapping a firm arm around Adrienne's shoulders and angling his head toward Jonathan. "Cut it out," he hissed. "Can't you control yourself for one night?"

"Talk to your wife."

"I'm talking to you. This party is in your honor. Now act like it."

"You're right. Time for another celebratory drink." Jonathan strode off toward the bar.

"Adrienne," Douglas said quietly to his wife. "Don't antagonize him, please. He's edgy enough."

She shrugged her slim shoulders. "He's not edgy; he's obsessed. Again. And the woman he's obsessed with doesn't know he's alive. Again. Correction: she knows he's alive. She'd prefer to ignore that fact."

"He'll get over it."

"If you say so, darling." She reached up to caress his jaw, just as the next guests strolled over.

Taylor was studying Jonathan's progress over the rim of her gla.s.s. "I think the happy trio just had words," she informed Reed.

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"Jonathan's at the bar. I think I'll wander over there for a gla.s.s of Mer-lot." She placed her champagne flute on a pa.s.sing tray. "I won't be long."

Reed caught her arm. "I'll go with you."

"If you do that, nothing will get accomplished except ruffling Jonathan's feathers even more. You go talk to Douglas and Adrienne. I'll be right across the room."

"And if he comes on to you?"

"Then I'll signal you for help."

With great reluctance, Reed nodded. "Okay. You've got five minutes."

"Ten."

"Fine, ten. Unless I don't like what I'm seeing. Then I'm coming over there."

"Just promise you won't make a scene."

"No scene," Reed a.s.sured her. "I'll just drag you out of here."

Taylor approached the bar, feathering her fingers through her hair as if she were deep in thought.

"What can I get you, ma'am?" the bartender inquired.

"Hmm? Oh, a gla.s.s of Merlot, please." She fiddled with a c.o.c.ktail napkin, absently taking the goblet when it was handed to her.

"Drinking alone?" Jonathan asked from beside her.

She pivoted around, feigning surprise at seeing him. "Oh ... I didn't realize you were here. I was thinking."

"Obviously." He took another healthy swallow of Scotch. "You don't look too happy. Is there trouble in paradise ?"

"I a.s.sume you're talking about Reed and me. No, no trouble. I'm just going through a rough time now.

It happens to the best of us."

"I can't argue that one." Jonathan paused only long enough to get a refill. He swallowed down some Scotch, then inclined his head to eye her speculatively. "If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?"

Taylor's chest tightened, but she remained outwardly calm. "If I can."

"Oh, you can. It's more a question of if you will"

"I won't know until you ask."

"Fair enough." He met and held her gaze. "Are you still afraid of me?"

She weighed her reply carefully. "Afraid of you? In what way?"

"Let me rephrase," he amended. "Do you still see Gordon when you look at me?"

"For fleeting instances here and there, yes." This was a case when honesty would be her best course of action. "It's hard not to when your appearances are ... were . . . identical. But, if you're asking if I confuse the two of you in my mind, the answer is no."

Jonathan stared into his half-filled gla.s.s. "What my brother did to you was despicable. I'm sorry you had to go through it."

Was that remorse or manipulation talking?

"It's over," Taylor replied. "Besides, I was lucky. It could have been worse."

"So I heard. I'm grateful Gordon was interrupted." He gazed at her again, an odd, probing look in his eyes--probing, but glazed. Taylor suspected he was half drunk. "What is it you're afraid of, then?"

He was fishing. But for what?

"You know the answer to that," she stated bluntly, watching to see if she was inciting him. "You invented an emotional connection between the two of us that doesn't exist. You ordered Reed to back off so you could pursue me. In my book, that counts as domineering and delusional."

Not even a flicker of an eyelash. "You certainly tell it like it is, don't you?"

"I try to, yes."

"And you see me as irrational and controlling."

"Am I wrong?"

Jonathan polished off his Scotch. "Life is a chess game, Taylor. I'm a cunning and compet.i.tive player.

I like to win. I manipulate and capitalize on circ.u.mstances so I can achieve that outcome. Does that make me controlling? I suppose that depends on one's perspective. But irrational? No. Quite the opposite. I'm very systematic. Nothing less will yield the desired results. Does that answer your question?"

Taylor responded from her gut. "Not really. What it does is make me feel unhappy and uneasy.

Or is that your goal?"

This time he arched a brow. "Now why would that be my goal?"

"Because winning might mean more to you than simply acquiring. It might mean gaining power through intimidation. Does it?"

There was that flash of anger again. "Is that Reed's theory, or yours?"

"Mine. Reed's not being stalked. I am."

"And you think I'm your stalker."

"Are you?"

"If I said no, would you believe me?"

"I don't know."

"Then we're at an impa.s.se, aren't we?"

Taylor couldn't argue that one. "Yes, I guess we are."

"For the sake of argument, if you knew for a fact I wasn't your stalker, would you give us a chance?"

"There is no 'us.' There never will be."

His jaw was working. "Why? Because I look like Gordon? Or because I'm not Reed?"

"Because I don't feel that way about you."

Jonathan set down his gla.s.s. "Time will tell, won't it?"

"No, time won't tell," Taylor shot back. Her frustration was mounting. Maybe he wasn't delusional. Maybe he was just a businessman unwilling to accept defeat.

But something told her otherwise.

She stared him down, trying desperately to get inside that unfocused and unreadable gaze, to get a handle on his thoughts. Then she put the icing on the cake--or the nail in her coffin, depending on which way things turned out.

"Listen to me, Jonathan. This is never going to happen. Not now. Not ever. Clear?"

A flicker of something. Resentment? Determination? Taylor wasn't sure.

"Clearer than you realize. Then again, I possess all the facts. You don't--not yet. But that'll change. In time, so will your feelings. I know you, Taylor. I know what you're about." Jonathan's fingers brushed hers, the contact as brief as it was unnerving. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll rejoin my guests."

He walked off into the crowd, leaving Taylor chilled.

CHAPTER 24.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13.

4:37 A.M.

WEST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET.

Taylor jerked awake, drenched in sweat.

Clutching the blankets, she peered around the pitch-dark bedroom, her heart slamming against her ribs.

It was all right. There was no one there. A nightmare. It had only been a nightmare.

She reached for the alarm clock, glancing at the digits and shuddering as she realized that dawn was still two hours away.

She'd slept less than forty minutes. She'd been in bed since midnight. The rest of the time she'd spent staring at the phone, steeling herself for it to ring.

It had remained silent.

Her eyes burned from exhaustion. She squeezed them shut, willing herself to rest, if not sleep. She had a full day ahead of her, including a session with Dr. Phillips. Also, with a modic.u.m of luck, Detective Hadman would have some information for her regarding the telephone number he'd traced. Maybe it would give them some answers, or at least point them in the right direction. And she'd find out if that direction included Jonathan Mallory.

Abandoning the idea of resting, Taylor clicked on her lamp, opened the psychology text that was propped on her night table, and reread the section on psychopathic personality traits.

She must have dozed. There was a hint of weak sunlight trickling into her room when she snapped awake the next time. It was morning. Her clock told her it was six-fifteen, almost time for the alarm to go off.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h hadn't called. He was taunting her, keeping her fearful and uncertain about when the ax would fall.

Her head throbbed from lack of sleep. She climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen to brew herself some coffee. G.o.d, she was in desperate need of caffeine. It was the only thing that was going to get her through the day.