Reaching out, she traced the gossamer wings of the fairy maiden moving onto the dance floor to accept the hand of the dark fairy prince who awaited her.

Delicate and bold, the fairy maiden looked up at the dark prince from the corner of her eyes as though considering the hand he held out to her.

The fairy was dressed in golds, russets, and soft browns. The sheer chiffon and tulle of the flowing dress made the maiden appear more delicate, while the wings rising from her back gave her the appearance of floating above the bricks she would have stepped to.

The dress Amelia had nearly completed for herself, wings and all, waited in one of the spare bedrooms in the downstairs guest wing of the house. The dress she wouldn't have a chance to wear now. Breathing out wearily, she lifted the whiteboard from its stand before storing it in the closet across the room. Returning and gathering the various theme boards from the larger easel, she carried them to the closet as well and closed the door on the sight of them.

There were notebooks of carefully detailed plans, sketches, and proposed themes. Contracts with various bands, a comic, three children's entertainment agencies, and even a fairy clown were already signed.

There were volunteer lists, notes made from years of planning and scheduling, and more notebooks of even more detailed lists that her mother had left from the years she had coordinated the social weekends.

There were lists of those who most enjoyed working with the younger children. Lists of the best cooks and their best dishes. Observations of the entertainment best suited and preferred by the children, the bands that drew the largest crowds, the themes most asked for, most preferred, and those that were the best value with accompanying prices broken down to the last penny.

She was stacking the notebooks in the totes she had taken them from when the office door opened slowly.

Stilling, Amelia drew in a deep, hard breath before turning hesitantly to face the man she'd drawn as the dark prince.

Savage.

He was the descendant of that first Irish Baron and a Native American princess, the only daughter of a great chief and dearly loved by not just her father, but all her people.

His hard features reflected the proud, independent, strong-willed ancestors he'd sprung from. A throwback, Amelia's mother had called him, even more so than his father.

So strong he had survived a lifetime of evil perpetuated by the man that claimed to be her father.

"You once told me any relationship with me would never work because my father so hated you," she now stated bitterly, remembering the letter she had found on her bed the night he had destroyed her life. "Tell me, Crowe, what will you tell everyone who questions why you're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a serial killer's daughter? Especially the daughter of the serial killer who murdered every member of your family except your sister and first cousins? How will you excuse that betrayal to every Callahan he murdered?"

That question had tormented her in the six weeks he'd been gone. Lying in the dark, staring into dim light of the moon outside her balcony doors, she'd tried to imagine an excuse that would work.

She hadn't found one.

"I stopped paying attention to demands a h.e.l.l of a long time ago, Amelia." Broad shoulders shrugged negligently as he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and watched her somberly. "And if I were to decide to answer such an asinine question I guess I'd just have to tell the truth."

The truth? That he was using her to draw out that killer? Or that he was determined to punish the only person he could link to that killer?

"The truth," she murmured. "That answer could get interesting."

"h.e.l.l, we're having s.e.x, not making babies. Right?" he growled before adding, "I doesn't matter who contributed his sperm to your creation, or whose DNA may be part of you. All that matters is the woman you are. And that woman bears no resemblance in any way, shape, or form to a killer."

Her lips curled mockingly. "That really doesn't matter to most people, Crowe. What does matter to them, though? That every appearance of disa.s.sociating themselves be maintained. The child might be innocent, but the parent isn't, so of course the child must be guilty as well. Right?"

She wasn't going to confront the first part of that question.

"You know better than that." He breathed out roughly, standing still, almost motionless as he watched her with a hint of wariness. "Come on, Amelia, I don't give a d.a.m.n what they think. Neither should you."

Should she know better than that? What they thought had just taken away all the joy her life had contained in the past seven years.

"Evidently I don't know anything," The retort sounded much angrier than she felt. She was simply too d.a.m.ned tired to work up the amount of rage it would take to match her voice. "Why are you even here? Haven't you figured out yet that Wayne doesn't care what we're doing as long as one of us is being punished?"

When Crowe had left that summer, seven years before, she remembered the dark silence that had seemed to fill Wayne until he'd learned of Amelia's interest in Crowe a year later. Thank G.o.d he'd never learned the full truth of their relationship. She'd been punished enough just for that "interest."

G.o.d, Amelia should have known. How had she not suspected what he was or the evil he possessed?

"Then we stop allowing the punishments," he decided.

She stared back at him, bemused. She knew Crowe, and she knew he didn't buy into such naive psychobabble.

"And you propose to stop it, how?" she asked, mocking the statement as she crossed her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s defensively. "Let's see, perhaps I should just inform the auxiliary they can vote me out every day of the week if they want, but I'm tired of being punished so I'm just going to ignore it. When they call Archer to force me out of the meetings, I'll just ignore him as well. But tell me." Tilting her head to the side questioningly, she gave him a hard, bitter look. "How do I ignore that tiny cell he'll lock me in?"

A dark chuckle rasped from his chest. The sound of it was far too s.e.xy for her peace of mind.

And why the h.e.l.l did she even care how s.e.xy it sounded?

"The imagery is amusing, fairy-girl, but hardly what I meant and I think you know it."

This time she was the one who shrugged as though she simply didn't give a d.a.m.n.

"There's no way I can ignore the facts of life at the moment, either, Crowe." Dropping her arms, she stared around her office as regret beat at her soul with bruising force. "Wayne's not here to punish; neither is Amory Wyatt. That just leaves me. And they'll make sure there's no escaping the fact that I'm being punished."

And she was sick of it.

Fury lashed at her senses as she fought to beat it back, fought to do as she had always done in the past when faced with the unfairness of the choices she'd had to make.

"So you're just going to lie down and accept their blows like you were forced to accept Wayne's?"

Amelia stared back at him silently as the question hung in the air between them, the implications racing through her mind. He smiled knowingly.

She clasped her hands before her, patiently linking her fingers together as she considered the best way to answer.

He chuckled in amus.e.m.e.nt, shaking his head. "Considering which lie to tell me?" An arrogant brow arched with mocking emphasis.

"Or trying to figure out what the h.e.l.l you're talking about," she scoffed, watching him warily.

There was really no way he could know or even suspect the truth where Wayne's abuse was concerned, was there?

"Lying, little sugar elf? When did you pick up that nasty little habit?"

She'd picked up that nasty little habit to protect his s.e.xy tight a.s.s, she thought in exasperation. After that, it had become her means of survival.

"Lying about what?" Just what she needed, Crowe possibly knowing more than he should.

He shook his head slowly, a low sound leaving his lips. "Now, Amelia, let's be honest here. Do you think I've not heard all the nasty little rumors running around since we identified Wayne as the Slasher?"

How had, or could, anyone have known to gossip about it? Surely he was just trying to bait her, to force the truth from her some way.

"What sort of rumors?" she asked hesitantly, uncertain whether or not she wanted to know.

His lips pursed thoughtfully for a moment before they curled into a mocking smile.

"The day Wayne brought you home from college he took you to old Doc James to have your wrist set," he stated. "Doc's notes were pretty concise, sweetheart. The break, he observed, wasn't consistent with the reason he was given for it."

The look on his face said he demanded an explanation.

"I fell." She pushed the lie from between her teeth. "I told him that."

"What caused the fall?" The studied innocence in his expression warned her he had a trump card just waiting for her.

The problem was, Amelia couldn't really remember what reason Wayne had given for the fall.

She excused herself with the fact she had been in an incredible amount of pain at the time.

"You didn't answer me, Amelia." He advanced on her slowly, his narrowed gaze locked with hers. "Exactly how did you fall?"

"I don't exactly remember how I fell, Crowe. What does it matter how it happened?"

"Wayne broke your wrist, didn't he, baby?" His voice deepened. The incredible gentleness in his tone-shadowing the anger toward Wayne in his gaze-had her aching to tell him the truth, to tell him-oh G.o.d, to tell him everything. And she knew that wasn't possible.

Tightening the hold she had on her fingers, Amelia forced herself to stand her ground and glare back at him.

"Why would you ask me such a thing?" She hated lying, but G.o.d he was pushing her. She didn't want to lie to him but neither did she want to answer his questions.

Unlike Wayne, if he became suspicious that Amelia was hiding something, Crowe would know what questions to ask.

The low rasp of another chuckle had her heart racing faster. He knew something. Something more than what he may have found in Doc James's records.

The question was, exactly what did he know?

"Shall I make it easy for you?" he suggested, moving toward her, the lean-hipped, powerful stride bringing him to her in just a few steps until he was preventing her from placing any distance between them.

"Oh, why don't you," she invited mockingly, wondering at what point pressure against the fingers would result in a break.

No doubt Wayne could have answered that silent question for her.

She only barely controlled a flinch as Crowe reach out and brushed her hair back from her cheek.

"Cami told me about the journal, Amelia," he murmured as she felt the blood leach from her face. "The same day he forced you to leave school, and when you arrived back in Sweetrock, your wrist was broken. Now, how did your wrist end up broken?"

"I fell," she lied, coldly.

If Cami had told Crowe about the journal and Wayne's reaction to it, then only G.o.d knew the questions Crowe would ask. Especially if he ever learned of Amelia's visit to Clyde Ramsey's ranch or the months before Wayne arrived at the school that Cami had been unable to find her.

She couldn't afford those questions. Not yet.

Crowe could see how tightly her fingers were clenched, the pressure against them turning them white.

She was lying. Pride and willful determination gleamed in her gaze, her control over her responses so great that only her fingers betrayed her.

"Hmm," he murmured. "Where did you break it?"

He was learning. Amelia was great at the surface lie, and she made it d.a.m.ned good. Until you looked beneath the surface.

"You know, Crowe, it's been so long and it's of so little concern to me that I don't remember much beyond the fact that it really hurt. So can we be done with the questions and answers already? I have things to do, and arguing with you is not on tonight's itinerary."

The sarcasm fell off her tongue as though it had been created for sa.s.s. Her posture, tone, expression-h.e.l.l, he bet at the moment every cell in her body was poised for another smart-a.s.sed comment.

It made him hard. It made his b.a.l.l.s ache with the need to come, his c.o.c.k throb with the need to f.u.c.k. And the need, the hunger wasn't for just any woman. h.e.l.l no, it couldn't be that easy.

It never was when it came to Amelia.

His sweet, never-argued-with-him sugar elf was definitely beginning to surprise him.

"So pencil me in, fairy-girl," he growled, reaching out for her, his hands gripping her hips before she could jerk away from him, pulling her quickly against the hard length of his denim-covered c.o.c.k.

d.a.m.n her, what did she do to him? The feel of her against him, the warmth of her body, the sound of her breath catching, only increased his hunger for her.

"Let me go, Crowe." Small hands pressed against his broad chest as though to push away from him and escape the hold he had on her.

"You want to be free, sugar elf?" Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss just below her ear. "Letting you go means I won't be able to taste that sweet little p.u.s.s.y like I've been dying to do."

Her eyes darkened, the flush mounting her cheekbones, which turned from the bright red of anger to a fierce pink, indicating the arousal building in her body.

"I don't care-" she tried to protest.

"But I do care," he promised, nipping the lobe of her ear. "Because when I finished I was hoping I could convince you to return the favor."

The thought of her mouth, heated silk, and damp hunger had his c.o.c.k flexing in a hard, hungry pulse of need. d.a.m.n, she made him crazy to f.u.c.k her.

"Come on, fairy-girl," he teased her as his senses burned to take her. "If you won't tell me the truth about all those little accidents you've had, then at least play with me for a little while."

Before she could stop him he managed to release the catch at the side of her skirt, slide the little zipper down, and push the skirt from her hips and over her thighs.

"Dammit, Crowe," she gasped, trying to jerk out of his arms again.

"Come back here." Wrapping one arm around her back to jerk her against him, Crowe stared down at the mutinous flare of anger in her eyes as it vied with the arousal darkening the gray-blue orbs. "Tell me you don't want me, Amelia, and don't you f.u.c.king lie to me, either, d.a.m.n you. Tell me you don't want me and I'll let you go."

"This has nothing to do with what I want." She jerked against his hold again, struggling to pull away as she glared up at him. "I won't let you bully me."

"Bully you?" He narrowed his eyes on her, watching the sharp flare of her delicate little nose and the curl of anger at her lips. "I'm not trying to bully you baby, I'm trying to get into your pants. There's a difference."

"Maybe I don't want you in my pants," she retorted, her breathing rough, the blood pounding in the vein up the side of her neck.

She was just as turned on as he was and he knew it.

"Tell me your p.u.s.s.y's not wet," he dared her. "Tell me those pretty pink nipples aren't hard and sensitive, begging you to let me suck them until you swear you're ready to come from nothing else. Go ahead, Amelia, lie to me some more. Tell me you're not dying to ride my d.i.c.k until the world explodes around you." His lips were nearly touching hers now, his gaze locked with the shocked, aroused depths of hers. "Because I promise you, baby, I'm so d.a.m.ned ready and aching to ride that hot little p.u.s.s.y that it's all I can do not to take you standing here."

Her eyes darkened further, lips parting as her eyes widened just that little bit.