Almost as if he'd been coached,Angela thought. "What is it with you people? Is everyone scared to death of him, or does he have all of you drinking some kind of secret punch? Cherry Kool-Aid with a kick?"

"Mr. Lawrence protects his privacy. I respect that."

Angela unb.u.t.toned her coat. It was warm inside the Expedition. "He's worth more than most small countries, and I couldn't find a picture of him anywhere. Not even on the Internet. He's been linked romantically to some of the world's most beautiful women, travels constantly, owns many companies, and probably has thousands of employees. But no photo's ever surfaced. According to a couple of Web sites I checked out, theNational Enquirer is offering a million-dollar reward for any credible photograph of him, but they haven't had to pay out yet. I would think one of you would snap a picture of him and get rich quick."

Tucker turned down the SUV's heat. "People are loyal to him."

"Loyalty usually fades at the prospect of collecting a million dollars."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"What does Mr. Lawrence look like?" she asked.

Tucker bit his lip.

"Have you ever seen him?"

Again, there was no answer.

She shook her head in disbelief. "You don't actually know what he looks like, do you?"

"Heads up!"

Tucker's arm shot across Angela's chest, pinning her to the seat as he slammed on the brakes. The tires grabbed the snow-covered road for a moment, then the SUV began to slide. In the high beams a hulking form materialized out of the storm, standing in the middle of the road like a statue, mesmerized by the bright lights bearing down on it. Then the tires caught and the SUV skidded to a stop ten feet short of the form.

"Is that an elk?" Angela asked, breathless.

"Yup. A big male."

"A male? But it doesn't have any antlers."

"The males lose their antlers every winter and grow new ones in the spring. All deer species males do that. Antelope keep their antlers year-round."

"Then how do you know it's a male?"

"The shoulders. Look how broad they are."

"If you say so." After Tucker's arm slid from her body, Angela reached around and buckled her seat belt. "Thanks for catching me."

"I should have reminded you to buckle up at the airport," he apologized, dousing the headlights and leaning on the horn. When he turned the lights back on thirty seconds later, the elk was gone, the only proof of its presence a disturbed line in the snow leading off into the darkness. "Like I said, you never know what you'll run into out here."

She hadn't come close to hitting the dashboard or the windshield despite the sudden stop. John Tucker was a powerful man.

A few minutes later they turned off the main road and the snowy surface quickly gave way to clear, wet blacktop. "How is that possible?" Angela asked, leaning forward and pointing at the pavement as they approached a guard station. "Where's the snow?"

"Welcome to Jake Lawrence's world."

"What do you mean?"

"There are steam pipes buried beneath the road that prevent the surface from freezing," he explained, slowing to a stop as he waited for the guards inside the station to electronically open the gate that spanned the roadway.

"You're kidding."

He nodded to one of the guards as they pa.s.sed the station. "No, I'm not. When your father is the original financial backer of the young genius who invents the software running 90 percent of all the personal computers in the world and leaves 40 percent of the company to you when he dies, you can do just about anything you want. No more worrying about the monthly mortgage. Instead of looking for ways tosave , you start looking for ways tospend ."

Several hundred yards past the guard station, the road turned steep, snaking back and forth through a thick pine forest as it climbed a mountain. Then bright lights appeared through the snow. Moments later Tucker pulled the Expedition to a halt beneath the porte cochere of the ranch's main lodge-a four-story log structure brightly illuminated by powerful spotlights affixed to the eaves.

"Well, I hope you enjoy yourself here, Angela." Tucker held out his hand as a man who had emerged from the lodge opened her door, then retrieved her luggage from the back.

"Thank you." She took his hand, noticing this time how tough the skin of his palm was. It was the palm of a man who worked hard for a living. "Will I see you again?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. That's not up to me."

And then he leaned subtly toward her, and she knew what had happened. The light from the lodge had caught her eyes just so, giving him his first good look at them. She'd seen that same double take many times before.

"Well, good night, Angela," he said quietly.

"Good night."

She stepped out of the Expedition and followed the attendant into the lodge's foyer and down a long hallway into a huge room. The ma.s.sive area was sixty feet square beneath a twenty-five-foot-high ceiling. The far wall was dominated by dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows, and the other three split-log walls were covered with stuffed animal heads, including those of several species not native to North America.

"So he kills for sport," she murmured. The words echoed in the stillness of the room.

As her words dissipated, a young woman wearing a maid uniform appeared from a side doorway and took Angela's makeup kit.

"Oh, thank you."

"This way, Ms. Day," the young man called over his shoulder, motioning toward a wide winding staircase that seemed to tumble into a far corner of the room like a rocky waterfall.

But, as Angela took a deep breath and prepared to climb, the attendant stopped beside the first step, pulled back a hinged picture mounted on the wall, and pressed a b.u.t.ton. Moments later, he opened a door beside the b.u.t.ton and ushered her and the maid into a small elevator. When the elevator opened on the fourth floor, he led Angela down another long hall to a cozy room dominated by a queen-size sleigh bed that seemed to be calling her name. It was almost midnight, which meant it was two o'clock in the morning back East. She hadn't realized until now just how exhausted she was.

"The bathroom is in there," the attendant explained, placing her bag down on a stand beneath a window, then moving to the bathroom doorway and flicking on a light. "If you need anything, simply pick up the phone on the table by your bed and wait for the operator. The kitchen is open twenty-four hours a day for your convenience," he said, moving back to the hall doorway. "Will there be anything else?"

"What about tomorrow?" she asked, watching the maid disappear into the bathroom with her makeup kit, then reappear empty-handed. The woman then moved to the bed and began turning down the covers. "What time should I be ready for Mr. Lawrence?"

"Your meeting with him is at three o'clock. We have instructions to allow you to sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, call us and we'll serve you breakfast here or downstairs, whichever you prefer."

"Which do you suggest?"

"Downstairs. The view from the dining area off the great room is fabulous."

"Unless it's still snowing."

"The storm should be past us by midmorning. It's moving quickly."

"How many other people are staying in the lodge tonight?" Angela asked.

"You are the only guest."

"I see." Somehow she wished there were at least a few other occupants on the floor.

"Good night, Ms. Day," the attendant said, ushering the maid out ahead of him.

"Good night."

When they were gone, Angela slid the deadbolt across the door, then walked into the bathroom. After removing her clothes she stood before the large mirror above the double sink, gazing at herself. She was tired but she wanted to shower before curling up in the sleigh bed. Flying always made her want to take a shower. It was as if she needed to cleanse herself of the fear she'd endured.

She put her hands on the sink, and gazed at the face she had inherited from her parents. The wavy, jet-black hair of her Sicilian mother. The gold-specked green eyes of her Irish father and the long, thick eyelashes of her mother. Her mother's full lips below her father's thin nose. Her high cheekbones, slender face, and delicate chin.

She leaned forward until her lips almost touched the mirror, trying to be objective as she scanned her face for any signs of age lines or wrinkles. There was nothing, but she knew it wouldn't be that way for long. The physical signs of age were just around the corner.

She took two steps back and rose to her full, five-foot-eight-inch height. She was slim-waisted, and her thin upper body was dominated by large, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She pivoted, took one of her b.u.t.tocks in her fingers and squeezed. No dimples at all was an absolute impossibility under this stress, but there weren't many, and none at all when she stopped squeezing.

Her eyes focused on the tiny tattoo high on her hip. It was an etching of a colorful b.u.t.terfly, its yellow and orange wings no more than an inch across. She'd gotten it near the end of her second year at Duke, at her future husband's urging and despite her own reluctance. He had taken her to a tiny parlor in downtown Durham one Sat.u.r.day himself, trying to convince her to have the tattoo etched in a more prominent spot on her body as they'd driven from his apartment. On her shoulder, he kept saying, so he could see it when they went swimming or when she wore something strapless. But she had refused. Ultimately, she was glad she had kept the b.u.t.terfly in a spot that even a skimpy bathing suit could hide.

Angela ran her finger slowly across the b.u.t.terfly's wings. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the emotional pain she'd endured because of him, she didn't regret getting it because it reminded her of those times with him that had been good. So good. The best she'd ever known.

She turned back around so she was facing the mirror. She might be thirty-one, but by sticking religiously to a demanding exercise regimen and a healthy diet, she'd kept herself looking pretty darned good. She leaned forward again and grimaced at the faint stretch marks on her lower belly. They were small, almost invisible, unless you knew they were there. But they were there, all right. And they were impossible to get rid of. She shook her head and moved toward the shower. Pregnancy had left an indelible scar.

The man on the other side of the bathroom's two-way mirror eased back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath as Angela Day disappeared into the shower. The pictures of her he'd been provided with a few hours ago hadn't done her justice. She was even prettier with nothing left to the imagination, her body only inches from his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, still picturing the b.u.t.terfly tattoo. One way or another, he would get what he wanted.

CHAPTER TWO.

As promised, the view from the small dining area off the great room was spectacular. Less than a hundred yards from where Angela sat, a deep gorge fell away from the lodge, and in the distance she could see soaring peaks iced by a fresh layer of pristine snow. She shielded her eyes as the early afternoon sun momentarily broke through the storm's lingering clouds and a brilliant glare burst upon the landscape.

"Let me fix that, Ms. Day." The same woman who had taken Angela's breakfast order a few minutes ago closed the blinds over the window beside the table.

"Thank you."

"More coffee?"

"Please."

Angela watched as the woman freshened her cup with more of the delicious Brazilian blend, thinking about how easily she could get used to this life. After her midnight shower she'd slipped between the flannel sheets and fallen asleep right away. Next thing she'd known, it was nine o'clock in the morning. She'd tried to get up but the sheets had seemed to pull her back onto the comfortable mattress, and she'd fallen asleep again. Just before eleven she'd been able to get her feet to the floor, take another shower, and dress for her three o'clock appointment with Jake Lawrence. Now it was almost one, and the antic.i.p.ation of meeting one of the world's wealthiest men was intensifying.

When the woman was gone, an elderly black man shuffled into the dining room carrying a tray ladened with plates. After setting the tray down on a highboy along one wall, he moved to the table and picked up the white linen napkin folded before her, preparing to place it in her lap.

"You don't need to do that." Angela caught his hand. "Let me have it."

"I really don't mind."

"No," she said firmly, slipping the linen from his fingers.

"As you wish." He moved back to the highboy and returned a moment later with a plate of blueberry pancakes and a small pitcher of maple syrup. His second trip from the highboy brought scrambled eggs and bacon, and the third a bowl of fresh fruit and a basket of warm biscuits. "Would you like anything else?" he asked with a wide grin.

"No, thank you. G.o.d, I'll explode if I make it through even half of all this."

The man picked up Angela's fork and handed it to her.

She shook her head. "Please don't-"

"I'm not bitter, Ms. Day," he said. "So don't you feel guilty. It doesn't do anybody any good."

Angela looked up. "What do you mean?"

"If I were white, would you have allowed me to put the napkin in your lap?"

She hesitated. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He nodded slowly. "Well, don't hesitate to ring me if you need anything," he instructed, tapping a small bell on a far corner of the table as he headed back toward the kitchen.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

Angela looked up to see John Tucker standing in the doorway of the great room, pulling off dusty leather work gloves. She rolled her eyes, embarra.s.sed by the forkful of blueberry pancakes she'd just put in her mouth and the strip of bacon she was holding.

"How in the world do you keep that slim figure of yours eating pancakes and bacon?" he wanted to know, sitting in the chair opposite hers and shaking his head as he surveyed the food. "Taking Mr. Lawrence up on his generosity, I see."

"This is a rare treat for me, I a.s.sure you." She'd been right last night in the SUV. Tucker did have friendly eyes. And in the light of day she could see a hint of mischief in them as well. "I usually start the day with half a bowl of oatmeal and two egg whites but, given all of the luxury around me, I decided to make an exception."

"I'll bet you don't eat your first meal of the day at one in the afternoon very often either." Tucker dropped his gloves and his grimy tan ten-gallon down on the white tablecloth. "I heard they were about to send someone up to your room to wake you."

"Someone?" Angela asked coyly.

She'd thought about Tucker while getting dressed this morning, hoping this might happen. He would never grace the cover ofGQ magazine, but he was attractive in a rugged way. He had wavy, dirty blond hair that fell to the bottom of the wool collar of the leather jacket he'd been wearing last night. His eyes were large and brown, and his face was broad and ruddy beneath a three-day growth of stubble-a hint of gray rippling through the whiskers on his chin. He was a big man, too. Six three, she guessed, with wide shoulders and thick-fingered hands. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but she wasn't sure. Maybe he was older if he'd been Jake Lawrence's employee for twenty years.

Tucker had a natural swagger about him she liked, too. He'd ambled into the room with one hand in the back pocket of his jeans, pulled the chair out with the toe of his muddy boot, and sat down like he owned the place. It was a swagger that told her he was confident he could handle whatever came his way. A swagger she was drawn to, as she had been drawn to another man's once before.

"Yeah, someone," he repeated with a slight smile.

"Not you?"

"Nope."

"Sure, cowboy," she said quietly so the help wouldn't hear, slowly raising one long, thin eyebrow at him. "I bet you wouldn't mind finding out what I wear to bed." It was a forward thing for her to say, but she already felt very comfortable with him, as if they'd known each other for a long time. She prided herself on being a quick and accurate judge of character, and he seemed honest and sincere. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve. "Come on. Tell me the truth."

He tried to hold back, but then chuckled and looked down. "No, I'm sure I wouldn't. But I'm not allowed upstairs without an escort."

"I thought youran this place."