"Jesus!" he swore.

"That just went up to ten," said Carolyn evenly.

"Oh, Mom!"

"Do I hear fifteen?"

David clamped his mouth shut.

"And I expect to hear a plea for forgiveness in your prayers tonight."

He hung his head. "Yes, ma'am." He slunk away, his shoulders heavy with the burden of guilt.

As soon as he was out of earshot the two adults burst into giggles.

"You are a formidable woman," said Troy when he caught his breath. "I'm glad you're on my side."

"It would go easier for you if you actually came to church once in a while."

He smiled, but it just felt like another lie. He let it slip away. "Sorry, honey. I'm beyond saving."

She shook her head and slapped his chest. "Don't be ridiculous. Anyone can be saved. Nobody's that far gone." Abruptly she whirled around and opened the fridge. "I wonder if I have anything decent to serve them. Do you suppose Mrs. McAdam likes baked brie?" But she was muttering more to herself than to him and he was glad she didn't expect an answer, because her last words continued to echo in his brain.

Nobody's that far gone . God, he hoped it was true. But deep in his heart, he knew it wasn't.

Bree pushed away from the table and stretched. Her back ached and her eyes were gritty. A wide yawn pulled at her mouth. But despite her fatigue, she'd never felt better.

"Don't you think we've covered everything?" she asked as she tugged the old I'm with Stupid T-shirt from the waistband of her shorts. The thing had worn through at a spot on the left shoulder, and the pink clay stains had soaked indelibly into its fibers. Normally she wore it only during her sessions at the wheel, but had felt it a good choice considering her plans for the evening. And, of course, considering her companion. She smiled to herself.

"Mmm." Sloan's gaze remained riveted to the floor plans laid out before him. "Are you sure this stuff is current?"

"It's a month old."

"Mmm," he said again. Apparently not convinced.

He looked different, she mused. He had lost that Hollywood gloss that had coated him like a cheap vinyl cloak when he first arrived. It had gradually peeled off in the aftermath of Craig's attack, leaving behind a tattered remnant of the Sloan she knew. But now, as he had pumped her with questions, pored over the information and scratched illegible notes on a legal pad, gradually, almost imperceptibly, he had started to...well...glow. His clothes were rumpled and in disarray and his hair a mat of tangles from constantly being attacked by restless fingers, but his posture was keen and his eyes glittered like those of a four-year-old on Christmas morning.

She leaned back against the wall and rubbed at the tension that had settled across her shoulders. "Don't you trust me?"

"No," he said. "It's not that. I do. It's just that I'm used to working alone. I'm not used to relying on-"

He stopped and his head snapped up. His Adam's apple bobbed once before he averted his eyes and looked back toward the kitchen. "Uh...you got any more coffee?"

"What did that mean?" she asked carefully, just as unsettled by his attempt to change the topic as by his actual words.

"It means I want coffee." He got up and headed to the coffeemaker. He picked up the carafe that was still half full of four-hour-old coffee. He poured himself a cup of sludge.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

He took a sip and grimaced. He stared at the mug as if it held the secrets to the universe.

"Sloan?" She pushed away from the wall and stalked over to him. She planted herself in front of him, so

close she could smell the dark, burnt odor of his coffee mingled with the sweet, musky scent of his shampoo.

He winced. "You're not going to knee me again, are you?"

"Answer the question, dammit. What did you mean by, 'I'm used to working alone'?"

"Just what I said." "Working alone at what? When we were kids you always did this kind of thing with Troy. Now youwrite with Craig. That's the only work I know of. What other work do you do?"

Suddenly he shoved her aside. He stalked to the other end of the kitchen, and turned around to glare at

her. "What is this? An interrogation? I'm doing you a favor here, you know. I-"

"Bullshit. You're doing this as much for yourself as for me. Now what have you been up to, Sloan Carver? Tell me, or I'll take it out on those tender testes of yours."

"You wouldn't." He growled out the words, but there was a smile in his eyes.

Feeling a little mischievous and overdramatic she sashayed across the room and resumed her position, mere inches in front of him. Quick as a cobra, her hand snaked out and latched onto his crotch. "Try

me."

"Let go," he commanded, although his voice had edged up a semi-tone or two.

"Tell me or you'll be singing so high only the dogs will be able to hear you."

Despite the ludicrousness of it all, a full-fledged smile burst across his face. "God, I've missed this."

The words took her off guard and she loosed her grip. "What? My hands on your balls or the insults and

threats?"

"Yeah."

Laughter surged up from her chest, but never quite made it to her lips. Something in the way he was

looking at her diffused it like a pin bursts a party balloon. She released him and stepped away.

His smile faded, but that incisive stare remained. "What do you think, Bree? You think I break into all

those Hollywood mansions and steal their pretty little baubles in my spare time? You think I moonlight as a cat burglar?"

Cat burglar . Something about that sounded familiar. It tweaked something in her mind that-

"Oh my God. You're him."

"I'm who?"

"The Black Panther. The guy who's been terrorizing Tinsel Town. I read about him in some Hollywood rag. His last heist was a few weeks ago. He stole some emerald or something from that airhead Morgan Something-or-other."

"It was a diamond-cut sapphire," he said with a sniff. "And she didn't deserve to own something that beautiful."

Bree found herself sitting in one of the dinette chairs. "Holy shit!" she breathed. "You're a wanted man."

To her amazement he grinned. His dimple winked at her and his blue eyes danced. "You'd be surprised by how many."

She made a concerted effort to not find this humorous. "I don't get it. You don't need the money, Sloan. You were rich before you made it big in Hollywood. Why on Earth would you take such risks?" But even as she said it she knew the answer.

"It's simple. It makes me feel alive." His gaze drifted to the darkening sky outside the window.

There would be no breathtaking sunset over the bay tonight. The rain had stopped but the clouds remained. Instead of reflecting a swirling vortex of color, the choppy waters of Georgian Bay reflected the gunmetal gray of a low, angry sky.

"When I'm in that dark, empty house, cracking a safe or rummaging through a freezer for the jewels that they've hidden in the ice cube tray, every nerve ending hums. I can see better, hear better, smell better. Sometimes I can almost taste the perfume the woman put on three hours earlier."

He turned to look at her again. "I need to feel alive, Bree. And I need to be something different than my father. I need to know that I'm not a safe, dependable, businessman in a blue suit. He traveled and got to see some interesting things and meet some interesting people, but basically that's what he was." His jaw muscles clenched briefly. "I need to know that I won't end up like them."

Bree felt overwhelmed. Stunned. Although, strangely, not really surprised. Sloan needed to prove to the world-and to himself-that he wouldn't end up putting a gun in his own mouth someday. He needed to know his life had taken a different path.

But then something hit her. "Them?"

For just a heartbeat Sloan's face registered fear. But it passed so quickly she thought she must have imagined it. "Them. My dad. Your dad. God! Franki's dad. All of them dead before the age of fifty-five. I plan to live, but if I don't make it to tomorrow I'm not going to have anything left on my list of things to do. And I'm going to have enjoyed every damn moment of it."

"You enjoy risking your career, your reputation and your freedom just for the thrill of sneaking around in a dark house?"

"Yes, I do. It's my passion. One of them, at least." In two steps he crossed to her and knelt in front of her on the floor. He placed a hand on her knee, and she felt an old familiar tingle at his touch. "What about you, Bree?"

"What?"

"Do you still have your passion? I've been away so long. I'm ashamed that I don't really know that anymore."

"How do you know I have one at all?" she asked with a tongue that seemed to have swollen to three times its normal size.

"Because I used to know you. And I know you couldn't have changed that much." His fingers crept up until they brushed over hers, which were resting quietly on her thigh. "So? Do you?"

Feeling a little off balance, and like she had just had one too many glasses of wine, Bree grasped his hand and stood. "Let me show you."

She led him toward the back of the house and up the stairs to her studio. He followed quietly, and she found it strange that none of this struck her as odd. Sloan had just told her that he was, essentially, a criminal. She should have been outraged. She should be trying to convince him of the error of his ways, and coax him back into the fold of conformist society. But she neither felt compelled to do so, nor guilty for feeling that way.

All she felt was a deep, burning warmth in the center of her chest.

She pushed open the door to her studio and led him inside. She flicked on the light switch to expose the barely controlled chaos. She watched as his eyes roamed over the shelves of half-finished vases, pitchers and bowls. Several dozen vials of prepared paints and glazes dotted the shelves at irregular intervals. She had recently prepared a batch of "slip" for glazing, and her sieves were laid out neatly on towels to dry. Covered bins of the creamy slip were neatly arrayed under the worktable. However, the floor and table were spattered liberally with the evidence of her labors. In the far corner, sat the heart of her studio-the kiln, now cold and empty.

Sloan awarded her a strange smile and then walked in.

He crossed to the window that looked out over the bay. The sink beneath it was stained with a thousand different colors of glaze, and the taps crusty with dried-on clay. On the counter beside the sink, an array of brushes and potting tools sprouted from a pair of huge earthenware mugs. He fingered one of the brushes.

"It's soft," he said absently, as if that surprised him.

"I just cleaned them this morning."

He reached out and touched the ancient scale that she used to weigh out her balls. It was caked with the mud of a thousand creations. He scratched a little off, and tossed her a sidelong glance.

"No. I haven't cleaned that in a while," she said in answer to his silent question.

"It's you."

She moved into the room and stroked her potter's wheel absently, the cool smoothness of it comforting and familiar. "Me?"

"Yeah. Rigidly organized and creatively chaotic, all rolled into one."

She chewed on her grin. "That's me?"

He stepped closer and took her hand. "Oh yeah. That's you."

"It wasn't Dad," she said, her mood suddenly wistful. "He was always so organized... You know, everything in its place, and his studio always spotless. It used to make me crazy."

"And your work is different from his. It's more elegant. More...lyrical."

Only a writer, she thought to herself. "Yes. His pieces tended to be larger and heavier. More masculine, I guess. He worked more with molds and coiling."

Once again Sloan's eyes glided over the creations that lined the wall. "But still, you share his passion."

"Yes. I guess I do." She was still holding his hand, but she felt no need to pull away. "It's funny, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Your passion helps to separate you from your father. My passion helps me to feel closer to mine."