She trusted him. But right now, she shouldn't.

Because he no longer trusted himself.

It was that same night-the night after Andre Lague was killed-that Cybele came to his room.

It wasn't even a room. It was a closet with a window. But it was private and it was big enough to fit his bedroll. And as long as it continued to be cool enough at night, Charles could sleep with the door closed.

The moon was out that night. It was shining in the window, silvery bright. He remembered lying on his back with his hands beneath his head, staring up at the backside of the stairs above him when she slipped in through his door.

She didn't knock. She just came in.

He was wearing only a pair of briefs, and he was lucky he had that much on.

He sat up fast, scrambling for his pants, and he ended up nearly knocking himself out as his head connected with the wood above him.

It was not the most embarrassing moment of his life, but it was close.

"Jesus!" he hissed, a word that was understandable in nearly any language, as he collapsed back on his bedroll.

"Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry." She knelt down beside him, her fingers cool against his head as she checked to make sure he hadn't sliced himself open.

He hadn't. It only felt as if he had.

She was wearing only her nightgown. It was thin and cotton, and in the silver moonlight, with her hair down around her shoulders, it made her look like an angel.

Charles sat up, carefully this time, and backed as far away as he could, which wasn't far enough, considering the room was the size of a closet. Where the hell were his pants?

"What's wrong?" he asked her in his atrocious French. Had there been some mission that he wasn't told about? Something that Joe and the other men had left to take care of? Something that had gone wrong? "Where's Guiseppe? What's happened?"

She shook her head. "Nothing has happened. Guiseppe is upstairs, probably asleep."

Oh.

Oh, damn.

As Charles looked into her eyes, he knew the truth. He knew why she was there.

"I don't want to be alone," she whispered. "I'm so tired of being alone. Please, Charles, will you-"

"Cybele, please don't ask me-"

"Make love to me tonight?"

No. No, no. It was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world. It was the one thing he couldn't have, even though she was right there, right within his reach. And he didn't even have to reach. All he had to do was open his arms and . . .

"It's time to be honest," she said, as straightforward and direct with this as with everything. "I want you, and I know you want me."

He felt like crying. "You also know I'm married." He said it both in English and in French.

She didn't move. She just knelt there, her face illuminated by moonlight. God, she was beautiful. "But you don't love her. Not the way a man should love a woman. When you speak of her, of Jenny, it's as if she's a child that you care for. That you're fond of."

She was right, but that didn't make the vows he'd made any less binding.

"You don't burn for her," Cybele whispered.

"She loves me." And she did-as much as Jenny could love anyone.

"She loves that you take care of her. She loves your fortune."

That was true, too.

"Tell me you love her," Cybele challenged him, "and I'll go."

"I love her," he lied, both in English and in French.

She didn't believe him.

"I do," he said in English. "I know when I talk about her it sounds as if I don't, but I swear, I do."

Cybele understood him. He knew she did. But she still didn't move.

"What about Joe?" Charles asked, near desperate now. If she touched him, he wasn't sure he could be so strong. If she touched him, she would know the truth. He didn't love Jenny. He'd married her because she was having his baby, because she was the kind of woman that men watched and he liked being the cause of all that palpable envy. He'd wanted Jenny, he'd lusted after her, and he'd even thought he'd loved her, but he didn't. He'd had no idea what love really was, what love could be.

"You should be up in Joe's room right now," he told Cybele. "He loves you, you know. He's free to love you, completely."

"You want me to go to Guiseppe. You want me to be with him tonight. Not you." Tears of disbelief were brimming in her eyes, and he knew the next thing he said would matter the most.

She hadn't asked a question, but he answered it anyway. "Yes." He could barely choke the word out, but choke it out he did. God help him. "Go to Joe. Because I can't give you what you need."

"I see." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, drew in a deep breath. And then she turned and left his room.

The door closed behind her, and Charles wanted to run after her, to stop her, more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life.

But he sat still, sick down to his very soul. He heard the stairs creak as she started to climb them, and still he didn't move. Her room was to the right of the top of the stairs, Joe's to the left. Her footsteps passed directly over his head, going up, and then he heard her pause.

Charles closed his eyes, praying, though for what he wasn't sure.

But when the floorboard in the upstairs hallway creaked as she went left, he knew. He hadn't been praying for that.

Charles opened his eyes and gazed out at the ocean. Last night's physical pain had been nothing compared to the pain he'd felt that night, nearly sixty years ago, when he'd pushed Cybele into his best friend's arms.

He'd spent a sleepless night, hating himself for being weak enough to want her, and yet not weak enough to have her. All night long, he'd seethed with jealousy and frustration, imagining Cybele in Joe's room, in his bed, lying there beneath him, and . . . God. He hated himself, hated Joe, hated Jenny. Hated Cybele. How dare she come to his room, tempting him to be unfaithful simply because she wanted someone-anyone-to hold her. And that surely was the case if she could go from Charles's room to Joe's with hardly any hesitation. Apparently his arms had been interchangeable with Joe's. . . .

But hating her hadn't made it any easier to bear. Especially not the next morning, when Joe had appeared at breakfast with a lilt in his step and the unmistakable light of heaven in his eyes.

Joe had that same soft, faraway look in his eyes now, nearly sixty years later, as he sat next to Charles on the deck of this multimillion-dollar house, overlooking the prettiest piece of property and the most beautiful view of the ocean in the world.

And nearly sixty years later, Charles was still jealous of Joe.

Joe turned and looked at him. "I think there's something going on between Tom and Kelly."

Charles fought to return to the present. Tom? And Kelly? Well, well, maybe the girl had actually made a move.

"You think there's something going on," he said crossly to Joe. "Suddenly, after all these years of living like a monk, you're the local expert on romance?"

Joe gave him one of those long, steady, patient looks that always made Charles feel like some kind of legless larva.

"I know enough to recognize a kiss when I see one," he said evenly. "And to tell at a glance who's on the giving and who's on the receiving end. I know Kelly's been lonely."

Kelly'd kissed Tom. Charles's first reaction was to laugh. His daughter's life was her own, but he'd never particularly liked those pasty, bespectacled, self-important blowhards she'd brought home from the hospital. But Tom Paoletti-now there was a man. But probably way too much man. The reality was sobering. He'd never expected her actually to try for him. "They're completely wrong for each other."

"I don't agree with you," Joe said, "but I suspect Kelly does. I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to talk to her, so she doesn't end up hurting Tom too badly."

Kelly hurting Tom. Now there was a twist on the old sad story of love gone wrong. But sure, it was possible. Why not? After all, she was an Ashton, and Ashtons were known for having hearts of stone.

Chapter 13.

"EVERYTHING LOOKS REALLY good." Gary didn't waste time with small talk as he breezed into his office. "No trace bleeding, no swelling, nothing at all to indicate that there's any kind of problem. It's healed nicely."

Kelly closed her eyes as he gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "Thank God."

Tom didn't seem to be as happy at the news. He sat forward as Gary slid into his seat behind his desk. "So what's going on, then? What's with the headaches and dizziness? The paranoia?"

"I found no physiological explanation, other than that of the injury and surgery." Gary looked tired, older, lines of strain giving his handsome face a pinched, anxious look. "The symptoms you've been having are probably related."

"No kidding." Tom looked at Kelly, his frustration evident. "Am I asking the wrong questions here?"

"I think what Gary's trying to say is that he doesn't really know why you're experiencing these things," she told him.

"There's a great deal we're still learning about injuries to the brain, Lieutenant," Gary admitted. "And ten individuals with similar injuries will have ten entirely different recoveries, varying from death to complete return to preaccident condition. The problems you've been having are insignificant compared to, say, paralysis or damage to the speech center of your brain. And as for the feelings of paranoia and the slight personality change regarding your lack of control with your temper-these aren't outside the realm of normal for the type of injury you've had. Although, again, since we know so little, normal tends to be a pretty broad band."

"Is there any way to know whether or not the paranoia's going to be permanent?" Tom asked. But when Gary took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, Tom held up his hand. "That was a yes-no question. I'm kind of hoping for a single word response."

Gary closed his mouth. He looked at Kelly, and she lifted her eyebrows, waiting. He sighed. Single word answers weren't his forte. "No."

Tom nodded, his face impassive. It was not the answer he'd been hoping for, and Kelly ached for him. She wished she were sitting close enough to take his hand. She wished, when they walked out of here, that she'd have the courage to put her arms around him and hold him close. And she also wished that her comfort would be enough to sustain him.

"Can you give me any statistics?" he asked Gary. "Percentages of people with this type of injury who do achieve complete recovery?"

Gary straightened the files on his desk into a neat little pile. "Since I don't have your medical records, I can't be absolutely certain, but from what you've described-the severity of your injury plus the length of time between being injured and getting medical attention . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know the exact number, Lieutenant, but most people would not have survived. Statistically, you're way ahead of the game."

Tom was silent.

"If these side effects are permanent," Gary tried to reassure him, "there are steps you can take to make them easier to live with. There's medication that will help relieve feelings of anxiety. It may also help with any vague feelings of paranoia you might be having. If you want I can-"

Tom shifted his weight, giving Gary a big body-language no. "That's not an option. Not if I want to stay in the SEAL teams."

"Maybe it's time to consider retirement," Gary said as gently as he could. "Return to civilian life. Take a year or two off-relax. Play golf, do a little gardening. Let yourself heal."

Tom stood up. An even less subtle rejection. "I'm not ready to quit yet. I've got a few more weeks. Any suggestions on what I should be doing to speed along any kind of additional recovery?"

"Rest," Gary recommended, "lots of sleep. Keep life low-stress. Take everything slowly, avoid upset, don't push yourself physically. Lots of massage and other tension-relieving, ahem, activities."

Kelly didn't dare look at Tom. It was too bizarre-sitting here with this man she wanted to sleep with, listening to her ex-husband recommend he use sex to relieve tension. It was all she could do not to giggle. She stood up, too. "Well, that sounds good to me."

Both Gary and Tom looked at her, and she carefully kept her face perfectly straight, her eyes wide. Little Miss Innocent.

Gary didn't give her a second glance, but Tom kept one eye on her, even as Gary stood and the two men shook hands.

Tom was, no doubt, remembering the whipped-cream comment she'd made back in the car. Well, good. About time he caught on.

Kelly took Gary's hand and air-kissed his cheek as Tom moved tactfully out of the office, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

"How's your father?" Gary asked.

"Pretty frail. How's Tiffany and the baby?"

He forced a smile. "Fine. Great." Very unhappy with his workaholic schedule, she knew. Tiffany had called Kelly to find out if Gary's eighty-hour workweek was normal. It was. Kelly gave their relationship five years, tops. Tiffany was too smart to take his oh-so-important-me crap for longer than that. Yes, he was a good doctor, but he wasn't Albert Schweitzer.

"Thanks again for seeing Tom," she told him.

He was still holding her hand, and he lowered his voice. "He seems nice, but . . . a Navy SEAL? Aren't you a little young to be having a midlife crisis?"

"He's an old friend from high school." Kelly pulled her hand free. "Whom I still happen to find very attractive. There's no crisis. I'm single, he's single. He's going to be in town for a few weeks. . . ."

Gary smiled. "So it's purely physical. I can understand that. Use birth control, sweetheart, or it might become permanent."

The five years with Tiffany shrank to less than two, and Gary morphed into her father, richer than God, but dying alone and bitter after a string of failed marriages.

"Good-bye, Gary." Kelly closed his office door behind her, more glad than ever that she had escaped when she did. Tom was already out of the waiting room, standing in the hall. "Sorry about that."

He glanced at her. "No problem."

They started toward the bank of elevators. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He met her gaze, sighed, and then, to her surprise, shook his head no. "I'm pretty disappointed." He laughed. "I don't know what I was hoping for. Some kind of low level internal bleeding, maybe. Something that we could all point to and say, 'Aha, there's the cause of the problems.' Something that could be fixed."

He jabbed the down call button for the elevator.

"Through surgery," Kelly pointed out, trying to speak clearly even though her heart was securely lodged in her throat. She'd never expected him to be so honest about what he was feeling, although it was clear that disappointed was an enormous understatement. "Through the doctors drilling a hole in your skull and . . . God, Tom, Gary's a good doctor, but brain surgery involves certain high risks. We're talking about someone poking around in your brain. Even if the surgery goes well, there are chances of infection and-"