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Chapter One

Spotting a desolate, backwoods road, Jocelyn Hunter glanced at the Pennsylvania map lying on the passenger's seat of her sports car. Was this the right turn-off? Worried, she bit her lip. She never could decipher highway maps...or street maps for that matter. At work everyone always kidded her that she could lose her way in a car wash.

Double-checking her friend's handwritten instructions once more, Jocelyn crossed her fingers for luck. "Yep, this has to be the turn."

As she swerved the car away from the paved road and civilization, her tires spun on loose gravel, then gripped tiny, bleached-out stones. The crunching sound made her grit her teeth, and a momentary feeling of unease fluttered in her stomach. She shook off the panic. She'd traveled this far without getting lost, hadn't she? Soon she'd be kicking up her heels at Rita's summerhouse.

Sighing, Jocelyn relaxed back against the black vinyl cushion of her seat. She needed this brief vacation; she needed time to lick her wounds and get on with life. Her relationship with Todd had been a mistake. He hadn't loved her. It hurt to admit it, but it was true. Love and lust--two wildly separate things. She was glad she'd told him goodbye.

The road curved into a forest heavily populated with tall, bristly conifers. She'd never seen so many trees. Through the Triumph Spitfire's open windows, a warm, pine-scented breeze swept over her. A liberating breeze. She took a deep breath. Forget about Todd.

Her foot itched to floor the gas pedal--to avoid all thoughts of him. A mischievous twitch lifted her lips. Why not? Why shouldn't she live dangerously and put the pedal to the metal? She pressed down on the accelerator, enjoying the sudden surge of power. The roaring engine signaled control; she had control. Something Todd had wanted to have over her.

As she zoomed up a hill, she watched the speedometer needle climb. No one was ever going to control her again.

After speeding over the crest, she let gravity guide her down the steep decline. The fresh country air playfully tugged at her shoulder-length hair, whipping strands over her forehead and into her eyes. Inhaling the forest's earthy smells, she let her concentration wander. She didn't often escape from the congestion and noise of the city. This retreat felt good, like it was meant to be.

A blazing ray of light, probably from the sun, momentarily blinded her. As she blinked away the brightness, an unexpected bump sent her flying up, and she collided with the convertible top. Damn! Settling back in her seat, she looked ahead at the deep dirt ruts cutting into the bottom of the hill.

Oh, no! Why hadn't she paid attention? She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. The car was headed straight for the biggest rut in the road!

With no time to think, she desperately angled the car away from the rough surface. She fought the car's momentum. Her low-to-the-ground Triumph was delicate, old. It couldn't withstand the blow. The impact would be like a dagger to an animal's underbelly, cutting open vital organs. She couldn't bear for her little car to get damaged.

And she was miles away from a service station. Miles away from civilization.

No, she had to be truthful. Civilization could've been just around the corner--if the forest had a corner. She had no idea where she was.

Too late. She couldn't stop the collision. Slamming on the brake and the clutch, she braced herself. As the car hit the hard dirt-and-pebble mound, her head jerked back against the headrest.

The car now still, she rubbed her newly tender neck. Great. Whiplash. Some vacation. Why had she wanted to leave the safety of her New York apartment, anyway?

Sour grapes on her part. She'd left the city eagerly enough.

Gazing out at her surroundings, she gulped down a little nervously. Pine trees, all in one size--gigantic--crowded together on either side of the dirt and gravel road. A never-ending forest stretched as far as she could see. The trees whispered their secrets, shaking menacingly at her, intimidating her.

Before the accident, the trees had seemed to wave their gnarled branches, fluttering elongated needles to give her a warm reception. Now they did their best to block the remaining sunlight from spilling down onto her bug-sized yellow Triumph.

The late afternoon air filled with croaking sounds: low pitched moans, frantic murmurs, an occasional piercing shriek and...hungry growls. A cacophony of creature noises.

Soon, night would fall.

And she was alone. Alone on a dirt road in the wilds of Pennsylvania.

Jocelyn shivered. Don't let your imagination run away with you, Jossy. Just follow Rita's instructions and you'll get to her summerhouse in no time at all.

Her car showed no damage--no visible damage--so she glanced at the road map and Rita's instructions again. Jocelyn's insides knotted. She'd read the map wrong; she'd missed the turnoff. According to the directions, she should be viewing the scenic town of Buck Hill Falls. She should be following bright blue signs toward Rita's new property in the Pocono Hideaway Homes complex.

Jocelyn brushed back her tangled hair. The only blue she saw came from the indigo sky deepening into twilight. And she couldn't find this road on the map. She spotted a tiny circle labeled Angel Rock Ridge, indicating a town, but she didn't see a road.

Her friends would never let her live this down. They'd predicted she'd get lost. At the time, their cocksure insistence had sparked fire in her dark blue eyes. Stubbornly, she'd insisted right back that the trip would be a piece of cake.

Some cake. Here she was, hopelessly lost in the Pocono Mountains.

In the distance, a dull roll of thunder broke the dissonant voice of the forest. A storm. She'd better get moving. Surely this road led somewhere.

Restarting the engine, she eased the car forward. A slow crunching rumbled up from underneath the hood.

Oh, no. Jocelyn caught her lower lip between her teeth and said a silent prayer. She didn't know much about cars, but crunching and grinding noises were not good sounds, to put it mildly.

As an owl's lonely hoot echoed through the car's convertible top, a shudder shimmied down Jocelyn's spine. Owls were night creatures. The haunting tones reminded her that semi-darkness was only minutes away.

"Okay, okay, I get the hint." Determined to continue her trip one way or the other, she got out of the car, walked over to the trunk, rolled up her raglan sleeves and pushed.

At a hundred and ten pounds, she didn't have much force, but then again, her trusty old Triumph wasn't a Rolls Royce, either. After a couple of heavy grunts, she smiled. The roadster pulled through for her; the front end now angled out of the deep rut.

"Yes!" Jocelyn raised her hands up in victory. She patted the pitted exterior of the trunk. "C'mon, ol' gal. You 'n' me are gonna have our vacation yet!" Jumping back into the driver seat, she revved up the engine, and moved the gearshift into first position. "Let's go, baby!"

The car obeyed. But...the steering didn't. Before she had a chance to react, the car rolled off the road, as if it had a mind of its own, and plunged into a waiting pine tree. The tinkling of glass from the headlights and yawning of metal from the crumpled hood reverberated into the ominous, dark woods. After a moment of silence, the forest resumed its alien communication.

Feeling as if the steering wheel were now part of her chest, Jocelyn righted herself and pressed her ribs to make certain none were broken. Sore, but solid. She was okay, but what about her car?

As she stepped outside to view the damage, her eyes misted. The poor misshapen car was painful to look at. If she had had a gun, she would've put it out of its misery.

A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it and turned away. No choice now. If she expected to get out of this tree-infested forest, she'd have to use her tee-strapped sandaled feet to provide the locomotion.

She grabbed her handbag, Rita's instructions, and the road map.

Oh, well. Better get started.

* * *

After nearly an hour of trudging through mud, thick underbrush, pine-stinging needles, and every obstacle known to man, Jocelyn had had enough of raw nature to last a lifetime. She was filthy and exhausted. Never mind finding Rita's summer home. She'd given up on that. Now she just wanted a place to stay for the night.

No longer frightened at wandering alone in the wilderness, she planted one mud-streaked foot ahead of the other. As bedraggled as a waterlogged cat, she had no reason to be fearful of the forest. No wild animal would want to eat such a dirty treat.

Her feet squished in the mud puddles. Eventually, she had to find shelter. Eventually.

The weather hadn't cooperated. The distant thunder had roared into a full-blown storm. As jagged lightning bolts slashed across the sky, sheets of icy rain drenched her--drenched her very soul. She shivered. There wasn't a dry spot left on her body.

Bumping into a low-lying tree branch, she contorted her face. "Ouch!" She blinked away the pain, then frowned. "What in the world...?"

The deep end. She had to be going off the deep end. Her mind was playing tricks on her--seeing reverse mirages. Instead of a vision of water dancing before her eyes--a scene a dehydrated man might see--she spotted a small, bright, hot desert.

Oh, to flop down on that beckoning bed of sand and bake to a toasty brown!

She leaned against a tree, ignoring the rough bark that bit into her back, and stared at her dry, warm illusion. It couldn't be there. It was just wishful thinking. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she then stared at it again. It held; the bright vision didn't waver.

Wiping rivulets of rain off her forehead, out of her eyes, she squinted at the bright spot and brought it into focus. It wasn't a desert; it was a light--a beacon--a way out of the muck she'd been wading in since her accident.

A light in the wilderness.

Millions of zigzag lightning bolts briefly lit the night sky. An image of a two-story, white stone house flickered up ahead. Silhouetted against the eerie backdrop of closely huddled evergreen trees, the house had an otherworldly appearance.

No matter. It was a haven; that was all that was important.

She had to get closer to it. Taking a tentative step, she wiped more rain out of her eyes. In that second, the sky's brilliance...and the house, disappeared.

She exhaled her disappointment.

But the beacon didn't disappear. It still shone through the darkness--like a welcome signal. It came from the house. Someone was home. Someone had to be home. She'd get help. Finally, she could take shelter from the storm.

She looked down at her mud-bathed feet. The slimy stuff oozed through her toes--not a pleasant sensation. Would she ever feel clean again? As it was, her clothes were fit for the garbage. She was a mess all right--no other way to describe it. Even she would have second thoughts about letting herself into her own apartment. But maybe the occupant of the stone house wouldn't mind so much. She crossed her fingers. Please?

Jocelyn adjusted the low vee neckline on her top. The weight of the rain had dragged it down, exposing her lacy bra. She lifted her chin. No one would refuse to take her in on a night like this. No one could be that mean or petty. Or inhumane. After all, she was just dirty. Nothing a little soap and water couldn't cure.

She smiled. Okay, a lot of soap. And it would only be for one night, anyway. She'd call the nearest garage and arrange to have her car towed. Then she'd stay in a motel or something until the repairs were made.

Instead of being a cheap little getaway, this vacation was going to cost her mucho bucks.

That's life. Expect the unexpected. With these words of wisdom sloshing around her brain, she headed toward the beacon radiating from the house's bottom left window. Peering ahead, she blotted out her body's various complaints. Soon, she'd be inside. The cheery beam promised a warm reception. Once she'd shed her wet clothes, she'd sit in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a woolen blanket and flannel nightgown. The crackling fire would work its magic into her soggy bones, and then she'd offer her apologies to her host and slip off to bed. Probably a feather bed.

Appreciating her imagination, she sighed with anticipation and walked up the few wooden steps to the front door. Hand upraised to knock, she stopped the action in mid-air. Thunder and lightning rolled together, a visual and auditory clashing of both sight and sound. To her right, in a clearing near the house, gray marble headstones protruded out from a darkened landscape.

A cemetery--complete with massive holy crosses, winged statues, and an imposing Greek columned mausoleum!

Jocelyn bit her lip. The sight of the unexpected graveyard gave her the chills. Something out of a Stephen King novel. Or maybe she shivered because of the rain. If she didn't get inside soon, she'd start hallucinating.

Another flash from the sky. Her gaze involuntarily drawn to the graveyard, she spotted a figure by the mausoleum's middle column. A man or woman? She couldn't tell. Who could be crazy enough to be out in this beastly weather? In a cemetery? At least she had a legitimate reason to be dripping wet.

With arms reaching to the sky, the person stretched. Then, before the lightning had run its course, the figure vanished.

Jocelyn blinked. Hallucinating. Maybe she hadn't seen anyone. Maybe she'd been mistaken.

Gritting her teeth for courage, she raised her hand and knocked on the weathered oak door.

She waited, then knocked again, louder. Panic welled up inside her. What if no one wanted to answer the door? What if no one could hear her?

Oh, dear God, she couldn't take much more of this rain. Rapping harder, she bruised her knuckles. She had to get in out of the storm. "Hello? Is anybody home?"

Still no answer. The light from the bottom left window went out. Plunged into darkness, she raised her voice. "Hello? Please?"

Hysteria edged her pleading. Maybe the house wasn't locked up. She jiggled the brass doorknob, but it didn't budge.

Then, the door suddenly swung open, quietly, without creaking. A man stood on the other side of the threshold. A large man, cast in shadows.

As if on cue, lightning flashed, illuminating the trees, the house, and...the man.

Jocelyn couldn't conceal a startled gasp. The man had damp, thick hair, the color of midnight. Heavy stubble marred his angular jaw and a trim black mustache covered his upper lip. He had the kind of smoky dark looks some women fainted over.

Handsome, breathtakingly handsome. As a reflexive action, she pushed back her dripping hair, hoping that would help her appearance. If he'd smiled, she would've been his love slave for life. If he'd smiled. From under the mustache, his mouth compressed into a frowning slash. From his superior height, displeasure burned from his narrowed eyes--displeasure directed at her.

"Well?"

For a moment, she could only gape. The man was brute strength. His starkly white half-buttoned work shirt stretched tautly over a heavily muscled chest. His rolled up sleeves revealed powerful forearms. Under his tight blue jeans, she spotted the muscles of a long-distance runner. There wasn't an ounce of fat on this man. A warrior. He seemed to have been bred for savage force. His stiff posture along with his hands fisted against his slim-jeaned hips further revealed his resentment at being interrupted.

Gulping down hard, she fidgeted with the leather strap of her handbag. Maybe she should forget about asking for help. Maybe she should just take off...

"What do you want?"

His deep voice rocked her back to reality. Looking longingly inside his warm and dry house, she took a steadying breath. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but you see, I've had a car accident down the road. I'm on vacation from New York. I took a wrong turn and now I'm lost. I-I was wondering if you'd be kind enough..."

Continuing to take her measure, he ignored her unspoken plea. Instead of responding, he took a step over the threshold and scanned the darkness. He must have been satisfied with his inspection for he stepped back inside. "Who else is with you?"

"No one. It's just me."

"Why'd you come here? Who sent you?"

He barked out his questions as a police interrogator might--which was fine with Jocelyn if only he'd invite her inside. "No one sent me. I told you, I got lost, then I saw a light in your window--"

"What light?"

She blinked back her surprise. On a night like this, how else could she have spotted his home? But the last thing she wanted to do was to antagonize the man. "Maybe I was mistaken about the light. Now that I'm here, I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to let me use your phone. To call a service station."

His slow smile caused her toes to sizzle. However, the grin didn't reach his eyes. "You came a long way for nothing, princess. Don't have a phone." He drummed his fingers against the oak door, clearly waiting for her to leave.

"No phone?" Out in the wilderness, she supposed it might be difficult to have a telephone hookup. Telephones were conveniences a person took for granted. "No cell, either?" she ventured.

"No," he answered gruffly. "Sorry that makes it difficult for you to call your...friends, but there it is." He shrugged.

She rubbed her aching head. The emphasis he'd placed on friends was so odd. "I hate to impose on you, but I'm really stuck. Could you, ah, drive me to a garage, then?"

"And leave here? Nice try, princess, but none are open this time of night." He sounded bored, but his keen, sharp eyes showed he was very much aware of her, as a panther would be aware of his prey.

Forgetting her exhaustion, she started to do a slow burn. There he stood, nice and warm and dry, while she almost dripped seaweed! She'd been in the rain that long.

"Then, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I ask you to drive me to a motel? Someplace I could spend the night? I'll reimburse you for the inconvenience."

Keeping the sarcasm out of her voice proved impossible. She'd never come across anyone this infuriating. She needed help. And he had a big enough house--plenty of room to share. He could go back to whatever he'd been doing. He didn't have to play host. She certainly wasn't a threat to him. Hadn't he heard of the good neighbor policy?

He glanced over his shoulder into the darkened room. Was someone else inside? Watching them? Uneasy tingles of fear crept up her spine.

Returning his hardened gaze to her, he said flatly, "It would be too much trouble. The bridge is flooded out between here and town. Can't get through. News just came in on the radio. You'll just have to go back the way you came." He made a move to close the door. "Sorry."

He wasn't sorry. But Jocelyn was. Sorry she had to ask for charity from this heartless creature. Without thinking, she shot her arm out to prevent him from shutting the door on her, surprising herself with her boldness. For a second, they both watched as a torrent of water fell from her saturated raglan sleeve. The diversion gave her time to compose herself.

She didn't know this man from Adam, but she had to appeal to his better nature--if he had one. "Look, maybe I haven't made my situation plain enough. I've been tramping through the forest for an hour. I'm soaked, filthy, and thoroughly lost. My car is wrecked, I'm exhausted, and I have no place else to turn. I really do hate to bother you, but I need help. If there are no motels nearby, could I stay here for the night? I'm not dangerous, honest."

There. That was as close to begging as she'd get.

From his precision-cut hair, a drop of water trickled down his jaw. He wasn't going to give an inch. As if to contradict his nonchalance, the corner of his mouth twitched. Whether in amusement or outrage, she didn't know.

He should have been shamed into offering her a bed. He should have been struck with remorse. He wasn't; he remained mute.

She pitied the man.

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her nose at him. "Fine. Thank you for your time." Stiff-lipped, she turned away from him. She didn't want to stay at his house anyway. She adored feeling like a soggy fish. It built character.

She sniffed. What was she going to do? Other than sit under some tree and cry her eyes out.

Eager to leave the scene of her humiliation, she made her way down the steps. Lightning, for once her friend, blazed overhead. She spotted the graveyard...and the mausoleum.

The mausoleum! Perhaps she could spend the night inside the mausoleum. She was sure those who rested eternally within those walls wouldn't object. The dead had more hospitality than that oversized, obnoxious, self-absorbed man. The longer she thought about him, the longer her list of dreadful adjectives grew.

"Where are you going?"

It was that selfsame man, his voice ringing out to her. Pivoting around, she saw he had stepped out into the rain. From the stairs, he gazed down at her. Heavy drops of water flattened his shirt to his skin. His dark hair, damp before, now glistened with moisture. Even wet, he was very attractive, exuding animal magnetism. But his mouth still slashed in a frown.

She took her time answering him. After appealing to his non-existent, compassionate nature...and failing, she didn't give a hoot if he got wet!

Wet. Something tugged at her memory but she couldn't identify it. Probably wasn't important. "What do you care?"

"I don't." With some urgency in his voice, he repeated, "Where are you going?"

Bone-sapping tiredness washed over her, even as the rain continued to bombard her body. Her eyes closed. She felt herself sway.

She blinked. No time to delay. Heading for the marble building, she answered, "To the mausoleum." She'd have to hurry. Very easily, she could slip into unconsciousness. She'd been through a lot. Better to pass out in an enclosed area than collapse right here, where she stood.

She heard a muffled oath. Or did she? She couldn't be sure. Didn't matter anyway. The mausoleum was just ahead. A few more steps. She could make it. Just a few more steps.

Hitting a protruding rock, she stumbled. Pain shot through her bare big toe. The sensation jerked her awake.

Someone grabbed her around the arm. Hard. "Come on. You can stay. But just for tonight." He roughly steered her up the stairs and through the door, into the entryway.

She didn't protest. At this point, if the genie of the lamp had offered her one wish, she'd ask for a nice, soft bed inside this house.

After the man shut the door, the sudden quiet seemed unnatural. Then she heard the plip-plop of liquid drops hitting the slate stone floor of the closet-sized entryway. Muddy rainwater trickled down her legs, off her tee-strapped sandals, into puddles around her feet. She stood rooted to the spot; she didn't dare spread the growing mess.

She'd better dredge up some manners. "Ah, thank you for inviting me in. You know, I really am sorry to...inconvenience you."

The man ran his hand over his head. His thick black hair sprang back into place. To himself, he mumbled, "I must be a fool--asking for trouble." Then he barked, "Stay right there. Don't move. I'll get you a robe and..." He shook his head, giving her the once over. "...and prepare a bath. The shower doesn't work."

Turning fast, as if he feared he'd change his mind, he vaulted up the aged wooden staircase, taking the steps two at a time. From the second floor, he flipped on a light switch. A circular overhead light brightened the entryway. He gazed down at her, then shook his head again. His dark expression was unreadable.

Frowning, Jocelyn smoothed back her stringy hair. So he wasn't as heartless as he'd pretended to be. Maybe she couldn't blame him. She did look like something the cat dragged in. But, for once in her life, she didn't care about her appearance. Soon, she'd soak in a nice hot bath, then drift off to slumberland. She couldn't wait.

She must have closed her eyes, for she started when he touched her shoulder.

"Here, change into this and give me your clothes. Then I'll show you to the bathroom." He handed her a large powder blue terry cloth robe.

Up close, his cynical gray eyes seemed to mock her. They contained a question. What question? What did he want to know? Meeting his gaze, she began to tingle. For the first time since she'd left her car, she felt a bit of warmth invading her.

Frowning, he broke contact first. "Hurry it up." Shoving the robe at her, he leaned against the paneled stairway wall and waited.

A hot flush mottled the skin on her neck. It always did when she was nervous. "Ah, you want me to change? Here?"

His frown deepened. "I'm not about to let you track mud all over the house."

"I can't take my clothes off right now--not with you looking at me!" He couldn't possibly be serious.

With his stormy gaze, he raked her from head to toe. His upper lip curved up. "Too late to be picky about the accommodations, princess. You wanted in and you got your wish. And don't flatter yourself. I've seen better at a horse show."

But he did pull away from the wall, then stepped into another room. "Let me know when you're done."

Jocelyn stomped her foot. Horse show! How dare he insult her? What she wouldn't give to wipe that sneer off his face. Damn the man! No one had ever complained about her figure before. Looking down at her chest, she flushed again. Her vee neckline had stretched past her bra. She must have given him quite a view.

She ground her teeth. No matter. Maybe he actually preferred horses to women. He certainly had the manners of one!

"Finished?"

His question startled her. "Almost." Quickly pulling off her top, she put on the man-sized robe, tied the belt, then wiggled out of her leggings. She kicked off her sandals. "Ready." The scratchy warmth of the robe felt heavenly against her puckered skin.

She didn't have time to enjoy it. He dashed into the entryway, and suddenly stopped at the sight of her. Looking away, he ordered, "Leave the clothes there."

After he checked his wristwatch, he muttered, "Damn," then led her up the steep steps to a small, steamy bathroom across from the stairway.

He opened a closet door and handed her a towel. "Make it snappy. I don't have all night." Pointing to the bedroom on the right, he glared at her. "When you're done, you'll sleep in this room."

She lifted her eyebrows. He didn't have all night to do what? And why did he want her to hurry? He obviously didn't want her in his house, so why had he done an about face?

Having no intention of hurrying, she murmured her thanks again and extended her hand. "By the way, we haven't introduced ourselves. My name's Jocelyn Hunter."

He turned his big, broad back on her. "Just hurry it up, will you?"

She had him over a barrel and she knew it. He couldn't throw her out of the house now. As he thundered down the stairs, she called after him. "I need to know the name of my most gracious host."

Even from the bottom of the steps, she could see his dark eyes snap impatiently. "I'm Ferguson, damn it. Now clean yourself up before I do it for you."

He would, too. She clicked the white-paneled door shut and leaned against it. Too bad it didn't have a lock.

Her memory cleared on one point. When Ferguson had answered the door, his hair had been damp as if he'd just taken a shower. But he said it wasn't working. Had he been out in the rain?

Or had he been the figure she'd seen by the mausoleum?

Chapter Two

Dan Ferguson paced the length of the small living room from one end to the other. Why wasn't that woman out of the bathroom yet? Listening for the telltale creak of the door opening, he glanced at his wristwatch. The time matched the blood red digital numbers gleaming from the side table's clock-radio. Fifteen minutes wasted. Fifteen precious minutes. What was she doing in there, taking up residence?

Striding into the entryway, he looked up the stairs. The bathroom door remained closed. The blasted woman! This unexpected delay was infuriating. Maybe he should forcibly drag her out of the bath. He couldn't wait much longer. Velma rarely stayed in one place for any length of time. He had to return to the mausoleum and talk with her. Was she still there? He checked the view from the back window but all he saw was darkness.

Dan reentered the living room, and sat perched on the edge of the pea green recliner. Picking up his opened beer bottle, he took a sip. The heavy malt brew of imported beer burned a path down his throat. He welcomed the sensation. Anything to get his mind off waiting.

During the height of tonight's thunderstorm, Velma had drifted into the marble burial vault. She never walked; she drifted. She'd always loved the untamed rumbling of thunder. But now that she was...different, she seemed to love nature's rage even more.

He urgently needed to talk with her--to try to penetrate her zombie-like state. Somewhere inside her damaged brain, she had the answers he sought. The evidence to convict her brother.

Somewhere deep inside.

But tonight that woman, Jocelyn Hunter, had intruded. She'd knocked on the door just as he'd spotted Velma, ruining his chances to talk with her. He couldn't believe his bad luck. Now he'd have to get rid of that Hunter woman before she could poke her pretty little nose where it didn't belong. And it was pretty--sopping wet or otherwise, he had to admit that. Some other time, some other place, he would've welcomed her unexpected visit as manna from heaven. But right now, when he was on the verge of nailing that bastard murderer...

The coroner had ruled Ned's death as accidental--faulty brakes while driving on a backwoods road. But Dan knew better. It was murder, plain and simple, and Perry Lyman had engineered it.

After gulping down more beer, Dan rubbed his hands together. The living room was bone-cold and damp; he could almost see a trail of frosty breath rise from his mouth. As the coil steam radiator savagely hissed warmth into the living room, it clanged and rumbled, protesting being turned on. Who could blame the radiator? It was the month of July.

A summer month. A time to mature and enjoy life. But summer had ended early for Velma. No one knew if she could ever return to the way she'd been. The way she'd been before summer had started.

And Ned, his cousin. Ned would never enjoy another summer...or anything else ever again.

Dan clenched his fists. Ten years separated him from his cousin, and sometimes Ned had refused to listen to Dan's older wisdom. But he should have been there for Ned. He should have seen through Perry Lyman's posturing and identified him as a trafficker. Dan should have warned Ned.

A roll of thunder reverberated in the distance. The dismal weather reflected Dan's thoughts. The gloom and drenching rain seemed fitting, like poetic justice. Why should the sun shine or the moon beam? Ned would never see those sights again. His fate was to molder restlessly in a nearby, sterile grave.

Dan hammered his fist against the recliner's armrest. This wasn't the time to think about his cousin.

He checked his watch once more, then tramped down the stairs into the cool, moist basement. Removing Jocelyn Hunter's clothes from the washer, he threw them into the dryer. As the machine whirled into action, he glanced at his watch a third time. What the blazes was taking the woman so long? He couldn't believe he'd actually propelled her inside, letting her stay for the night instead of closing the door on her as he'd planned. Car trouble out on Angel Rock Ridge! Feinted surprise on learning he had no phone.

He snorted. Why had he fallen for her cock-and-bull story? But then again, what could he have done? He couldn't have her sniffing around the mausoleum, could he?

Fool! Seven thousand kinds of a fool! She was a spy--a plant--an infiltrator. No doubt about that. And he'd made her job easier by dusting off the welcome mat and inviting her into the house.

Did she realize just what was at stake here? Did she know how dangerous her boss was? Although Lyman wasn't a major player in the big leagues, in his own eyes, he was an important drug kingpin, ambitious to cover more territory.

Dan's fists tightened. How could she work for that scumbag?

Sprinting up the basement steps, he stared at the corner fireplace, then narrowed his gaze. It kept its secrets well. Too well. After a week of examining it with the sophisticated tools he'd borrowed from the agency, he still was no better off than when he'd arrived here. Which led him back to Velma.

He gave himself a shake. First thing tomorrow, he'd kick that Hunter woman's sweet ass out the door. The last thing he needed was her interference. Big blue eyes or not, she could play Lyman's game of little girl lost with somebody else.

Although, by the curves exposed above her lacy bra, she was far from being a little girl...

A cold sip of beer brought Dan back to reality. He'd wasted enough time. Once he safely locked her in the guest bedroom, he could go back to the mausoleum. There was still a slim chance Velma might decide to drift inside its stone cold walls once more. Or perhaps she'd visit him in the house.

Peering up again at the bathroom door, he swore. It was still closed. As long as it stayed that way, he'd have to remain caged up inside. But he'd waited long enough. Bounding up the stairs, he growled, "Are you done?"

No answer. The woman hadn't slipped outside, had she? While he'd been down in the basement? Had she found out about the secret...? Hell and damn! He pounded on the door. "Answer me!"

The silence drove him crazy. Hesitating, he fingered the crystal doorknob, then pushed his way inside. Immediately, a fragrant scent of lilacs assaulted him. The air hung heavy with layers of humid warmth saturating the small room. The bathroom mirror had fogged up; streaks of moisture ran down its smooth surface. The room felt like a damn steam sauna.

But where was the woman? He swept back the shower curtain, tearing the plastic liner off some of the hooks. He stared down at her. Reclining against the slope of the old claw-and-ball white tub, she appeared to be asleep. Strands of brown hair splayed out on the porcelain. A gentle smile curved her lips. From somewhere, she'd found bath bubbles, and had added them to the water.

Her soft breathing inadvertently teased him. Every breath revealed rosy nipples peeking through the foamy bubbles.

He groaned. Hot desire pulsed through him, eagerly seeking release. Damn. He didn't need this; he didn't need his hormones raging out of control. Slamming his eyes shut to cut off the tantalizing sight of exposed silky skin and white soapy bubbles, he clenched his fists hard--to drive away his inner pain.

But he couldn't keep his eyes shut all night. He permitted himself another glimpse. She looked as lovely as Botticelli's Venus on a half-shell--all innocence and femininity.

Right. And he was the King of England.

Was this her game plan? Seduce him; catch him off guard? Over pillow talk, was she planning to discover what he was here for? Was she supposed to convince him to leave Angel Rock Ridge and its secrets? Her boss was desperate, but did he really think Dan would fall for that age-old trick?

It would take more than a nubile female body to sway him from his quest. It would take justice. Justice and Perry Lyman's head.

Rougher than he'd intended, he shook the woman's shoulder. As her breasts bobbed up and down, he scowled. "Wake up."

Her thick black lashes fluttered, and she gazed up at him blankly. This artlessness of hers fueled his anger. Damn good actress. Where had her contemptible employer found her? Dan's grunt of disgust was aimed at himself as much as for the woman's boss.

Realization of her surroundings must have kicked in for her blue eyes widened and she slipped further into the water. Her trembling lower lip fascinated him. Now she was pretending he'd come in to rape her. That was a laugh.

He smoothed down his mustache. Damn good actress.

"W-what are you doing in here?"

He watched her swallow a gulp of supposed fear. She had all the right moves. He had to admire that. She was picture perfect as a vulnerable woman at the mercy of a depraved, hungry wolf. Hell, she could've won an Oscar. A small tear even glistened in her eye.

But how far would she go to secure his interest?

He hitched his foot onto the rim of the tub. Resting his elbow against his thigh, he leaned into his hand and regarded her. Perhaps he should turn the tables on Jocelyn Hunter. Seduce the seducer. Perhaps he could find out what Perry Lyman knew about him. Learn the inside scoop about the bastard's operation. That Lyman suspected Dan was obvious. Who else would have sent Ms. Hunter here? Who else was running scared?

He wet his lips. He could take his time interrogating her. The sight of her silken shoulders fanned his appetite. She was undeniably a tasty morsel. Interrogating this woman could take him all night.

She repeated her question, this time without the stutter.

"I knocked, but you didn't answer." As he bent over the tub, he enjoyed the predatory feeling of a hunter laying his fox to ground. He twitched with anticipation. God help the woman, but he hadn't asked to be interrupted tonight. She'd come here of her own volition. "I came in to ask if you wanted your back scrubbed. Do you?"

Patches of red crept up her neck, to her cheeks. The vivid red of embarrassment, not a flush from heated water. Quite a performance, he had to give her that much.

"No!" Her agitation lifted her chest out of the water. The next second, she recoiled backwards, splashing down and hitting the bottom of the tub with a ringing thud. "Get out of here! Would you please just get out of here?"

The sight of her moistened skin flamed the fire raging within him. God help him, now. He wanted her. He wanted her bad. Reaching down to grab her, his voice grew husky. "Quit pretending, princess. You and I both know what you're here for."

"No, no! Don't touch me!" She thrashed in the water, deflecting his arms and, in the process, giving him a thorough soaking.

The soapy water seeped into his white shirt, spreading rapidly through the cloth. Wiping his face, he backed away. "Hell."

So she was determined to continue with this deception. Little Miss Virtue. Fine. Then he'd just have to lock her up. "I don't know what game you're playing, princess, but if you value your precious little hide, you'd better be out of this tub and in the bedroom in five minutes."

The horrified look on her face tugged at his conscience. She accused him. Without words, she accused him of violating her.

Brushing his hands against his jeans to get rid of the lingering bubbles, he swore. Hell and damn. He felt like less than two cents. There was a chance, a small chance, that she might've been telling the truth. Maybe she was lost. Maybe she didn't work for Lyman. He placed his hand on the doorknob. "The bedroom to your left. The guest bedroom."

She still didn't understand. Her eyes were wide with fear.

Seeing himself as a despoiler of women was almost laughable. One day, when he was eighty years old--if he lived that long--he'd have a good chuckle over this. But he didn't feel like chuckling now. "You needn't worry. You'll be alone. I have no intention of ravishing your lily-white body."

Her silence annoyed him. What did she want him to do--apologize? That would be a cold day in hell. "Five minutes," he grunted. Jerking open the door, he strode outside, then slammed it shut.

In the box-sized hallway, he folded his arms against his chest and waited. The muted sound of splashing water as she left the tub disturbed him. He could visualize her stepping out, standing on the beige shag bath mat, naked and dripping wet. Now she'd be drying her long, lean legs, rubbing the thick towel against her moist private places...

Stop it, Ferguson! He straightened his back, then drummed his fingers against his arm. He hadn't been with a woman since Ned had died two months ago. Hadn't wanted a woman; hadn't even noticed women. But there was something about this one--this Jocelyn. Pretty name. Lovely body.

Treacherous woman. If she worked for that bastard, she was as dirty as the rest of Lyman's gang.

If. Dan tightened his lips. He'd have to find out whether she did or not.

The door creaked open and she stood on the other side, cautiously peering out. A towel was draped around her head like a turban, and she held the front of his terry cloth robe closed at the neck.

Again, her wide blue eyes pricked his conscience. Annoyed, he stretched his arm inside the guest bedroom, felt along the wall, then flipped on the light switch. "Go in there."

Her handbag swinging from her shoulder, she lowered her gaze and gave him a wide berth as she went inside. She probably was relieved he didn't follow her. But he wanted to. Lord, did he want to.

Quickly shutting the door, he inserted the key in the keyhole and turned it. He listened for the click, then pocketed the key. "I'm locking you in until morning. It's for your own protection."

That was only half true. While Velma had never harmed anyone, he couldn't take any chances. But the main reason for bolting Jocelyn in was he wanted to go to the mausoleum--uninterrupted.

He took one more look at the closed door. Perhaps, if he were honest, he'd admit to locking it to keep himself out.

* * *

After she heard the click of the key in the door, Jocelyn tried the crystal knob. It was locked. Ferguson had actually locked her inside!

Dropping down on the double bed, she shivered inside the robe. She'd never known fear like this. Never in her life had she felt as vulnerable and helpless as she had a few moments ago. The good Lord had been watching over her, that was for sure. By the wild glow in Ferguson's gray eyes, his intent had been obvious. He'd planned to take her--by force. She wouldn't have stood a chance--not with that muscle man. Thankfully, he'd changed his mind. But why had he thought she'd be willing?

"You and I both know what you're here for," he had said. What had he meant? Why hadn't he believed her story? So what if the guy was drop-dead handsome, powerfully built, and had a Master's degree in sexual magnetism? She wasn't about to fall into bed with a stranger. Either his ego was as big as New York, or he was crazy--psycho--nuts. Maybe living in this isolated area had soured his brain.

And he'd locked her in. What chutzpah! She needed to lock him out. She needed to barricade the door.

Glancing around the bedroom, she sighed. The room was about as bare bones as it could be. A small round table served as a nightstand next to a rumpled bed,, and a battered chest of drawers rested against a faded posy flowered wall. In a corner, cardboard boxes were stacked to the ceiling and a fake wooden spinning wheel had been turned into a planter. Dried up ivy leaves hung from the pot. That was it. Not one more stick of furniture.

She'd have to use the spinning wheel planter to block the door. Not much protection, but if he tried to enter while she was sleeping, at least she'd hear the scrapping of timber against the bare wood floor. She'd feel safer.

Once she butted the planter under the doorknob, she wiped brown, withered ivy leaves from her hands. The room smelled moldy. Decay seemed to permeate the air. And not just decay from the dead plant. Something else reeked out from the walls. Something dank and dismal...and cold.

This place is the pits. The sooner morning came, the better. The sooner she left this place and its bizarre owner, the happier she'd be.

As she opened the back window, a rush of crisp fresh air blew in. The storm had passed, leaving the overhead night sky piercingly clear. The rain-scented breeze dispelled some of the guest room's rotted atmosphere.

Slouching on the windowsill, she looked out at the night. But what a sight. She had a perfect view of the graveyard. The cemetery was still drenched in darkness, but some of the marble stone monuments reflected glitter stolen from the stars. Especially sparkling was the mausoleum.

She could make out its massive shape, triangular roof, and five fluted columns. Between each column stood a marble statue, perched on a pedestal. Grand. Very grand. Much too ornate and elaborate to be stuck in the wilds of Angel Rock Ridge.

Who was buried there? With the towel, she rubbed moisture from her hair. Some rich recluse, probably. It didn't matter to her. As soon as she woke up tomorrow, she'd grab her clothes and hit the road. Someone would help her. She had to have better luck than today.

Sitting up straight, she stared out the window. A light appeared from inside the mausoleum! A bright, white light as intense as a beacon. It seemed to cut through the night as cleanly as a laser.

How strange. Whoever heard of an electrical hookup inside a tomb? She shrugged. Or maybe that was the general practice--to have lights so mourners could view the deceased. Who knew? Why should she care?

But who'd turned on the light? Someone was out in the mausoleum at this time of night. What were they doing?

A shudder passed over her. Instead of remaining still, the light shifted from behind the third column, to the first, then to the fifth. She stared in amazement. This was too weird, too eerie.

Maybe she was seeing things. Maybe--or maybe not. Jumping off the ledge, she shut the window, then pulled the thin cotton curtains closed. Superstitious, yes, but better to breathe moldy air than to let whoever...or whatever that was out there have free access to her room.

Through the sheer ivory curtains, the light shone like a spotlight. There was no escaping it. As she moved to one side, the beam seemed to follow her. Goose bumps rose on her arms. Crazy! This house was making her crazy.

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Damn. She was in bad shape if a light could frighten her.

Hitting the overhead switch, she plunged the room into blackness. All dark except for the dancing light from the mausoleum.

Forget the light, Jossy. She took her own advice and pulled back the fuzzy-patterned bedspread. Sliding into bed, she let her body go limp. Her aching muscles sighed their relief. It felt wonderful to relax.

But how could she relax? The room still wasn't totally dark. That awful light remained.

Ducking under the covers, she hid her head under a fluffy pillow. First this house, then Ferguson, now a mysterious light. What she needed was a good night's sleep.

She snuggled into the mattress. Comfortable. Tendrils of sleep wrapped around her. But, as she drifted off, a disturbing thought infiltrated. If a light hadn't blinded her, she might not have rammed her car into that rut. If she hadn't seen the welcoming light at this house, she might have passed it by. Now a light seemed to beckon to her, maybe wanting her to investigate the mausoleum.

Jocelyn yawned. How could she be so ridiculous? A light wasn't responsible for her sleeping here, in this bed tonight. No way. Her arrival at this house had been mere chance.

Chapter Three

Rolling onto her side, Jocelyn moaned softly. Every muscle, every joint in her body signaled pain. A constant throbbing of discomfort penetrated even her deepest dreamless sleep. No position in bed gave relief. Although she needed more rest, the sharp, persistent drumming nagged her to get up and take some aspirin; something to drive away the ache.

Burning white lights stabbed at her closed eyes and she buried her head under the warm blanket. Everything was conspiring to return her to the land of the living.

Land of the living? An unfortunate word choice with an isolated cemetery right outside the window.

She bolted upright. She'd forgotten where she was: near a cemetery, with eerie bright lights, and an inhospitable, dangerous man for a host. Fodder for the TV show, "Tales From the Crypt." She'd better get out of here--pronto. This place wasn't normal. Something was decidedly out of whack.

She glanced at her homemade barrier. The planter remained where she'd left it: propped up under the doorknob. So Ferguson hadn't tried to enter. Good. With any luck, he was regretting his despicable behavior. You and I both know what you're here for. Ha, get real. She always called at secluded houses, dripping wet, looking to seduce whoever opened the door. Didn't everybody?

Too bad, though. He was awfully good-looking. But a toad had a better personality than he did.

Ignoring the creaks and protests of sore muscles, she stood, then retied the bathrobe. A spatter of rain tapped against the back window. Great. Another opportunity to slosh around in the wilderness. If she was lucky, maybe civilization wasn't too far away. Maybe she wouldn't have to walk in this downpour. Maybe Ferguson would give her a ride...

Wait a minute! She hurried to the window and pushed back the gauze-like curtains. Outside, swollen dark clouds hovered over the house. As far as she could see, a haze of gray stretched for an eternity, covering what should have been sparkling blue skies. Moving quickly to the front window, she found the view the same. No sign of the sun.

Cold terror punched her insides. In the bed, a brilliant white light had shone into her eyes. She hadn't paid much attention; she'd assumed it had been the sun.

No such luck. Not today. Measuring the heavy cloud layer, she wouldn't be surprised if the sun didn't make an appearance until tomorrow.

But something had glared down on her. Something brightly focused--like last night's mystery light.

God in heaven! She dragged the planter back to its original location, then tried the door. It was unlocked. Wonderful. She couldn't wait to leave this repulsive place.

By the time she descended the steep stairs, she'd rationalized her superstitious fears. Early morning sunbeams must have woken her up--only to be later hidden by rain clouds. Last night, no light had flickered from one mausoleum column to another; Ferguson must have forgotten about turning a light on at his house; and her car accident had been caused by her inattentiveness--nothing else.

She clutched the robe closed at her neck. Fine. Now that she'd settled that, all she needed was to get out of here. Stepping into the living room, she peered around cautiously. No Ferguson in sight, but from the delicious aroma of sizzling hot bacon and freshly brewed coffee, her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten anything since five o'clock the night before. Ferguson must be in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. Or maybe someone else was doing the cooking.

Someone else? Ferguson had mentioned the locked door was for her own protection. Was there someone here she needed protection from...besides Ferguson? Was that person now in the kitchen?

Get a grip, Jossy. It's daytime now. Time to put away the ghosts and goblins of night. Your imagination's just pulling your chain.

Right. A howl of wind barreled down the stone fireplace in the corner, whistling shivers up her spine. She hugged her arms to her chest and took a deep breath. Maybe her imagination was working overtime, but how could it resist, given such perfectly spooky surroundings?

Even the pitted black stones of the fireplace contributed to doom and gloom. A floor-to-ceiling ebony slab of hardened, lava rock? She'd never seen anything so ugly or so full of misery. She fingered the gritty exterior of the stones. Nothing tranquil about these rocks. Propelled from the bowels of the earth, they seemed to harbor age-old secrets, age-old resentments.

And they beckoned her--daring her to move closer to the iron chain mail barricade over the entrance to the hearth. But why would she want to do that? She did have the strangest desire to push aside the covering, though. Puzzled, she took one reluctant step nearer.

The familiar sound of a microwave beeping its readiness broke her tortured thoughts. Welcoming the interruption, she turned away. Jeez, that fireplace gave her the creeps. What she wouldn't give to be sitting safe at home in her cramped apartment right now.

Her shoulders braced, she opened the French-glass paneled doors into the kitchen. This place was beginning to have an adverse effect on her sanity.

Inside the narrow kitchen Ferguson stood, flipping a pancake over on a cast iron skillet. She blinked. Who would've expected the hormone-driven man leering over her last night to be standing over a hot griddle this morning? And by the honeyed aroma of the pancakes, he was a good cook. Did that mean he was also a good lover?

Jossy! She didn't need a lover--good, bad, or indifferent. Especially not one who scared the bejesus out of her.

"Oh, you're up." He spoke to the pancakes.

His ruggedly handsome looks seemed at odds with this scene of domestic simplicity. Fully dressed in a lightly starched, striped oxford shirt and stonewashed indigo jeans, he appeared ready to conquer the world, but instead, here he was, tied behind a kitchen stove. This man was a constant surprise.

She walked closer to him. In the fluorescent lighting, his dark hair shone with deep navy highlights. His precision cut teased her to run her fingers through it. She imagined the feel of his hair.

Jossy! She scolded herself again. This man's first name was probably Danger. She didn't need to be interested in him personally, but professionally...

She could picture him in front of her camera, with his smoldering gray eyes flashing disdain at her through the lens. He could successfully hawk a number of male products; he absolutely reeked of masculine virility. He certainly could entice women to buy things for their men. Jeez, if he could turn her on in this God-forsaken house, imagine what his picture could do in a magazine, in the privacy of a woman's home?

He'd be perfect as the model for the cosmetics company she was working with. The client's new after-shave was called After the Night. She could visualize the caption on the ad: "After the night with you, give your man an after-shave that evokes the power of love."

Maybe she could convince Ferguson to make a few photo shoots.

He flicked his gaze over her, then turned away to drink some cranberry juice. Obviously, he didn't think much of her plain-Jane morning appearance. Maybe she needed to use After the Night!

Remembering how he'd seen her last night in the bathtub, she flushed. Her pride was still in shreds. Forget the photo shoots. She wouldn't ask this joker to New York if her life depended on it.

Without looking at her, he said, "If you're done staring, breakfast's on the table. Help yourself."

Platters of crisp, crinkled bacon and bright yellow scrambled eggs rested on a tiny table set for two. A mile-high stack of pancakes also tempted her palate. Tempted, but she resisted. She never ate big breakfasts. Heavy food bogged down the brain, and, in her line of business, she couldn't afford to be sluggish in any way, shape, or form.

She sat down and scooped a tablespoon of eggs onto the gold-rimmed plate. "Thank you. This is quite a spread. You didn't have to go to so much trouble." If he could pretend nothing happened last night, then so could she.

He placed the last cooked pancake on top of the stack. "You look like you could use a little meat on your bones. Besides, when I'm not working, I always fix a good breakfast."

Maybe he was trying to apologize for his contemptible behavior. After pouring herself juice, she glanced out the kitchen window. Thankfully, the cemetery stayed out of view. "Still raining. Looks like a mess outside."

He ignored her opening gambit. Sliding half the eggs onto his plate, he forked a pile of pancakes two inches high into the remaining space. His pursed lips told her he didn't care for her near-empty plate. "Don't tell me, you're on a diet."

"No, but I usually have just a yogurt in the morning."

"Baby food," he pronounced.

For the first time since yesterday, she smiled. Evidently, big men had big appetites. She eyed the eggs. But what about all that cholesterol?

More rain pelted the windowpane. "I should have listened to the weather forecast before I left. Rain and vacations just don't mix." She sighed. She hated to ask for a favor--again, but what did she have to lose? "Do you suppose you could drive me to the closest town? So I can get my car towed?"

He poured thick maple syrup over every last inch of the pancakes. She had to contain her shudder. All those calories!

Taking a slow bite, he seemed to chew on her question as well.

"When you're ready, of course, Mr. Ferguson. I wouldn't want to rush you."

He wiped some crumbs off his mustache. "Radio says the bridge is still closed. No way to get to town."

"There's no other place I can go? Are you really that isolated up here?" She found it hard to believe.

Shrugging, he lifted the glass coffeepot as if to ask if she wanted some. She shook her head. It probably wasn't decaffeinated.

He took his coffee black. Leaning back against the spokes of the paddle-backed chair, he challenged her. "Yeah, we're isolated." As if you didn't know, he seemed to add.

Well, she didn't know. She'd never again complain about living in a congested city.

His steady gaze unnerved her, and she fidgeted with the collar on the robe. "I'm at a loss, Mr. Ferguson. As I told you last night, I'm here by accident. I'm not the best of navigators and I took a wrong turn. Since the bridge is out, what do you suggest I do?"

Besides jump in the lake, she thought. He still looked at her as if she were a household pest--a mouse or a cockroach. Something unpleasant. Without thinking, she fluffed her hair. No one had ever considered her an eyesore before.

Narrowing his eyes, he said flatly, "Well, you can't stay here."

She threw down her napkin. "That's a big help! Believe me, the last thing I want to do is to stay here. Especially for another night. Putting it bluntly, I don't trust you as far as I can spit. Sleeping in a secluded house with its own private cemetery is not my idea of a good time! A cemetery complete with a lighted mausoleum, for God's sake. This is the last place I'd--"

"Lighted mausoleum? What are you talking about?" He leaned forward and grabbed her wrist.

It was as if she'd pushed a button and his veneer of polite behavior dropped, leaving in its place a savage, untamed beast. She hadn't meant to be rude, but his attitude drove her crazy. But now, look what she'd done. She pulled back, but he held her arm firmly.

"Answer me."

"Let me go! Who do you think you are? What do you think you're doing?" She hated to be controlled, and if he thought he could manipulate her...

He released her, but sat at the edge of his seat, ready to pounce once more. His dark eyes glittered with menace.

She rubbed her skin. Already, soft blue bruises had appeared. "What gives you the right to treat me this way? And over what? A graveyard?"

His gaze flickered over her wrist. Spotting the darkened skin he'd caused, he inhaled sharply. He reached out to touch her, but changed his mind. Instead, he muttered, "Sorry."

If he thought she'd forgive him, he had another thing coming. Rising, she tried to look as dignified as she could. Which wasn't too dignified, standing barefoot in an oversized terry cloth robe. "Last night, from the upstairs window, I saw a light in the mausoleum. It appeared to move from one column to another. That's all I meant." She flicked back her hair. "I would've answered your question. There was no need to come on like a Neanderthal."

"You must have been mistaken. I didn't see a light," he insisted.

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Now, if you'll give me my clothes, and be so kind as to point me in the direction of the closest town, I'll be on my way. I shan't trouble you any further."

Or you trouble me. Without looking at him, she pushed her chair back under the table. Men. Who could understand them? They were all brutes in their own ways.

Saying silent apologies to her dad and her brother, she watched Ferguson leave the kitchen. He returned with her top and white leggings, neatly folded.

She held out her hand, but he didn't give her the clothes. "There is another bridge--a rope bridge for walkers. Maybe it hasn't been damaged. After I clean up in here, I'll take you to it."

"Fine. Thank you." Well, hallelujah. Maybe there was a way out of this funny farm. Belatedly, she added, "I'll help you clean up."

Handing over her things, he shook his head. "No need. By the time you get dressed and fix yourself up, I'll be done in the kitchen." He turned, obviously through talking with her, and started to clear the table. She felt like a dismissed schoolgirl.

She touched her unpowdered cheek. Fix herself up? Did she look that bad?

Give it a break, Jossy. This is probably his way to make amends. Besides, he had the manners of Attila the Hun.

Murmuring her thanks a second time, she headed for the stairs. Ferguson was a study in contradictions.

* * *

After hitting another large bump in the muddied dirt road, Jocelyn decided the battered pickup truck she traveled in needed new shocks. Maybe even new springs. Sore already, this trip was adding to her catalog of aches and pains. But she shouldn't complain. This bucket of bolts was her ticket out of here--she hoped.

Rubbing her neck, she looked over at Ferguson. He seemed to take the constant jolts in stride. He even seemed to go out of his way to strike the biggest bumps. But she didn't think he was out for a joyride. A pulsing at his jaw line indicated that he clenched and unclenched his teeth. Something bothered the man, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

He couldn't be upset with her. After all, she was trying to get out of his hair. She'd never met a more disagreeable man. This morning, his behavior had been acceptable--until she'd mentioned the light. And the mausoleum. Then he'd gone off the deep end again. What was the matter with him?

Inside the small cab of the dull blue truck, his masculine scent drifted over, provoking responses she'd rather have kept dormant. He sent her senses reeling. Too bad she couldn't trust him. In a way, he'd helped her to achieve her purpose for coming to Pennsylvania: to forget about Todd. She'd achieved her goal, all right. Todd and his manipulative habits were the furthest things from her mind. Right now, all she worried about was where in the world this Ferguson guy was taking her.

He turned off the road onto an overgrown path that twisted between closely huddled pine trees. Darkness hovered around them. As he abruptly swerved around the gnarled trunk of a tree, she clamped her eyes shut and hung onto her seat.

"Dammit, Ferguson! I just was in an accident yesterday. What are you trying to do? Make sure I go through the windshield this time?"

This guy was a maniac driver. Why in the world had she asked him to take her to the bridge? Was there really a bridge? She began to doubt everything he said.

The man had the nerve to grin. He stretched back in his worn seat and glanced at her. "Cool your jets, princess. I've driven this way before."

"That makes me feel so much better," she snapped. She could see her obituary now: New York photographer dies in backwoods area of Pennsylvania. Burial rites will be conducted at a nearby Greek mausoleum. Condolences should be sent to...

Stop it! A heated flush crept up her neck. After another near miss in front of them, she pulled on his arm. "You're scaring me."

He suddenly stopped the truck. With a narrowed gaze, he studied her. "You are scared, aren't you?"

Give the man a prize. While the swishing windshield wipers kept the beating rain at bay, she stared down at her hands in her lap.

"Answer me."

She'd heard those words from him before, but this time he said them with concern, even gentleness in his voice.

Cupping her chin with his large hand, he turned her towards him. She couldn't stop her lips from trembling. He was doing it again; he was getting out of character. She never knew what to expect from him. She could almost swear the look he gave her was tender.

His intense gaze held, causing her breathing to become shallow. A warm, dreamy haze enveloped her; she felt suspended between reality and tingly fantasy. Memorizing his every feature, she focused on his firm lips. What would it feel like to kiss him?

"Why are you scared?" he whispered into her ear.

A tremor as violent as a solar flare rocked her. Why was her body reacting this way? Why was she letting herself be drawn to him, forgetting all that had happened?

Good God, if she didn't break away--and soon--she'd lose all control. No telling what she'd do.

She dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of her palms. "I just want to get back home in one piece. I wish I'd never left New York."

She didn't understand any of this. Ferguson frightened her. Frightened her on a physical level, yes. But, more deeply, on an emotional level. If she could consider getting involved with someone as...as off-the-wall as Ferguson, what did that say about her own common sense?

He searched her eyes. "You regret coming here?"

Her mouth went dry. "Yes." But the odd thing about it was she wasn't as sure about that as she had been a minute ago.

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, then moved the gearshift out of neutral. "I'll drive more carefully. We're almost at the bridge."

True to his word, she had no reason to hang onto her seat anymore. Then she saw a clearing up ahead. Through the bristly needles of the pine trees she saw a clearing up ahead. A heavy flaxen rope bridge lightly swung in response to the howling wind. The twisted, heavy rope cords spanned a narrow divide. Narrow, but probably very deep. She was afraid of heights.

"Here it is," he announced. Parking the truck right outside the clearing, he opened the door and slid out.

She followed. As the cold summer rain pelted her skin, she stared at the wood-planked bottom of the bridge. The planks didn't sit close together. One false move, and she pictured her foot falling through the open space. The vista below wasn't reassuring. She gulped down a bit of bile. The bridge rested high above a rocky gorge. To put it mildly, it was a long, long way down. It was sort of like looking into a shark's mouth--nothing but sharp, piercing teeth. If there ever was a time to have a safety net, this was it.

"Is it safe?" Her voice squeaked. She was having more adventures this weekend than she'd had in her entire life. Lucky her. There was something to be said for the dull and humdrum.

"It looks safe from this end." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Before you take your next...vacation, Ms. Hunter, I suggest you do more research on what, exactly, you're getting yourself into."

Although it sounded like he still didn't believe her, his words held a ring of truth. When she'd left New York, she'd expected to lather on suntan lotion and bake in the country sun. This was no vacation; this was a nightmare.

She pushed her damp hair out of her face. Jeez, did she have a headache. Hiking her handbag's shoulder strap back up, she peered at the far side of the bridge. If she gripped the side ropes really hard and only occasionally glanced at her feet, maybe she'd be okay.

Maybe. Sudden wetness popped out on her upper lip. Jossy, don't be such a chicken.

Ferguson started giving her directions to town. She tried to pay attention but, with his button-down collar, he looked incongruous in these wild surroundings. Mr. Collegiate goes back to nature. No, something didn't jive here. He wasn't the typical backwoods hermit.

Hugging her arms to her chest, she spotted a red light flashing across the gap. Deep red, as in blood. Where did it come from? Bouncing off a gray-veined boulder lining the narrow gorge, the beam spotlighted the other end of the bridge. Eerie. She pointed at it. "Do you see that--?"

"Hello? Hello over there." A deep-timbered voice echoed over the divide, causing the light to disappear. A man came into view, and he stopped by the other side of the bridge. He looked young, his thatch of yellow hair matching the hue of the golden retriever by his side. Waving his arm, he seemed pleased to have caught their attention.

The man cupped his hands around his mouth. "Is that you, Ferguson?"

Ferguson's low swear sounded ominous. The chords in his thick neck tightened. He wasn't thrilled to see the other person.

That was strange. Out here in no man's land, she'd have thought it invigorating to see another living soul. Or perhaps that was it. This man was a living soul.

Jocelyn took a step away from Ferguson. She'd learned to fear his foul moods. Maybe she could walk quickly to the other side of the bridge--to safety. Her foot hit loose pebbles, and she slipped to her knee. Mud splattered her leggings.

Scowling at her, he yanked her upright. He had the manners of Attila, all right. She massaged her sore arm. "Thanks."

He ignored her; he was good at that.

The stranger yelled again. He appeared to be conservatively dressed, like Ferguson. And despite the rain, his hair remained haloed about his face in cherub curls.

She fingered her own hair. It felt like wet noodles. "Who's that man--?"

"Are you with Velma?" the man shouted over. He shifted position near the edge of the bridge, evidently to get a better view. His dog remained right by his heels. "No, I can see you're not. I'm looking for Velma. Have you seen her?"

"Can't say that I have." Ferguson's face appeared stone-like.

"I'm worried about her. You know how she is."

"Why don't you come across and look for her?" Although his words could've been construed as an invitation, he stood with fists on his lean hips. Like he owned the land or something. Like he dared the other man to trespass.

Whatever unpleasantness simmered between the two of them was their affair. She'd wasted enough time. "Well, I'd better go now. Thanks again for your hospitality."

She tried not to color her voice. What would she have achieved by being sarcastic? Pointing over the bridge, she avoided looking down into the pit. "Maybe that man can give me a lift into town. What's his name?"

Ferguson grabbed her upper arms. His steel gray gaze drilled into her, as if he could find the answers he sought in her eyes. "You don't know his name?"

He amazed her; he truly did. She let out an exasperated sigh. He must have thought manhandling a woman was acceptable behavior. He needed to go back to college for Human Relations 101.

"Honestly, Mr. Ferguson, I don't understand where you're coming from. I told you, I took a wrong turn up here. My poor car lies battered somewhere in these woods. I don't know anybody in Angel Rock Ridge. How could I? You mentioned doing research. The only research I normally deal with concerns photography--in New York City--not about vacations. But believe me, I plan to change." Was there anything more she could say to convince him? She twisted her lips. "I'm not a secret agent, for God's sake."

He loosened his grip, but continued to hold her arms. Oddly enough, his touch felt good. She felt warm and secure. Tilting her head, she silently asked her own question. Why was he able to make her heart pound like a caged animal? Why were her legs threatening to quit supporting her? What was he doing to her?

For a long moment, he stared down into her eyes, as if he could read her innermost thoughts. Her senses swirled.

"Hey, Ferguson!"

Breaking contact as if it had never happened, Ferguson walked to the brink of the ravine. "What do you want, Lyman?"

She steadied her knees. She'd never known anyone as powerful, hypnotic, or...as alarming as this man named Ferguson.

"Would you look for Velma? I can't come across. The blasted rope is frayed through." The man held up wooden planks from the other side. The floor of the bridge was separated from the thick, sturdy sides of the rope cord.

Glancing down at the yawning pit below, Jocelyn shivered. If she'd walked the bridge...Her blood did a fast evacuation from her face. She swayed.

She heard one word: a simple "Damn."

Before she knew what had happened, Ferguson set her down on the ground. The cold earth drilled into her thighs and her teeth chattered. She didn't care. She didn't want to think about anything.

He pressed down on her back. "Put your head between your knees and keep it down. That's a good girl. I'll get some brandy from the truck."

It wasn't a very elegant position, but she held her head down just the same. He was right; she'd had a bad shock. Several bad shocks, really, all within a twenty-four hour time frame.

When he removed his hand, she suddenly felt bereft of his warmth. From beneath her knees, she saw him walk to the edge again. At this angle, she noticed the bottom of his jeans had ridden up his leg. Something bulky appeared around his ankle--a holster. Good God, he was wearing a gun!

"I'll look for Velma, Lyman. But if I find her, I sure as hell won't turn her over to you."

Jocelyn watched Ferguson's feet disappear back into the forest. Sitting up, she waited until her breathing returned to normal. A gun! Was he a criminal? On the lam? No wonder he hadn't wanted her to spend the night.

A shout from the other side of the bridge caused her to turn her head. The blonde man waved his arms as fiercely as the dog waved its tail. "Hey, miss, I don't know how involved you are with Dan Ferguson, but, while he's gone, I have to warn you. He's a very strange and dangerous man. Ask anyone at Angel Rock Ridge."

"But..." She didn't have a chance to ask the golden Mr. Lyman questions. He and his dog left the clearing as suddenly as they'd appeared.

Leaning her head back onto her bent knees, she balled her fists. Great. Not only does she find out that Ferguson--Dan Ferguson--wore a gun, but a complete stranger cautioned her about him. All her red danger flags, down so briefly, lifted up again.

Dangerous Dan--the adjective fit.

She wished she could find out more about him, but she couldn't, could she? She was effectively cut off from Angel Rock Ridge...and the world.

And worse, she'd have to spend another night at his homely little house of horrors.

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