She turned away from them to set the books back on the shelf. She wasn't sure why she was fighting this. It couldn't stay a secret for long, especially considering how well Troy and Franki knew them. But, still, she had savored the secrecy. She didn't want this time to be just another one of their copulate-and-separate cycles. She wanted this time to be different. They were older now. More mature. Surely they had grown up enough to make it work. Hadn't they?

"Am I crazy?" she breathed at last, voicing fears to her friends that she'd been afraid to acknowledge herself. "I mean...we haven't spoken in eight years. He left with barely a word. I shouldn't trust him. Since he's back I don't know what's going on in his head half the time. If we do anything we should do it slow. Take our time and get to know each other again. And yet we spend...what?...three days together and wham! We're humping like a couple of hormone-saturated teenagers again." She flopped down on the couch, sending up a cloud of dust. "I don't get it," she whispered. "I just don't get it."

Franki walked over to her and settled herself gingerly beside Bree. She draped an arm around Bree's shoulders just as Troy joined them. He sat down on the other side and picked up her hand.

"You don't have to get it," said Troy. "There's no rhyme nor reason to this kind of thing. I think you two are just destined to be together. It's as simple as that."

"There's absolutely nothing simple about it. In fact I don't see how it could be more complicated."

"You can work through just about anything if you love each other."

Bree sniffled and looked up at Troy's liquid brown eyes. "It sure seems like you and Carolyn have it all figured out."

Only one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "We've had our share of complications. But so far we've managed okay."

"Yeah," snorted Franki. "And now look at me and Craig. I've got absolutely no idea where that's gonna go, but I'm sure as hell planning on finding out." She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs.

Bree sighed. "So you're saying I should just stick it out, do my best, and see how far it goes."

"I guess." Troy squeezed her shoulders. "That's all any of us can do. And you and Sloan have a history. A lot of shared experiences and memories. That's worth a lot."

"Plus there's the obvious," added Franki.

"Obvious?"

Franki rolled those lavender eyes. "You love each other, silly. It just don't get any better than that." She uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again.

Bree looked down at her hands. "Yeah. I hope so." Suddenly Franki sprang from her seat. "Cheer up already. You're boinking one of Hollywood's hotties."She grimaced and crossed her ankles. "Now, I hate to break up this little soul-sharing session, but I gottago pee. Is there a toilet that works in this joint?"

Troy chuckled. "I turned the water back on so we'd have water to wash with, but I think the lights are

broken in both the main floor baths."

"Shit. Okay, I'd rather not pee in the dark. I'll check upstairs." She took a moment to collect herself and then bolted for the stairs. "With a little luck the seat will be down."

Bree laughed. "She seems happy, despite the bladder control problem, that is."

"Yeah. Craig is good for her. It's about time she found a new obsession."

"Yeah. I let myself forget how hung up on Sloan she was. I hope this isn't just another obsession,

though. I hope she didn't just latch onto him because he happens to be connected to Sloan." "No. I shouldn't have used that word. I don't really believe that's what it is. But I do think that she had to see Sloan again in order to let go of him. It's easy to get hung up on a ghost-on an image of someone. Maybe seeing him again was just the therapy she needed. And maybe Craig just happened to be in the right place at the right time." "Yeah. Maybe." Bree slapped her thighs. "Well, enough of this procrastinating. There's work to be done, you know." Troy blew out a breath. "Yeah. I know. And we haven't even looked at the bedrooms or the kitchen yet." Bree craned her neck to peer out of the library toward the huge country-style kitchen on the opposite side of the foyer. She could just make out the gleam of the copper pots that still hung from a rack over the central island that housed a six-burner gas stove and double sink. Janelle's pride and joy. And her family's nemesis.

"This is a big job," Troy was saying. "I don't know if we can manage it without help."

Bree's response caught on her tongue when she noticed Franki standing in the doorway. Her face was

waxen, her eyes wide and staring.

"Franki? What is it? What's wrong?"

Franki licked her lips and her expression was an odd mix of anxiety and puzzlement. "I'm not sure.

But..."

Troy reached her side and grasped her hand. "Your fingers are like ice."

She turned to look at him. "I found something in the master suite bathroom."

Bree felt a strange surge of uneasiness, like a cold damp breeze blowing on the back of her neck. "What?"

"Blood. It looks like it was cleaned up but they didn't get it all and some of the stains wouldn't come out. There are pale, faded stains all over the bathroom tiles, and the bedroom carpet. It looks like..."

Bree's mouth went dry.

"Like what?" prompted Troy. His voice was low, but Bree could hear the tremors.

"I think there was a lot of it. It almost looks like somebody died up there."

Sloan flicked on the small flashlight and played it over a sea of richly upholstered chairs. His feet sank into the plush burgundy carpet that stretched from him to the dais at the front of the room. Only the podium stood there, alone in the center of the stage, a stately, silent sentry with nothing to guard.

He had come here with his dad countless times to watch the auctions and see how the pieces that Jonathan had picked out fared on the block. He would ask Sloan to predict the final price of a given piece, and Sloan would take a wild stab. Ninety percent of the time he would be within a few hundred, and his father would beam with pride. He had a natural eye, Jonathan would say, a real feel for the finer things in life. He would go far.

Sloan fought the tightening in his throat. If only his father had warned him that he'd have to get there on his own. He turned and headed for the curtained-off area to the side of the dais.

He had breached the exterior security system with little difficulty. It was a quality, up-to-date system, but Sloan had the advantage of having encountered it before. He'd been able to bypass it without shutting it off. And now that he was in the building, the security was minimal. Only a few locked doors stood between him and his goal. There were security cameras, but the ones in the auction room were turned off during the off hours. The ones in the storerooms at the back of the building would need to be tended to once he was ready to peruse those contents and pick out a few choice morsels to ding the Elliott pocketbook for maximum effect. But for now his destination was the main office-Vance Elliott's domain. And he needed only to pick a single, deadbolt lock to gain access to his carefully guarded secrets.

He pushed past the heavy, velvet curtain and headed down the dark hallway. His black sneakers padded noiselessly across the carpet. All he could hear was the furious pounding of his heart and the whoosh of his blood as it rushed through his head. The adrenaline had kicked in the moment he scaled the fence and crawled under the manicured hedges that decorated the front of the building. He didn't expect it to abate until he arrived safe and sound back at Bree's house.

She said she'd meet him there shortly after midnight, as she had an appointment to keep. When he asked what on earth she was doing at such an ungodly hour, she had just smiled and said it was a surprise. He had merely shrugged and accepted it. He had briefly entertained the notion that she had another lover somewhere, but that was ludicrous. Her good luck kiss had dispelled any trace of doubt.

He reached the set of doors at the end of the hall. The door to his left led to the backstage area where the pieces were set up just before presentation on the dais. Straight ahead lay the expansive storeroom that he planned to visit very shortly. And to his right was the office.

He pulled out his tools and knelt before the keyhole. He inserted the picks and closed his eyes. The tumblers clicked and protested, but within two minutes they sighed in submission. With his leather-clad hand, Sloan turned the knob and slipped inside.

He lifted the flashlight and scanned the room that boasted an array of antique furniture that Sloan couldn't take the time to identify. Finally, his eyes rested on a gray metal filing cabinet in the far corner. It was as incongruous with the rest of the decor as a pair of Birkenstocks in a closet full of slingbacks and stilettos.

He crossed the room, and with the flashlight clamped between his teeth, tugged on the top drawer. Locked. He was about to reach for his tools when he thought better of it. Instead he pulled open the top desk drawer, and a flash of silver caught his eye.

He picked up the small key and tried it in the cabinet lock. It clicked and the drawer eased open. Sloan smiled to himself and slid his hand deeply into the pocket of his black jeans. He pulled out the small slip of paper where Bree had scrawled all the necessary specifics.

He checked the dates on the front of the cabinets and breathed a sigh of relief. The records seemed to go back a full ten years. He had feared that he might have to go in search of ancient files packed away in old cardboard boxes in the back of the storeroom. Thankfully he had been spared that particular anguish.

He located the correct drawer and pulled it open. It took only a few moments of pawing through the labels to get a feel for the way the files were organized. It took less than five minutes to find the appropriate records. He withdrew the folder from the cabinet and opened it carefully, spreading the contents out over the top of the pristine surface of the desk. With the flashlight once again clamped between his teeth he sorted through the list of items that had been sold during the week in question.

At last he came to the set of clay jars crafted by the artisan Russell Hampstead. They had gone to bidder number 1472 for the eye-popping price of ten thousand dollars. He blew out a low whistle of amazement. Russell had obviously been at the apex of his career. He felt a small surge of pride for Bree's sake. But with it was mixed a generous helping of grief for the ironic and tragic timing of his death.

He determinedly refocused on the task at hand. He had to identify the mysterious bidder.

A little more searching revealed the stack of receipts for that day's sales. He finally found the one in question, but even that was made out merely to the mysterious bidder number. No name or other identification was in evidence. Damn.

He raked his fingers through his hair. There had to be a file somewhere that matched up the bidders to their numbers. Vance must have done it this way in order to further safeguard his clients' privacy, although the reason why the purchase of a bunch of artwork and antiques needed high-level security eluded him. Perhaps it had something to do with income tax. People went to great lengths to protect their money.

He continued flipping through the files. He went through every drawer in both the cabinet and the desk, but the search proved fruitless. He was beginning to get anxious. He had hoped to be out of there by now. Very simply, he didn't like to stay in one place too long. Luckily, this wasn't like a house where someone might decide to come home at any minute. But, still, his nerves were jangling.

Where would he keep that information ? Sloan racked his brain as his eyes continued to scan the office. They swept across the shelves of books and walls lined with photographs and paintings. He had a fleeting image of Vance's home office. Might he keep it at home? Sloan groaned at the thought of dragging this out another few days while he figured out a way to break into the Elliott mansion.

But then his eyes rested on an enormous seascape painting on an interior wall. "It can't be that easy," he whispered as he glided across the carpet and shifted the picture aside. He smiled slyly as he lifted the painting off the wall and set it gently on the desk. He returned his attention to the safe and muttered, "Oh, Vance, I thought you had more imagination than that."

He pulled out a tiny microphone and set of earphones. He put on the headset and placed the mike against the steel. He held his breath as he spun the dial and listened for the telltale fall of the tumblers. It took five minutes, and by the end of it his face was slick with sweat, but finally the last tumbler fell into place and the lock clicked open.

The heavy door swung open easily and Sloan shone his light inside. He pulled out a portable fireproof file box, and a large ledger. Since the file box had a lock on it, he opened the ledger first.

"Jackpot!" he exclaimed in a barely restrained whisper. The ledger held the answer to Bree's prayers. Row upon row of bidder numbers accompanied vital statistics like names, addresses, telephone numbers and even occupations. Sloan's eyebrows lifted in amazement. Some of the clients hailed from as far away as Japan and Australia.

The recipient of the Hampstead family heirlooms, however, was much more accessible. Vancouver was hardly around the corner, but a couple of hours in an airplane would have her on this poor gentleman's doorstep. Of course, she would need an escort. And he knew just the guy to do it.

A sudden wash of giddiness accompanied thoughts of the last few hours spent in Bree's company. But even as a slow smile stole across his lips and he felt the rest of his body respond accordingly, he acknowledged that now was not the time to dwell on the recent rekindling of their affair. He had plenty of time to take stock, and sort through the intricate web of emotions they had woven around themselves. With a little luck, he had a lifetime.

He focused his attention on the ledger and jotted down the necessary information. He stuffed it into his pocket. But then his eyes wandered to the locked box. What other juicy bits of information were hidden away in there? Sloan knew he had no good reason to snoop...other than the fact that he wanted to hurt Perry Elliott. Somehow the mere act of violating the family's personal belongings soothed his soul. He'd just take a peek in the file, and then help himself to a few of those delectable goodies out the back.

Whatever he lifted tonight, however, he had no intention of keeping. Tonight his choices would be made purely on monetary value, rather than his own personal tastes or sentimentality. Unlike most of his acquisitions, these would be fenced and sold. And perhaps he would distribute the proceeds to some worthy charity. Perhaps he'd buy Craig's mom a new set of dishes for her dairy cupboard. Hell, maybe he'd buy her a whole new house. He'd have to bribe her with something to forgive him for not calling her after Craig's accident.

But, dammit, Craig was going to wake up. And then he'd smooth things over with his mother for Sloan. Craig was good at that-smoothing things over, and making things fit where they hadn't fit before. He had to wake up, because Sloan couldn't lose that.

He wouldn't.

He pulled out his tools and was just about to pick the lock on the box, when, on a whim, he tugged on the lid. It gave way easily. No one had bothered to engage the mechanism. He flipped it open and tugged out a handful of files and a worn journal.

He took them over to the desk and scanned them with his flashlight. Within moments the usual rush that he felt when a job came together, faded. It was gradually displaced by an odd sense of unease, and then the first twinges of alarm. He flipped through a few more records and found himself fighting for control over his skyrocketing heart rate and accelerated breathing. He opened the journal and read a few random entries.

He didn't hear himself murmuring over and over, "No, no. That can't be it. That can't be." He swallowed a trickle of bile that had slid the wrong way up his throat.

"Oh God," he whispered. "Bree." He pawed through the records until he found one labeled with Russell Hampstead's name.

He sucked in a long, slow breath before easing it open and perusing the contents.

His mouth went dry, but inside he was screaming. "How could you? How could you do this to us? Damn you. Damn all of you!"

Ten minutes later the files had been stuffed haphazardly back into their compartments and the safe slammed closed. At last he staggered outside, and realized he had forgotten to put the picture back on the wall to cover the safe.

Not that it mattered. Not one bit. Sloan had learned their despicable secret, but he had no intention of keeping it. He was through with keeping secrets, and suddenly it didn't matter who he took down with him.

He hopped in his car and burned rubber as he peeled out of the driveway. He had one thing to do before he confronted his father's oldest and dearest friend. And then, after he'd done that... Then what?

The answer screamed over and over in his head. Why fight it anymore? He was his father's son. And his mother's. He'd tried to deny it for too many years. There was obviously no point in denying it.

There was no point at all.

Chapter Eighteen.

Sloan pulled up in front of the house and stared.

Somebody had turned on the lights. Was he hallucinating? No. There were cars in the drive as well. He focused his attention on the vehicles. They looked familiar. But his brain was so fuzzy. He couldn't seem to remember...

He felt as if he'd downed a fifth of whiskey in the last half hour, and yet he hadn't touched a drop. He felt muzzy and confused from the torrent of outrage and the ideas that swarmed through his head like black flies buzzing around a deer-biting and nipping, ripping away flesh and stripping away sanity.

He just kept staring at the blazing, glaring lights and tried to will them away. He couldn't face people just

now. He couldn't have people in his house. Not now. Not tonight! He had to go in there and look...for something. What was it again? Maybe if he went inside he'dremember. And then, against his will, he did...

"Sloan?" she lisped through lips that looked as pale and bloodless as marble.

He licked his own lips that had gone as dry as chaff. He looked down at the knife he held, clutched in his fist. Cold metal gleamed through a slick coating of red. He didn't remember picking it up, and yet there it

was.

He looked back at her. "Mom?" he rasped. "Why?"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered as tears dribbled off her chin and blood wept from her fingertips. Slowly.