"Is that all it is? Is that why you do it?"

"No," she said slowly as she considered things she had never really thought about before. "No, of course not. It's so much more."

His silence compelled her to continue.

"It's the mystery of taking a piece of clay, setting it on the table, and not knowing what it will become. I dig my fingers into that cool, smooth mud, and I have absolute power over it, and it has absolute power over me. We don't know where we're going, but somehow we get there together. There's something so basic and primal about the process, and the clay, and what it brings out in me..." Her voice trailed off and left only silence. Somehow silence was better.

The words sounded crazy. They sounded all right, and all wrong. No words could come close to describing the creative process or how it made her feel.

"Surely you must sense something of that in your writing," she whispered.

"Yes. But I think it's different. Your work is more tangible, tactile. Sensual." That word hovered between them for just a moment, before he spoke again. "The gratification is more immediate."

She turned her gaze to the wheel and nodded. "Maybe."

"Show me."

Her head swiveled back to face him. "What?"

"I'd love to watch you work on something."

His request took her completely off guard. In fact the entire afternoon seemed a bit surreal, and she was having trouble remembering that there was a world outside these four walls. "But...you wanted to get some rest before you hit the Auction House."

"There's plenty of time. And you don't have to finish it. Just start...and see what happens."

Just start and see what happens . Good advice. That was exactly what she would do.

She separated herself from him and walked over to her damp box. She sorted through the bundles of well-wedged clay-clay that had been lovingly worked and kneaded until it was smooth and free of bubbles and other imperfections. She ignored the bundles of stoneware and white porcelain. Finally, on the bottom, she found her last piece of red earthenware. It was the most common medium, and one of the easiest to throw.

She unwrapped the moist ball and centered it carefully on the wheel.

She hesitated. "You want to watch me use the wheel?"

"Yes. That's your specialty, isn't it?"

She nodded, surprised that he knew that. And pleased by it.

She sat down on the old ripped office chair in front of the wheel. Methodically, she arranged herself and her tools. She dipped her fingers into the nearby jar of water and just as she was about to begin, she sensed Sloan move up behind her. She could feel the heat of his body radiating against her back. It prickled over her skin like a thousand tiny quills.

She hit the switch and the table began to spin.

She focused on the clay. Again, she dipped her fingers into the water and smoothed them over the cool, swirling surface. She squeezed the clay between her palms, curving it up into a cone that would release any remaining air bubbles. That done, she pressed it down, almost flat. She repeated the process, getting a feel for the clay, and allowing it to speak to her. Once it was centered and working to her satisfaction, she used her fingertips to gently form a hollow in the center, and build up the walls of her creation.

She pressed and molded, and lost herself in the poetry of form and movement. She had almost forgotten that Sloan was there. But then he rested his hand on her shoulder, and a gentle warmth spread out from his fingers.

The walls molded to her will. The form thinned and stretched, taking on a shape and a life of its own. Elegant. Graceful. She courted it and it drew life from her, and it gave back so much more. The freshness and excitement of a new beginning infused her with energy. And perhaps Sloan's presence did as well.

And then his hand trailed down her arm, over her fingers, and touched the clay as it whirled beneath her hand.

"It's rougher than I thought," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Mm-hmm. When I throw regularly my skin gets rough and callused."

"I can't imagine any part of your body feeling that way." As if to test the theory, he brought his hands to her face. She felt the cool dampness of the clay on his fingers as he traced her cheekbones and cupped her jaw.

"See?" he murmured. "As soft as the petals of a water lily."

She smiled against his palm. "Only a writer..."

"No. Only me." He traced a line down her neck to the delicate skin at the base of her throat. "And you," he murmured.

She nodded and her hands fell away from the wheel as she tilted her head back and succumbed to the inevitable.

His mouth claimed hers without hesitation or preamble, and his hands slid down to cup her breasts through the flimsy fabric of the T-shirt. But they both quickly acknowledged the impracticality of their respective positions.

Growling in frustration, he let go of her just long enough to pull the chair back, clear of the work area. And she needed no coaxing.

By the time he rounded the front of the chair she had stood, her hands eager to express the feelings that she had been denying ever since she had first laid eyes on him in that damn empty hall.

She fumbled with the drawstring at his waist. "This is a mistake," she mumbled as the knot gave way.

"It always is." His hands had already slipped beneath her T-shirt and unsnapped the clasp at the front of her bra. His thumbs grazed over her nipples, sending shock waves shimmering through her. But then he stopped abruptly, and she looked down to see that his finger had gotten caught in a tiny hole in the fabric of her T-shirt. It dotted the "i" in Stupid.

He grinned down at her. "But we just never seem to learn." And he grabbed the material and pulled. The thin cotton tore as easily as tissue paper, and she found herself giggling as he ripped away the last remnants of the ratty fabric.

"I'm not the Incredible Hulk, you know," she groaned as his teeth raked across her breast and his hand sneaked under the waistband of her shorts.

"Right." He lifted his head until they were, once again, face to face. He arched one eyebrow and his fingers slipped beneath the whisper-thin fabric of her panties. "And I'm not 'stupid'."

She laughed, suddenly feeling as free and uninhibited as a nineteen-year-old. She grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it over his head, forcing him to withdraw his hand.

"This means war, you know," he snarled, as he mercilessly pushed her shorts down over her hips.

"Right." She reciprocated.

And there they both stood, breathing hard, hearts pounding, their clothes puddled around their ankles. His body hadn't changed. It was still lean and lithe. Perhaps a few more hairs had dared to invade the baby-smooth skin of his chest, and his tan seemed deeper and richer than she remembered. But in every other way he was exactly as he had been before. She remembered him with her mind, and with her emotions and with her body.

Every nerve ending hummed, and every follicle seemed to be standing at red alert. Every inch of her ached to touch him, but she held back, savoring the excitement and the electricity that charged the air between them.

He leaned forward until she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "Is the front door locked?"

"No," she breathed.

"Perfect." He reached for her, but she was too quick for him.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and pivoted around, pushing him down into the chair that she had just vacated. She stepped out of her clothes and straddled him, settling down to seat herself on his knees, as a deep, satisfied laugh rumbled out of him.

"You always did like to be in control," he said as he massaged her breasts and began peppering kisses over her chest and throat.

"And you always did like to tempt fate." She cupped his sex, the meager distance between their bodies allowing her access and heightening the sense of expectation. She stroked and savored until he pulsed and throbbed against her palms, and his hands had stilled their fevered explorations.

With a slow, lazy indolence that had her squirming, he cupped the back of her head and drew her mouth to his. As she continued to torture him with her hands, he invaded her mouth with his tongue, and parted her sex with his fingers.

Involuntarily she moved against his hand, urging more and deeper explorations. Low groans of satisfaction mingled with tiny pleading whimpers. She wasn't sure who said what, she was so lost in the sensations. Their voices became background music-a soft, sweet song of intimacy.

He devoured her with kisses that blended together, one melting into the next as he withdrew and rejoined, barely giving her a chance to catch her breath or moan his name. He slipped two fingers inside her, and his thumb caressed the slippery pea of flesh until she throbbed with expectation.

But he was the one who urged, "Now, Bree. Please."

It took only a nod from her to acknowledge the request.

He cupped her bottom and lifted her off his knees. She closed her eyes as she settled over him, sheathing him inside her in one slow, smooth motion that seemed to fill a void inside her that she hadn't even realized was empty.

She laced her fingers through his hair and locked her eyes on his. "If you run away again I'll kill you."

He nodded, his expression grim. "I know." And then he bracketed her hips between his hands and she rode him.

Their bodies pumped together in a rhythm as old as time and as fresh and exciting as a virgin's first kiss. The boundaries of their bodies blurred, she lost track of where she ended and he began. She felt herself climbing toward a precipice, and just when she thought she couldn't bear it a moment longer he touched her center with the pad of his thumb, and she shattered into a thousand pieces.

She melted over him and felt his body go rigid beneath her as her contractions kneaded and massaged him to his own explosive climax.

Spent and damp with sweat, she wrapped her arms around his back, savoring the smooth plane of skin, the hard ripple of muscle, and the pounding of his heart against her chest.

"It'll never work," she mumbled against his shoulder, tasting his sweat.

"I know." He stroked her back and kissed her neck, and an aftershock shuddered through her body. "But that's never stopped us before."

"We'll be fighting again inside a week."

"And then we'll make up. And it will all be worth it."

She pulled away and looked down at their damp, naked bodies as hopelessly intertwined as their lives and their dreams...and she smiled. "Yeah. I think it will."

Chapter Seventeen.

Bree pushed against the thick oak door. It gave way grudgingly, groaning and squeaking on its hinges as if it were playing a part in some Fifties horror flick. If not for the lights that burned inside the enormous foyer and throughout the rest of the house, she might have shivered a little.

But she was feeling far too good to let a little case of the creeps get her down.

"Hello?" she yelled, her voice echoing against the marble and oak.

"In here!" It was Franki's voice, but the acoustics were so bad, Bree had no idea where it was coming from.

"Where's here?"

"The library."

Bree closed the door behind her and stepped further into the house.

Before her a staircase swept in a grand arc to the second floor which housed the bedrooms, several bathrooms, and the room that had served as Jonathan Carver's office. Bree knew that Sloan had never quite managed to make that room his own. He had told her once that, even four years after his father's death, he could smell Jonathan's cologne in the supple leather furniture and hear his voice in the soft whisper of the ceiling fan. Bree, however, had always doubted that Jonathan's ghost haunted any one room of the stately old home. If his spirit lived on anywhere, it was in his son's heart.

She looked to her left. An enormous formal living room boasted a wide array of antiques and original artwork. High-backed chairs and couches in polished walnut and heavy silk brocades surrounded a polished marble fireplace. Beside it, a wrought iron rack still brimmed with logs and kindling that was probably so dry by now it might burst into flames if she so much as shot it a fiery glance.

She glanced toward the dining room to her right where a dozen chairs upholstered in a rich burgundy velvet, still surrounded the heavy cherry wood table. She had eaten in that room only once, on the night of Sloan's twenty-first birthday. Jonathan and Janelle had entertained them all royally. They'd pulled out all the stops, even convincing Janelle to hire a caterer to serve them champagne and canapes, rack of lamb and creme caramel. Jonathan had looked on his son with such pride, speaking wistfully of the unbridled recklessness of his own youth, and his hopes for his son's future. Little did they know the truth of what he hid in his heart.

Bree blinked and when she opened her eyes again she saw the rooms without the gleaming varnish of sweet memories. Years of neglect had robbed the house of its proud and regal air. The chairs and tables were in disarray. Paintings listed drunkenly on the walls and the shattered remains of two gilded mirrors and several Chinese vases littered the floors. Dust and cobwebs coated it all like a misty, gray shroud.

She shifted her gaze to the hallway that stretched toward the back of the house. She scolded herself for wasting valuable time and marched on through the opulent foyer, past the formal rooms that she had always thought gave visitors a false impression of what and who the Carvers really were.

The marble ended and her feet padded across softly polished strips of maple. The walls, covered in a rich flocked green, muffled her footsteps, and the burnished brass fixtures cast it all in a soft golden relief. The hall led to another, smaller foyer. Several doorways opened onto the room, and the library was one of them.

"There you are!" moaned Franki from behind a stack of leather-bound tomes.

Hundreds of books littered the thick Persian carpet, and Franki appeared to be in the process of sorting and organizing in order to get them back onto the proper shelves. Heavy oak shelves lined every wall of the library, stretching from the floor to the top of the twelve-foot ceiling. Only a bank of trellised windows and the wide double doors prevented the shelves and their contents from completely encircling the room.

"I heard you come in ten minutes ago. Whatcha been doing?"

"Just taking a stroll down memory lane," she said easily as she sauntered into the room.

Troy's head popped up from behind the camel-back couch. "Well, your meandering can end right here. Just plunk your fanny down anywhere and start sorting. But watch your step. There was some broken glass. I cleaned it up and vacuumed as best I could, but you never know."

Bree she settled down beside Franki. "Did someone come in here and trash the place?"

"Must've," said Franki absently. "It would take an earthquake to shake all these books down. And I don't think we've had any around here in about thirty years."

"The lock on the back door was broken," said Troy. "Probably some kids out looking for action found it and figured it would be fun to break some vases and toss a few books around."

"Damn kids," said Bree, her tongue planted firmly in her cheek. "Surely their parents should know better than to let them gallivant all over the countryside unsupervised." Franki snickered. "Right. We would never have done anything so...juvenile." Bree caught herself smiling in spite of the carnage that surrounded her. "Those were the days, weren't they?" "Yeah. Now we're old and responsible and have to spend our time cleaning up other people's messes." "Stop whining," scolded Troy. "This'll go much better if we try to stay as cheerful as possible." "I still don't know why we couldn't just hire somebody." Franki sneezed as she picked up another book and brushed off the coating of dust. "God knows Sloan can afford it."

"I told you," said Bree as she inspected a first edition Hemingway. "Sloan said he didn't want strangers poking around in his family's things." "Since when did he get so sentimental?" "Come on," pleaded Bree. "It's the least we can do, considering what he's doing for me right now, and what with Craig laid up in a coma." "Oh, I almost forgot." Something in Franki's tone set Bree's radar on alert. "Yes?" "He woke up." Bree blinked. "You're kidding." She didn't bother waiting for a response. "When?" "About six hours ago." "You little-" "Now, now. Be nice or I'll abandon you and Troy and let you fight off those saber-toothed dust bunnies all by yourselves."

"Why didn't you call me?" ranted Bree. "Sloan deserves to know. Jesus! He should have known before he headed out tonight." "I tried to call you." Franki huffed in indignation. "But first nobody answered, and then I got this endless busy signal. And there wasn't time to drive out myself before Sloan left. How come you didn't answer the phone, anyway?" Bree opened her mouth as a snappy retort formed on her tongue, but abruptly she shut it again. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Let's get back to work. I'll just tell him as soon as he gets back."

She had dusted off three books before the heavy silence caught her attention. She looked up to see Troy and Franki staring at her. "What?" A slow grin spread across Franki's lips like a cherry red stain. "You were doing it, weren't you?"

Bree lifted her eyebrows. "Doing what?"

"You know. The nasty dance. The horizontal mambo. Slap and tickle. Take your pick. You and Sloan just fell off the wagon, directly into the sack...again."

"You're nuts. We were just concentrating on the job, that's all."

"Come on, Bree," laughed Troy. "It's written all over your face."