He was quiet for so long that Marnie's thoughts began to race. "Could it have been something else? Suicide?"

"No, Regine didn't kill herself. Someone did it for her."

His head came up, and the angle of his jaw was white, clenched. Marnie knew she should wait, but the questions spilled out anyway. "Someone murdered her? Who?" She answered for him. "Alison?"

He nodded. "I was in a drunken haze for a long time afterward, trying to ease my guilt and avoid thinking about it. Alison was right there to help me forget, and at first, I was grateful. It wasn't until after we were married and I sobered up that it dawned on me. Regine was in the way of Alison's grand ambitions, which included pop stardom-and me-as a means to that end."

He exhaled tightly. "She was amoral, incapable of thinking beyond her own needs."

Now Marnie understood the revulsion in his eyes when he looked at her, the barely concealed loathing. He had reasons to hate Alison that anyone would have understood, and he was also struggling with guilt and self-recrimination. Could that tangled mix of emotions have driven him to act on his hatred of Alison?

Marnie's thoughts began to whirl again. Maybe it wasn't Alison's trust fund he'd been after, as Julia had suggested. Maybe it was revenge.

She moved away from him, toward the door. "Some people might call that a motive, Andrew. They might say you were punishing Alison for what you believed she did to Regine. Is that why Alison fell into the sea and drowned? Because she drowned Regine?"

He turned on Marnie, icy and furious. "If I was going to kill Alison, I would have done it that night with my bare hands. She would have been dead the moment I realized what she'd done. I wouldn't have waited five years and pushed her off a boat."

He was enraged. Marnie could feel the heat of it burning through the edges of her fear. She could hear it in his voice. He hadn't done it. Or maybe she just desperately wanted to believe he hadn't, and that was good enough.

She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, feeling drained more than anything else. Julia may have given her a way out of this, but now that door had closed. She was trapped. She was here, with him-and she was staying.

She bowed her head and let out a sigh.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"No, I'm not," she said, going quiet. There was no such thing as all right under the circumstances, but she had made her choice, and at least the room had stopped spinning. This was her world. He was the devil she knew.

Finally she asked the only logical question that came to her. "Are you really going to Mexico for a rock concert?"

"Why else would I be going?"

"I don't know, to find Alison? Isn't that what you would do if you thought she was alive? Look for her? Andrew, please, tell me the truth."

Andrew steeled his voice. "Listen to me," he said. "I'm not going to look for Alison. The odds of her being alive are infinitesimal, and we need to concern ourselves with real live threats. We have plenty of those. Now, will you let me finish what I need to tell you?"

"Andrew, is this trip about a rock concert or not?"

Her eyes were on fire. Blue fire. She wasn't going to let this go.

"Yes, it is a rock concert. I'd bring you with me, but it won't be pretty, and to be honest, I don't want to have to worry about you."

She went quiet, pensive. Finally, a nod. He took it for acquiescence.

"I want you safe while I'm gone," he said. "Can we talk about that?"

Resistance lurked in the set of her mouth. She wasn't convinced of anything, least of all any plan he might have for her safety.

"The detective works with a partner," he told her. "I want to hire them both, one to find your grandmother and the other to keep an eye on you while I'm gone. I've already set everything up. If you agree, a man will show up tomorrow to work on the grounds in place of the regular gardener, and at night, he'll stake out the house. No one will know why he's really here, but you'll have a special cell phone, and all you have to do is press a button if you need him."

"There's going to be a detective here tomorrow? How did you manage that?"

Andrew rubbed his fingers together in the universal gesture of money changing hands. "All I ask is that you don't blow his cover."

"No, of course not." She touched her throat, covering a reddening patch of skin. Another blotch was forming on her face near her jaw, and the distress in her face was obvious. "There was no need to do that, Andrew. It's not me I'm worried about."

"Then, what is it?"

"I have a bad feeling about all of this." She rose from the bed and began to pace again. "Something's wrong."

He frowned. "Can you give me a little more to work with?"

"I don't like the idea of some stranger hunting for my grandmother. I should be doing that. And as for you flying off in the middle of the night to a place where people are rioting-well, that's just crazy."

"The P.I. isn't a stranger. He's a professional, and the best money can buy. And I appreciate your concerns about my safety. That's very sweet, but there's no reason. I can take care of myself."

She glared at him. "Sweet? Me? Hardly. I'm not a fortune-teller like my grandmother. I'm not even superstitious, really, but this trip of yours..."

She shook her head, seeming unable to explain herself. Maybe it really was him that she was worried about. He wanted to remind her that he'd taken on four strapping young men once, on her account, but she would probably rather forget about that, and he didn't want to embarrass her.

"I was a boxer in school," he said, "at Cambridge, and a pretty good one. I'm well-versed in self-defense, and I'll have a weapon on me."

"What kind of weapon?"

"A pistol, semiautomatic."

"Can you get that on a plane?"

"The gun and I travel separately."

Her brow furrowed. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

She stared at him for several long, soul-searching moments, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. It felt as if she were cutting into him with a fiery blade. God, she was intense. She might not be a fortune-teller, but she had an uncanny ability to read him. And she was wise to have a bad feeling about this trip. She was right about that.

To his complete bewilderment, she reached behind her head and unhooked the chain at her nape.

"What are you doing?" he asked. His jugular began to pulse. Never a good sign.

She walked over to him, her hand extended, the delicate gold chain dripping from her fingers. "I want you to take this with you, just in case."

"Your good luck charm? I can't do that. It's from your grandmother."

"Take it, wear it. I want you to. Dammit."

She had that fierce, show-no-mercy expression on her face, but he was beginning to see it as a front for deeper emotions, in this case fear and frustration, even anguish. She really didn't want him to go, and she was struggling with her feelings.

He took the chain. "Thank you," he said, not sure what else to do. "I'll keep it close. I promise."

"Okay, then," she said, her voice going hoarse.

Please, God, don't let her cry. I don't do well when this woman cries.

He watched her closely, praying that she would win her fight against the tears. He really didn't understand what had provoked her to give him the charm. He knew what it meant to her, beyond the connection to her grandmother. It had saved her life.

She sucked in a breath, apparently shoring herself up.

Grateful, he moved to drop the chain in the pocket of his robe, but her hand flashed out and caught his, as if he'd been about to slap a child.

Her expression was fierce again. "I want you to wear it," she said. "The chain is long enough. No one will see it under your clothes. Here."

She took it from him and turned him around. She had him so off guard he didn't think to protest. It was as if a form of paralysis had come over him. He was a Ken doll, unable to move until she lifted his arm. Bizarre. He felt her doing things to his neck, breathing on him and feathering his skin as she stood on tiptoe and craned around his shoulder, trying to see the chain she was arranging.

Her fingers were warm and silky, and her breath trembled a little as it lapped against his hair and face. She smelled of lilies and tangy feminine perspiration. He was nervous, too.

"There," she said, her voice low and oddly breathy. "Now maybe I can relax."

Yes, but could he? When he turned around, she averted her eyes. He tipped her head up to thank her again, and saw the roiling mix of emotion that shadowed her eyes. What in God's name? Pain, fear, desire. They were burning her up. It confounded him.

"I can't let you go," she said. "I'm scared."

His body was in knots. "Jesus, Marnie."

22.

It had already gone too far. Marnie wanted to take back what she'd said and tell him to go on his trip. She would help him pack. He would be back before anyone missed him, and everything would be fine. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Stay with me."

She couldn't stop the shudder that unlocked her frozen jaw or the fire that stung her throat like nettles. She was going to cry.

"Don't go," she got out.

He stood back to peer at her. What was going on? That was the question in his eyes. He didn't seem to know who this poor, pathetic woman was any more than she did. But as he stared at her, his jaw tightened into a knot and his face formed a scowl.

And then a miracle happened. He was the one who lost control. Not tears, nothing like that, but just for an instant, he gripped her arms hard enough to take her breath away. "Andrew?" She hadn't imagined the hesitation in his breathing or the painful twitch in his cheek muscle.

"Shut up." He yanked her into his arms with such force she couldn't speak. "I have to go, but you'll be fine. I have you covered. Nothing bad is going to happen."

Something in his voice told her that he meant every word, but only the first part registered. He would not change his mind about going. There was nothing she could do.

She sagged against him. "Okay then, whatever."

"I'll be all right," he whispered. "I'm coming back for you."

He took her by her shoulders and held her away. "It's true," he said, as if that statement was a revelation, even to him.

Marnie crawled back to him. The entire length of his arms she crawled, clutching and sighing, into the heat of his embrace. His robe had come undone and she stole her way inside it, coming flush against him, grinding her hips into his, aching, reveling.

"Ah, God," she whispered.

She just couldn't help herself.

He groaned, and it was the most erotic thing she'd ever heard. She felt him hardening against her belly, and the pressure sent an urgent thrill through her.

She was so afraid of this man, and so crazy hungry for him. And was that any surprise? All her life she had dreamed of being with him, and now that she had been, he was leaving her, and she didn't know where the hell he was going-or why.

"Whatever we're doing, we need to stop." Andrew's warning turned into a growl.

"Yes, but not tonight. You're leaving and there are no guarantees, Andrew. I need this."

She shrugged out of her jacket, and before it hit the floor they were both at work, unbuttoning her slacks. His reaction was immediate. His cheek muscle wasn't the only thing twitching now. He was aroused, but for a moment, the sight of him took her back. She'd rarely encountered a man in this state who hadn't been calling her names and degrading her. It had almost always been that way. Men like Butch had lusted after her and hated themselves for it.

This was different. He was different.

His robe hit the ground, and he bent over her, hesitating long enough to draw up her camisole and release the front closure of her bra. Her breasts fell free, and he let out a sigh that was heavy with appreciation. There was none of the hesitation of their last encounter in the way he touched her. His hands thrilled her. They were tender and sweetly punishing. His lips and teeth were even better. His white-hot tugs on her nipples made her whimper with pleasure.

"I need to make love to you," he told her. "There are no guarantees, and I need that."

She dropped into the overstuffed chair and reached for him as he moved between her legs. The weight of his body sent voltage coursing through her. She couldn't hold still. She couldn't wait. It was insane, but she was already climaxing when he entered her. The pressure of his body moving inside hers created even deeper sensations. It was like a waterfall breaking the surface of a pond and driving all the way to the bottom before dissolving into ripples and bubbles.

Suddenly everything tightened, and Marnie forgot to breathe. He scooped her into his arms and she fell against him, limp and shuddering, still spasming with pleasure. She couldn't move to save her life. She wasn't sure she ever would again.

At some point later when the tremors had quieted, she hooked her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She wondered how long they had before he left. There would be no sleep tonight either, but that wasn't a concern. She wanted to feel the heat and solidity of his body and whatever sense of comfort that could give her.

Tomorrow it would all be different. He would be in another country, and she had a plan of her own, although it didn't involve searching for her grandmother. She would let the expert do that, at least for now.

Marnie sat up in bed, startled to see daylight beyond the glass balcony doors. She'd known Andrew would be gone before morning, but she'd thought he would wake her when he left. She slipped on his robe and made a quick search of the bedroom and bath. Apparently he'd had a bag packed. Otherwise, she would have heard him.

She found the cell phone he'd mentioned on the night table, with a note explaining that it had a panic button for the detective, as well as international range and a number to reach Andrew in emergencies. That relieved her mind. She didn't see her good luck charm anywhere, either. He hadn't left it on the pillow, as she'd thought he might.

She touched her throat, aware of the hollow sensation in her stomach. She'd worn the ring since she was a kid. There was no way not to feel naked without it.

As she gathered the terry robe around her and tied the sash, she contemplated what her next move would be. It wasn't quite seven, and the light filling the windows was hazy with coastal clouds. She doubted anyone was up yet. If she acted quickly, she might be able to accomplish her mission while the household was still sleeping.

A moment later, she was downstairs and moving soundlessly through the house, stopping at every window to look out. The landscaping was extensive, despite the mansion being built on a cliff. Rock gardens alternated with terraced greenbelts, and every patio had potted palms, hanging ferns and bubbling fountains. She'd noticed that a small crew came occasionally to do the heavy work, and the rest of the time, one gardener maintained everything.

She was looking for that man.

When she'd covered the entire floor, she stood at the living room windows with a deep sense of disappointment. She'd been hoping to see the man Andrew had said would be here. Maybe it was too early, or the wrong day. She thought he'd said in the morning, but the grounds were deserted.

She was turning away when she thought she saw a sudden movement. A shadow? Had it come from the terrace? It could have been anything, a bird in flight. She unbolted the French doors, glancing around before she slipped outside.

It was getting late enough that someone might be awake. The tide was low, muting the sound of the surf, but Marnie thought she heard another noise, the scuff of shoes on stone.