Her hands unlocked from around his neck, gliding down to explore his shoulders, then easing around front and pausing, as if wrestling with the desire to touch him more.

Sure enough, he shifted his weight to his knees, sitting up and leaning back on his haunches.

"Go ahead," he urged thickly, grasping her wrists and bringing them around to his chest. "Touch me."

She licked her lips, which were damp and swollen from his kisses, and kept them parted as if she were transfixed. She didn't have to feign the trembling. She was shaking like a leaf, knowing what lay just ahead.

She'd have one chance. One. If she screwed it up, the pain he'd inflict on her would make death seem like sanctuary.

No. She couldn't let her mind go there. She had to channel all her mental energies into what she had to accomplish--and how.

She moved her palms over Gordon's chest, down his torso, wishing like h.e.l.l he'd let go of her wrists instead of holding them and guiding them along.

Time to take a risk.

She wriggled one hand free, tracing a forefinger down his abdomen. Her gaze dropped to his erection, then lifted to meet his, a questioning look on her face.

His eyes were glazed, wild with antic.i.p.ation. "Everywhere," he a.s.sured her. "Touch me everywhere. Especially there."

He released her other wrist on his own, his entire body quivering. He was totally lost in the moment, his p.e.n.i.s jutting toward her as he waited . . . waited . . .

Taylor acted in the blink of an eye.

Fingers locked together, knuckles slightly bent, she slashed her fingernails across his eyes in a blinding finger rake that would have made Mitch proud.

Gordon screamed out in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as he instinctively reached for them. Instantly, Taylor cupped each of her palms and clapped them against his ears in a forceful ear slap she could actually feel vibrate through him.

He groaned, weaving from side to side, his equilibrium thrown off by the blow. Taylor followed through with the motion of her hands, shoving at his head and using the force of her legs to roll him off her.

She was on her feet before he recovered, and making a break for the door.

She was across the berth deck and on the first rung of the ladder, when he grabbed her from behind. "You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h," he snarled, yanking her down and dragging her back toward the bedroom.

"You have no idea what that's going to cost you."

Nor did she intend to find out.

With all her might, she jabbed her elbow into his solar plexus, then crashed the heel of her shoe down on his bare instep.

He half grunted, half cried out, loosening his grip on her as he bent forward.

Perfect.

She slammed her elbow up and into his nose, hearing the cracking sound as it made contact.

He roared with pain, grabbing his face and releasing her simultaneously.

She whirled around, slamming a hammer fist into his naked groin.

With a strangled sound, he fell onto his knees, cursing and clutching himself as he rocked back and forth, doubled over in agonizing pain.

The kitchen counter was two strides away. Taylor took them. She seized the Scotch bottle, rushed back, and crashed it down over Gordon's head with every ounce of strength she possessed.

He crumpled silently on the wooden floor.

She didn't wait to see if he was stunned, unconscious, or dead. She just took off.

She made it up the ladder and was scrambling onto the main deck when a pair of hands seized her from above.

"No!" she screamed. Her arms were trapped. Her legs weren't yet firmly planted. She didn't stop to think. She just used the only weapon she had left.

Her head.

Tilting it down, she bent her knees and thrust upward, slamming the top of her head into her a.s.sailant's face. She didn't have time to focus on the point of impact, the way Reed had taught her, nor did she have the luxury of grabbing her target's arms to increase the force of her blow. But she connected well enough for him to bark out a protest and release her.

"Jesus Christ." The target, Detective Hadman, clutched his forehead and weaved a bit. "Lady, are you nuts? We're the good guys."

"Detective Hadman?" Taylor squeaked out.

"Where's Mallory?" Detective Olin stepped past his partner, pistol raised.

"Down there." Taylor pointed. "I don't know if he's conscious."

Olin's lips twitched. "I'll check." He glanced at Hadman. "You coming?"

"Yeah." Hadman's pistol was raised, too. With his other hand, he ma.s.saged the bridge of his nose.

"If this is what she does to cops, I can't wait to see how she pulverized that son of a b.i.t.c.h downstairs."

Taylor was still trying to process the fact that Detectives Hadman and Olin were here, along with a local backup team who'd boarded the yacht behind them. Mitch was there, too, and Reed was shoving cops out of the way so he could leap onto the yacht and get to her.

"Taylor." He grabbed her, a.s.sessing her dazed, rumpled state with excruciating torment. He himself looked like he'd aged ten years and hadn't slept one night of them. "G.o.d, sweetheart, are you all right?"

"I--I think so."

"Is she all right?" Hadman echoed as he hoisted himself back up the ladder. "I had a migraine to begin with. Your girlfriend just turned it into a concussion." The quick wink he shot Taylor belied his disgruntled tone. "Nice work."

Turning, he leaned down, helping Olin drag a half-conscious, fully naked Gordon Mallory up to the main deck.

"Stop b.i.t.c.hing," Olin advised his partner. "It could be worse. Take a look at this guy."

"I did. Why do you think I'm being so nice to her?"

In between banter, they hauled a handcuffed Gordon to his feet. Scotch was dripping down his body, and pieces of gla.s.s were clinging to his hair and shoulders. He struggled to right himself, visibly disoriented by the blow to his head. His eyes, still tearing from Taylor's finger rake, were scratched and bleeding. His nose was b.l.o.o.d.y, too, and swollen. He was hunched over, limping, and totally out of it.

Reed and Mitch both stared.

"Hey, Taylor," Olin called over his shoulder, shoving Gordon across the deck and toward the waiting squad car. "Forget the family counseling. Join the force. The NYPD needs you."

"I..." Taylor's voice was quavering so badly she could barely speak. What was unfolding around her still wasn't sinking in. Not fully.

She blinked at Reed. "How did you find me? How did you get here in time? How did you know that Dennis and Gordon were the same person?

How--" She broke off, burst into tears, and flung herself into Reed's arms. "I can't believe you're really here."

"We're here. I'm here." He held her against him, his lips in her hair, cradling her in his arms like a precious treasure. He frowned, feeling the tremors shuddering through her body. "Did that filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d hurt you?"

She shook her head. "I stopped him, thanks to what you and Mitch taught me."

"Yeah, basic self-defense techniques come in very handy," Mitch agreed, coming up to stand beside them. "Martial-arts types never expect them, certainly not from the average person. So they never know what hit them." He stared after Gordon's retreating figure. "Judging from the shape he's in, I see you used my finger rakes and ear slaps."

Taylor responded to his levity, smiling through her tears. "I went for those first."

Reed wasn't smiling. "You had no choice. He trapped you in bed."

"For a little while," Taylor amended. "Till I got away." She wasn't ready to get into details--not yet.

The experience was still too raw. "I had to play a few head games to get him off guard. It was like ch.o.r.eographing a repulsive ballet. Anyway, once he got into his part, I raked and slapped, then ran.

I got only as far as the ladder before he grabbed me from behind." She flinched at the memory.

"He must have been ripping mad," Reed surmised. "The guy's certifiable. You took a huge risk."

"I had no choice."

"I know." A hard swallow. "How did you get away the second time?"

"That I owe to you." Taylor tilted up her chin to meet Reed's gaze. Her lashes were spiky with tears. "Remember that acronym you taught me during our self-defense lessons? It kept playing in my head, over and over, like a litany. And when Gordon dragged me off that ladder, when I felt the violence rippling through him, I just used it. I didn't let myself think. I just acted. It was that, or die."

"What acronym?" Mitch demanded.

"Reed taught me to sing."

"To sing? Why--are you tone-deaf? Were you hoping to kill him with your voice?"

"No." Taylor laughed. "S-I-N-G." She spelled it out for him, letter by letter, then elaborated on each one. "Solar plexus. Instep. Nose. Groin. It worked wonders. So did a bottle of Scotch over the head."

"Very catchy. I'll have to remember that," Mitch noted.

"You never answered my questions," she reminded them. Shock was setting in, as was the cold, and her teeth started chattering. She folded her arms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I'll answer them all." Reed yanked off his coat and wrapped it around her. She saw the fury and pain that flashed across his face when he realized her bra was unfastened. He pulled his overcoat tightly around her, then eased her against him. "Later. Right now, I'm getting you to a hotel. You need sleep."

"Good idea," Mitch agreed. "I'm heading back to the city with Hadman and Olin. They're thrilled. I'm springing for a car." He grinned. "Somehow, I don't think you two will be needing me anymore tonight."

"No, we're fine," Reed a.s.sured him. "I'm tucking Taylor in bed, then calling all the worried people back home. Kevin was pretty freaked out. And Jonathan's a wreck."

"Poor Jonathan," Taylor murmured. "This must have been such a shock for him."

"He's free now. He'll also be in therapy, thanks to your referral. In time, he'll heal. We all will." Reed turned to Mitch. "Hey. Before you go, are you doing anything for Easter?"

"Nothing special. Why?"

"My whole family's getting together at my parents's place in Vermont. Rob will be there. You can take out that piece of hide you've been waiting to collect."

A chuckle. "Yeah, but then you'll owe him."

"No problem. I'll be paying him back in spades." Reed glanced at Taylor. "Not just him, but my whole family. I've got the perfect gift for them."

"And what would that be?" Mitch inquired. "Or should I say, who?"

"Who and what. The 'who' is Taylor. The 'what,' if I have my way, is an announcement."

"Is that announcement what I think it is?"

"You won't know until you leave us alone so I can ask my question and get my answer."

"I'm gone." Mitch gave a quick wave of his hand. "Good night. And good luck. See you in the Big Apple. And count me in for Easter."

Taylor was staring at Reed when he turned back to her. "Reed . . ."

"Hotel first," he interrupted. "Then a hot bath. Then a gla.s.s of Merlot and a cozy fire. And then--"

"Yes," she broke in to reply. "The answer to your question is yes."

EPILOGUE.

APRIL 20, EASTER SUNDAY.

5:15 P.M.

NEWFANE, VERMONT.

Reed was right.

It was a good thing the Weston farmhouse was made out of stone. Otherwise, it definitely would have burst that weekend.

By the time a full count was taken, there were eighteen adults, nine kids, one baby-in-waiting, two chocolate labs, one beagle, an orange tabby, her six kittens, an albino ferret, three gerbils, two acrobatic turtles, and a bunny.

Taylor had never seen such chaos in her life. The dinner table alone was nearly caving in from the weight of the food and the people leaning over one another to reach for it.

The kids, having grown bored by food and conversation, were now running around, playing a variety of games. The pets were barking, meowing, racing around wheels in their cages, doing backflips in their water tanks, or dashing along with their respective owners as they burst in and out of the house.

The adults were drinking coffee, talking a mile a minute to catch up with one another's lives--and hissing out whispered bets over who'd be settling down first, Rob or Mitch. Both guys had brought their girlfriends along, and both those girlfriends were now in the powder rooms freshening up.