She sighed lightly. "I make no apologies. He deserved it."

"What? You're punishing him for being gay?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Troy, he's not gay!"

Troy blinked stupidly, then shook his head. "Oh, Franki. Give it up, already. He's been out of your reach for years. This is a bit pathetic."

Her features frosted over. "That is not what this is about. I just know, okay. He's lying. I'm positive."

"Why the hell would he lie about something like that? Most people lie in order to stay in the closet, not fake coming out of it." He clenched his fists, unsure as to why this was bothering him so much.

"He's doing it to cover up something else. That's the only explanation. Something big."

"There's a secret that's bigger than homosexuality?"

"It depends on your perspective, wouldn't you say? It depends on what's important. And it depends on the consequences of revealing said secret."

"What are you saying? You think he's covering up a crime or something? You think he ran across the border to elude the authorities?"

Franki perked up. "I hadn't considered that. But it's a possibility." Her eyes drilled into his. "Right? Admit it, Troy. You know it's well within the realm of possibility."

Now Troy squirmed in his seat. He looked at the doors where Bree and Sloan had disappeared. He didn't want to look at Franki. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth in what she was saying. Because the thing was, the scenario was all too plausible.

Sloan breaking the law?

It wouldn't be the first time.

Sloan sat on the sand and gazed out across the bay. A silver-dollar moon hovered mere inches above the water and Sloan almost thought he could follow the shimmering trail across the waves until he was close enough to touch it-to snatch it from the sky and tuck it in his pocket. But, of course, that was pure fantasy. That would involve walking on water, and reaching a hand across the empty vacuum of space. That would involve doing the impossible, and, no matter how hard he tried, he had never quite managed to do that.

"Sloan?" He felt a gentle hand on his. "Is something wrong? Ever since we came out here you've been awfully quiet." They had walked along the shore until they found a soft, sandy spot just a few feet from the waterline. Heedless of the danger to their expensive attire they had settled down against a log to enjoy the view.

He kept his eyes closed and focused on the gentle lullaby of waves lapping against the pebbled shore. "The booze is wearing off, and that always depresses the hell out of me."

Her hand remained on his. "Don't you feel better now that it's off your chest?"

He shrugged. He didn't want to lie anymore tonight. "I do feel better being out here with the waves and the stars..." He squeezed her hand. "And you. Despite appearances I did miss you, Bree. All of you. And it's good to be home."

She was silent for a time, and he kept his eyes closed. He had just drifted off when her voice startled him awake. "Are you?" she asked.

"What? Am I glad to be home? Of course."

"No. Are you really going home? I'm not surprised that you're not staying at the old place. I mean, it must be filthy with dust. But I would have thought you'd at least check it out when you arrived."

"Oh, I might drive over there," he lied. What was one more, after all? "Craig wants to see it, but I really feel very little attachment to it."

"How can you say that? It's been in your family for generations. You grew up there."

"And my father died there," he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. "And my mother left it with barely a second thought. That house was her pride and joy." He stood and walked to the water. He slipped off his shoes and socks and waded into the waves. It was still shockingly cold compared to the balmy surf of California. But the cold felt good. It, at least, felt real.

He sensed Bree following him. "Is that why it's been neglected?"

"Yeah. It was her responsibility. And if she didn't care enough about it to stay and take care of it, then I figured it wasn't my job. The house is in her name, and I have no need for it."

"So, it's her that doesn't want to sell? Is that why you've been so adamant about not putting it on the market?"

He looked down at his feet but they were hidden by water that had turned inky black in the absence of sunlight.

"Do you ever see her?"

"No."

The silence coated his senses like oil. He couldn't move, could barely breathe. "Why?" she ventured at last. "I always thought you two were so close. I-I don't get it."

"We had sort of a...falling out just before she...left."

"Right. You didn't approve of this European lover of hers."

Sloan pictured the tall broad frame of his mother's lover. He could easily picture those dark eyes set against a sun-baked Mediterranean complexion. He could see that lean hard mouth that curved into an arrogant smile. It was easy to picture the man who had haunted his dreams for the past eight years. Because, after all, Sloan had created him.

"No, I didn't. But no matter how I feel about him, I know it wasn't his fault. I hated what she did. And then I hated how I treated her. And somehow it's been easier not to face it...I guess."

She leaned into him and laid her head against his shoulder.

Instinctively he wrapped an arm around her waist and wished for things that could never be.

"That's too bad, Sloan. I mean, about your mother, and about the house. That place was always so beautiful. Your mother took such good care of it, and it's so sad to see it like that."

He needed to get off this topic. He didn't want to talk about his mother or the house.

He released her and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, well, one of these days maybe I'll see about getting it cleaned out and fixed up. You're right. It's a shame to let it rot."

"Maybe while you're here?" she asked hopefully.

"No. Not this time. I don't have that much time. And I don't really want strangers in there, you know? I'd rather do it myself."

She studied him, and he fought the urge to reach out and pull the pins from her hair. He wanted to see those chestnut waves spilling over her shoulders just like the moonlight was spilling over them now.

Instead he whirled around and headed back to his shoes. "I really should get back. If Craig wakes up he'll worry." He cringed even as he said it.

"I'm disappointed in you, Sloan."

Those few soft words struck him like a hammer. He took his time slipping back into his shoes, in order to give his emotions a chance to smooth over. "Well, I'm sorry if my lifestyle doesn't meet with your approval. I suppose divorce is a socially acceptable shortcoming." He turned to look at her. "My sins are a little less forgivable."

She fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"No? Then what the hell do you mean?"

"God! You're more self-centered than I thought. And even more arrogant. Everything has to be about you, doesn't it?"

Sloan stepped back, reeling from the accusation. "Excuse me?"

"You haven't felt the need to ask me anything about my life. And I have to wonder if it actually never crossed your mind, or if you made a conscious decision to hurt me because of what I did."

"Well, I was the guest of honor, you know. And I'm so used to being the center of attention." He felt defensive and inevitably that led to sarcasm. "Besides, I distinctly remember asking you about your shop and your pottery."

"Oh," she sneered. "I stand corrected."

"I'm sure you're used to that. Being wrong, I mean."

Even in the moonlight he could see the fire shooting from her eyes. She spun around and stalked away from him. "Shit," he muttered, striding after her. He grabbed her arm.

She whirled on him. "What?" "Don't walk away from me," he shot back. Her mouth dropped open in amazement. "That's quite the ultimatum for you to be throwing at me." "That was no ultimatum, and what the hell just happened here, anyway?" He threw up his hands. "I thought I was forgiven. I thought things were okay. I thought..." He shook his head in disgust and dropped his hands to his sides. "Forget it. I was an idiot to think bridges could be mended that easily." "And I was an idiot to think you ever cared about me." He could hear the tears in her voice. "I did care. And I do." "You're a liar, Sloan."

"I never denied being a liar. But I'm not lying about that." "If you cared about me, how could you walk out like that, with hardly a word..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I want to forgive you for that. I know you were in your own private hell, but still... And now you come back, and you still don't seem to care. You never asked about my marriage. Not even about my mother."

Sloan felt completely overwhelmed, the emotions too varied and numerous to categorize. But there was no denying that there was one that overshadowed all the others-guilt. "You're right, and I'm sorry." He was just so tired of being sorry. "Tonight was just so overwhelming. I barely had time to think, and then the party was over and..." He sucked in a fortifying breath of damp night air. "If it's any consolation I thought about you often over the years. And I thought about your mom. I hope my mom kept writing her."

"Yes." Bree sniffled. "Not as often as she'd like, but she did."

"Good. At least that's something. Mom valued Lydia's friendship. I hope she knows that."

"I suppose she does, but it's small consolation when your friend is a thousand miles away and you're

lying on your death bed."

Sloan blinked. Again. "What?"

"Well, we never had a return address so Mom couldn't write Janelle to let her know. But Mom was

diagnosed with ovarian cancer about a year ago. It spread to her lymph and then to her bones. She's got

a few more months. If that." Sloan felt his knees go weak. "Christ." He took a step toward Bree but didn't reach out. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"She'd love to see you."

"Yeah. Sure," he choked out around a lump of grief that had congealed in his throat. "I'll go tomorrow."

"You can bring Craig. I'm sure she'd love to see that you've found someone."

He frowned. "Really? She'd be okay with it?"

"Facing death has a funny way of allowing you to see what's really important. If you're happy, that will

be all that matters." God, I'm a shit! He was going to expand his horizons of deception to encompass a dying woman. But then again, Lydia had been systematically deceived for years. He supposed this was the next logical step.

"Okay, sure. I'll bring him." "Good. I'll pick you up at ten." "Ten? Craig will be a bear." "All right. Eleven. But not one moment later. You owe me, Sloan. And don't you forget it." He nodded, and got the sinking feeling he was going to owe her for the rest of his life. However long-or short-that span of time might turn out to be. * * * * * Sloan and Bree headed back toward town, oblivious to the lone, dark figure that watched them from the shadows. He had followed them as they splashed along the beach, had watched them hold hands and embrace. He had heard them whisper and share their dreams and their pain. Vicariously, he had shared in their intimacy, using the only resources he had available to him-wiliness and stealth. He was good at it. He'd had plenty of practice. Close to twenty years of watching and listening and fantasizing had failed to sate a hunger that he could barely understand, but neither could he deny. It had failed to provide him with the one thing he truly needed. It hadn't even come close. It had, however, resulted in the acquisition of something else he desperately needed, and could never have too much of. Information.

Tonight was no exception. He still didn't understand Sloan's motives, or how much he knew, but perhaps he now had a way to find out.

Tomorrow. The intruder slipped back into the trees and retreated to his lair. He had things to do before eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. There was always so much to do, and it seemed like he shouldered it all himself. No one appreciated him. No one fully understood him. And no one cared about the sacrifices he'd made.

But some day they would all understand. And they would look at him with the respect and admiration he deserved. Someday they would accept him and treat him as one of their own. And if they didn't... Well, then, perhaps Sloan wasn't the only one who would have to pay.

Chapter Eight.

Sloan tugged on Craig's shirt. "Come on, slowpoke."

"What's that smell?" muttered Craig as they followed Bree down the long, sterile hallway.

Sloan rolled his eyes. "You and your nose. It's lunch. If you could have mobilized like a normal human

being we would have been here and gone before they served the stuff up." Empty lunch trays were being collected, but the odors of turkey surprise and weak coffee still lingered in the corridors.

"I hate hospitals."

"You hate any place that doesn't serve baked camembert and escargots." Sloan wasn't about to admit it but he was no fan of the disinfectant-saturated atmosphere either.

Craig scowled. "I hate snails, and you know it." He shuddered visibly. "And it's not the food. I hate that underlying smell. I hate the feel. And they're full of people with needles."

"No one is going to jump out of a closet and hold you hostage with a syringe at your throat." "I wouldn't be so sure about that." Craig glanced warily at a woman in surgical scrubs who strode pastthem. "You ever see Terminator 2?"

Bree stopped just outside the door to room 504. She turned and cocked an eyebrow at them. "Are you two always this amusing? It's almost as entertaining as a dancing monkey."

Sloan cast a sidelong glance at Craig. "I'm not sure but I think we've just been insulted."