"I guess what I should say is even when we know what we did to each other."

"Damn it, Carine." He could hear the pain in his own voice, wished it had stayed buried. "I can't undo what I did. If I could…"

"It's okay."

She touched her fingertips to the side of his face and, without any other warning than that, kissed him, lightly, gently, but not, he thought, chastely. It was like being mule-kicked, like setting a match to superdry kindling. All the clichés. There'd been no other woman since her. He kept thinking there should be, that he ought to get on with his life, but the weeks had ticked by, now the months.

He fought an urge to carry her to bed, but she pulled away from him, smiled at him, her skin less pale, less cool to the touch. "A lot's changed in a year, hasn't it?"

He smiled back at her. "Not some things."

She gave him a pointed look. "Sex isn't everything, Sergeant North. You said so yourself when you gave me my marching papers."

"Did I say that?"

"Not in as many words-"

"Yeah, no kidding." He held her more closely, suddenly not wanting to let go. "The reason I didn't marry you was because of me, not because of you."

"Semantics. You ready?"

"Not quite."

And he kissed her this time, felt her arms tighten around his middle, her shirt riding up-he touched the bare skin of her midriff, and when she inhaled, he deepened the kiss. She responded, sliding her hands around to his belt buckle, her fingertips drifting lower, outlining his obvious arousal. She took his hand and eased it over her breasts.

"Carine-"

"Just this once." Her eyes were wide, alert, nothing about her anywhere but here, right now. "It's been such an awful twenty-four hours. Ty-please, I know what I'm doing."

She touched him again, erotically, and he was lost. He swept her up and carried her to the bed, laying her on top of her down comforter. He paused, looking at her for any indication she'd changed her mind, giving her the chance to send him back to the kitchen. Ty told himself he should put a stop to this insanity, but he didn't. Neither did she. She scooted out of her clothes, and in five seconds, he was out of his, on top of her, stroking her smooth hips, her breasts-but she was in a hurry.

"Make love to me," she whispered. "Now."

She pulled him into her, shutting her eyes, no hesitation now. He kept his eyes open, watching her as he made love to her, the flush on her face, the way she bit her lower lip when she came, seconds before he did. It was then he shut his eyes, savoring his release, the feel of her body all around him.

Making love to her was natural. Perfect. And it couldn't happen again.

He kissed her forehead and rolled off the bed, grabbing his clothes. "No regrets?"

She shook her head. "Not this soon. Later, maybe."

"Carine-"

"Just turn your head when I get my clothes back on."

He did as she asked.

He had regrets. About a thousand of them. He couldn't seem to keep his head glued on straight when he was around her. He'd almost sent her an old-fashioned telegram to call off their engagement, just to make sure he got the message delivered, that she understood it-he couldn't marry her. Not that next week, not ever.

As if to prove his point, here he was. One minute, he was checking for intruders with a sharp knife, the next minute, making love to a woman who'd pretty much had him by the short hairs all her life. She deserved someone more like her, someone more attuned to her sensibilities. He wasn't as creative or perceptive or optimistic as she was. He was restless, an adrenaline junkie for as long as he could remember. He needed the kind of physical and mental challenges his work as a PJ provided. Even his mother would have had less trouble with a quieter kind of kid-he'd see her eyes glaze over many times as she became so absorbed in her work she was unaware of what was going on around her, and he'd clear out, head up the ridge. It wasn't like he'd sat there and played quietly by the fire.

Carine cleared her throat. "I'm ready. You can turn your head now."

North didn't feel self-conscious about his own absence of clothing. He supposed he should, but this wasn't the first time he and Carine had made love-the first time was almost a year ago, a few days after the shooting in the woods, less than twenty-four hours after he got rid of Hank and Manny. It was in the loft in her log cabin, with the fire crackling in her woodstove, and it hadn't seemed sudden at all. It had seemed natural, as if they should have been making love for years.

He pulled on his pants, noting that she didn't turn her head away, but when he grinned at her, she made a face, blushing slightly. "Regrets?" he asked.

She shook her head.

But that was now, he thought. Give her a couple of hours in his truck and see what she thought.

She swore under her breath and grabbed her tapestry bag and her cameras, not asking him to carry a thing as she pushed past him into the kitchen.

He had a feeling it was going to be a long drive back to New Hampshire.

Nine

The lead homicide detective had Sterling take him through the entire house after lunch, describe each room and explain its status in terms of renovation. Sterling tried not to let his impatience show, but he could see no relevance in having the detective inspect the fifth-floor maid's quarters. But the man insisted, and Sterling cooperated. Afterward, the detective thanked him, and Sterling returned to his office in a deceptively plain building that his company owned in Copley Square.

He was exhausted and uneasy, and try as he did, he couldn't summon much sympathy for Louis Sanborn. Why the hell hadn't he taken more care not to get himself killed? Or at least, if it had to happen, why not somewhere else? Why on Rancourt property?

Sterling stood in front of the tall, spotless windows in his office and looked across Boylston at Trinity Church and the mirrored tower of the Hancock building. He could see a corner of the original wing of the Boston Public Library, the oldest public library in the country. So much history all around him. It was something he loved about Boston. He thought of it as his city. He and Jodie had such great plans for the house on Commonwealth Avenue. They wanted to entertain there, open it up to charitable events, allow for people outside their immediate circle of family and friends to enjoy it.

Now it was tainted by murder.

If not Louis, why hadn't Gary Turner done something to prevent this nightmare? Sterling would give anything for yesterday never to have happened. At this point, the best he could hope for was a quick arrest, preferably of someone who had no connection to him. A drug dealer or a drifter who'd followed Louis into the house and shot him in an attempted robbery, or just for the hell of it.

But that didn't look likely. The detectives had refused to tip their hand, but Sterling knew Manny Carrera was in their sites. A consultant he'd hired. A man he'd trusted.

He had to be patient and let the investigation play itself out.

His wife, however, didn't have a drop of patience in her character. She didn't last long at their home on the South Shore and stormed into his office, dropping onto a butter-soft leather couch she'd picked out herself. She was his partner, always at his side. Whenever he felt his energy and drive flag, Jodie would be there, reinvigorating him, urging him on. She was forty-eight, trim, independent-and a little remote. Even after fifteen years of marriage, Sterling couldn't help but feel an important part of her lay beyond his reach. He wondered if it would have been different if they'd had children, but that had never been in their stars.

She was ash-blond, elegant in every way, yet buying their place in Cold Ridge had been her idea. Venturing ontotheridgelastNovember-again,heridea.Shecontinued to insist they'd have survived, even if they'd had to spend the night on the ridge. Sterling knew better. They'd have been lucky if they'd managed to setup their tent in the high wind, and if they'd succeeded, there was a real possibility they'd have suffocated inside it with the amount of snow that fell by first light. Simply put, they were out of their element. But the situation was made less galling, at least to her, because it was Tyler North, Manny Carrera and Hank Callahan who got to them first. If Jodie had to be rescued, better by a hero-pilot-turned-senate candidate and a pair of air force pararescuemen.