"Ms. Meyers, I just got confirmation that you've been dating Vincent Carnevale for the past couple of weeks, so you didn't break any laws by using the key he gave you. The two of you are free to go."

"How did you find out so fast?" I asked. "It's the middle of the night."

"Mr. Carnevale is . . . known to us. I had the relationship confirmed at the station. I think you're well out of it, Ms. Meyers."

"Thank you, Detective," Eve said. "I think you're right. Mad, I'm going home. Are you okay to drive? Do you want me to take you home?"

"Nah, but thanks. I'm worried about my building. I'm gonna stick around until I know it's safe. Are you okay to drive after finding Sampson and all?"

"Yes. Call me craven but I want my mother. Oh, Mad, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, sweetie. You're allowed." I hugged her. "See you tomorrow."

"I can take you home, Madeira," Werner offered.

"I have to stay with my building. I'm going upstairs. I'll be in the room facing the playhouse. You'll see the light. So before you leave, tell one of the firefighters that if my building does catch a spark, to come and get me, 'kay? But tell them not to let it catch."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said walking me to my door.

I yawned. "Maybe I'll see you when it's over, then."

He scratched Chakra behind an ear and nodded.

"Chakra will protect me. Won't you, sweetie?"

I'd seen a bit of a softish center beneath Werner's hard outer sh.e.l.l tonight. Not as soft as caramel, but nougat, maybe, the kind that looks soft but can pull your teeth out by the roots.

Upstairs, I turned on the clickety light in the storage room and looked across the street at the playhouse, or what was left of it, through water-lashed windowpanes, thanks to our industrious firefighters.

Werner used his hands as he spoke and seemed to be directing the firemen to hose down my building.

The walls of Sampson's playhouse were falling in. No more top floor, and the main level didn't look like it would last much longer. For Tunney's sake, I hoped the local forensics team had come and gone before this second blaze.

I saw huge sparks, flaming splinters of wood, actually, headed my way, but most of them dimmed and went out before they reached my windows. Not quite insurance, but rea.s.surance. They might hit, but they could hardly smolder on a wet surface.

Looking for something comfortable, like a padded chair, I went around behind the storage room hea.r.s.e, a little smaller and a little older than the one Dad had hauled up from the first floor.

I moved some jadeite lamps, a couple of tall flower stands, more spittoons-clean, thank goodness-and to my surprise, I found a dusty fainting couch in pretty good shape.

I took the bric-a-brac off of it and pushed it over to the window. Then I took the tuxes from the closet and used them like a sheet.

"The couch was a cared-for treasure," Dante said. "It doesn't have cooties."

"I have allergies," I said, quoting him.

He chuckled. "Are you tired?"

"Exhausted. I didn't sleep last night because I was packing, and after work today, I drove home from New York. Now this."

"I can tell you a little about what happened here, earlier, but not much. It can wait until morning if you're too tired."

I got up, toed off my shoes, and nudged the quilt toward the couch. "Just tell me one thing. Did a body come wrapped in this quilt?"

"Yes and no. Bones only. They've been here about twenty-eight years."

"How can you be sure about time? How have you counted the years?"

"I count Christmases. The town dresses up for Christmas, so every time I see a Christmas display, I know it's been another year."

"How creative of you."

Dante accepted the compliment as his due. "The man who originally brought the bones was nervous," he said. "Very nervous. Like he'd killed someone."

I nodded. "A simple deduction when a man hides bones."

"He dropped some of the small bones on the way up and had to go back for them. All told, he fell down the stairs three times while he was here with very little help from me." Dante looked rather proud of himself. "On his running out, the guy took the worst tumble I ever saw. Judging by the way he drove away, I think he was scared. He drove right into that telephone pole on the corner. I watched the ambulance take him away."

"When he was here, did he see you?"

"Of course not."

"Yet you toyed with him. No wonder he was scared."

Dante's grin held a great deal of wicked pride. No wonder Dolly fell for him. "I got a good look at the bones he dropped before he went back for them. They were clean and dry before he put them in the quilt with the rest."

"I can't tell you how much better I feel now about touching this quilt."

"Why would you want to touch it? Does it have anything to do with the way you seem to go into a trance and say things you don't remember, like when you made your friend almost faint?"

"Let's save the whole story for another day, shall we?" I about begged. "In a nutsh.e.l.l, I'd rather touch a vintage clothing item likely to speak to me when I can't scare anyone by doing it. I mean, I'd rather not touch it at all. But I'm doing it for my friend who was arrested tonight, for poor Mr. Sampson, and for the person the bones belonged to."

"Why?" Dante asked.

"I've been involved in one murder investigation. Certain vintage clothes spoke to me then, and I believe that this quilt has something to tell me now."

Dante nodded, as if satisfied.

I got on the fainting couch facing him, my insides trembling at the thought of losing my senses to a dark past. Chakra curled into my middle as I lowered my hand, hesitated, and, finally, tucked it into a pocket of the quilt puddled on the floor.

"Go to sleep," Dante said. "I'll protect you."

"How can you protect me?"

"I've gathered a deal of energy over the years. I can make a man trip over his own feet. Which can be fun when he's committing nefarious deeds."

"I'll bet. What else can you do?"

"Flicker the lights, break a window, take the cover off a casket when a woman's tied up inside."

"Cary Grant, my hero."

His chin dimple deepened with his frown. "My name is Dante Underhill, no matter who you and Dolly think I look like. I might be able to knock you off that couch, but you'll have to take my word for it, because if I showed you, I might not have enough energy left to protect you, in the event you needed protecting. Close your eyes, sweet friend."

"I'm not sweet," I said, doing as I was told.

"You were worried about me losing my building. I heard you say my name to that cop."

"You listen at windows?"

"I live for the sound of human voices," Dante whispered near my ear, and I felt a touch of ice on my brow.

No wonder Dolly fell in love with him, I thought again, as I spun into a nightmare I resisted, my world dark, my captor rough, my trust shattered . . . my body in a freefall.

I'll die when I hit bottom.

Please let me die.

Fifteen.

Fashion is as profound and critical a part of the social life of man as s.e.x, and is made up of the same ambivalent mixture of irresistible urges and inevitable taboos.

-RENE KONIG "Madeira, Mad, you're crying."

With the scent of smoke in my nostrils and the hard, cold earth at my back, I felt myself being lifted and rocked against a hard chest.

Hands large but tender stroked my hair. Strong arms enclosed me in a safe coc.o.o.n.

Maybe I didn't die.

I clung to my haven, but as I trembled from the cold, those same hands chafed my arms and my back. I warmed but held no control over my sobs, wasn't even sure they were mine.

Did they belong to the lady in the well?

Isobel.

Warmth began to seep deep into my bones, awareness, too, just enough to appreciate the heart beating beneath my ear.

"I'm alive. You smell like smoke. You should quit."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mad, but it's me."

"You hate me."

"I hate what you said. Not you. We were kids."

"You can be sweet."

"You're talking in your sleep. I'll ignore that."

I didn't want to leave this new dream. "Nick smells different. Good, too, but different."

"You think I smell good, after all that smoke? And you know it's me?"

"You wear Armani's Black Code. You're taller, broader than Nick." I opened my eyes, despite myself, and raised my head. "Lytton?"

"You said you knew."

"In my sleep, maybe, but not awake."

"Was I at the bottom of that well with you?" he asked, smoothing my hair one last time as his hand fell away. "When you were asleep, I mean. You seemed to think I was."

The well? Oh G.o.d, the well. "My head hurts." I sat up. "The fire! My building?"

"The fire's out." Werner straightened, too, but I was still sitting on his lap. "You're safe. So's your building and your cat. It's nearly four in the morning."

"Hmm. I got up at four to go to work in New York two days ago, and I haven't slept since, except for now."

"Three hours sleep in two days?"

"Mmm." I cuddled back into him. "G'night."

Slowly, reluctantly, his arms came back around me and he rested his chin on my head. "I couldn't leave with the light still on up here. Let me take you home?"

The idea of moving seemed impossible. I shook my head against his chest. "I'll just sleep here."

"In my arms? Or on the sofa?"

I raised my head. "The sofa. Of course, I meant the sofa." My eyes closed without my permission. I knew it, but I couldn't do anything about it. Lytton's heartbeat began, again, to lull me.

He stood, carrying me with him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to put you in my car and take you home."

"Where do you live?"

His heart beneath my ear skipped a beat. "No. To your home."

"My father won't like that you arrested me."

I heard the rumble of a chuckle beneath my cheek as the lights went off behind my eyelids.