It was too bad she would never discover how strong he really was.

The carbon monoxide was already filling the cozy, airtight guest house. He was very proud of how he'd managed to jury-rig the heating system, but then, no one had ever quibbled about his brain. Just his determination.

Laura had gone to bed, though he knew perfectly well she hadn't wanted to go. She was infatuated with the stranger, and Jeremy had briefly considered encouraging her. It would have added to the scandal in a most delicious way. Half of the Fitzpatrick dynasty dies in a freak accident while the younger daughter spends a night of passion with a stranger. The noble stepson keeps a bedside vigil, unaware of the tragedy surrounding him.

He chuckled softly at the notion, wishing he could risk it. But he didn't dare. The doctors had always warned them that any undue strain on Laura's heart would carry her off, and that included horseback riding, square dancing and making love. Jeremy couldn't afford to have Laura die the same night as the others—it would be too coincidental. Of course, it might have the added benefit of pointing suspicion at the stranger, but Jeremy didn't want to take that risk. He'd covered his tracks extremely well, but if someone were really determined to look into things, there was no telling what might be uncovered, the bodies of the three servants who'd disappeared over the years, buried in shallow graves on the mountain-side, or the women in Colorado Springs.

No, he would leave things as he'd originally planned. William's eleventh-hour rally wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference, either. The old man wasn't alert enough to cause problems; he would only feel the pain of loss. The notion was extremely pleasant.

Jeremy poured himself another drink, exactly two ounces of single malt whiskey. He knew to a quarter of an ounce the amount of alcohol he allowed himself. He watched his fat and salt intake, he never smoked, and he allowed himself to kill only when he'd planned every detail. Mistakes were made in the heat of passion, and he never allowed himself passion.

He walked back into his stepfather's bedroom. The nurse was dozing in the corner, refusing to leave her post, despite William's improved condition. All well and good, he thought to himself. She would provide the perfect alibi. In the servants' quarters behind the kitchen, Mrs. Hawkins, who'd always tried to mother him, slept on. And somewhere overhead, Laura probably dreamed ignorant, erotic dreams about the stranger.

Alex Montmort was the only question mark, a risk that Jeremy found exciting. He didn't want to be excited. He wanted to sit coolly and calmly at the old man's bedside while family died, and he wanted to keep his pleasure in the act under the tightest of reins.

Maybe the stranger would change his mind and go in search of Cynthia. Maybe he would climb into bed with her—Cynthia was always ready for more. And then he would be found dead in the guest house, as well.

Carbon monoxide. An odorless, colorless gas. Lethal, undetectable. So very, very sad, Jeremy thought, composing his face into stolid lines of grief. And then he chuckled again.

Alex stretched his legs out in front of him, watching the storm from the balcony chair. It was growing colder, he suspected, though he was impervious to it. The faint drizzle had turned to icy pellets dashing themselves against his flesh, and he felt the sting with a certain wry delight. Life was a painful process, apparently. He was unused to the elements interfering with him—they were usually his to command.

As were people. Laura Fitzpatrick's reaction to his high-handed ways amused him, as well. She seemed patently unwilling to do what he wanted, a fact which astonished him. He had no doubt that even with his diminished powers he could make the others obey him without question.

Perhaps Laura would be equally docile if he exerted himself. But he didn't want her docile.

A gust of wind came up, and a streak of lightning split the sky. He watched it moodily. He felt restless, as if he should be doing something.

Of course he should be doing something. He should be following his ordained path, taking those souls who were ready to go. Instead, he was ignoring their cries, determined for once to listen only to his own selfish wants.

The calls were getting louder, nearer, and he wondered whose they could be. The old man, of course, but his voice, persistent, weak, was unchanged. Was it Laura's?

If Laura called to him, he would go to her. He would end this sojourn, take her with him and never let her go.

Ah, but he didn't have that choice. Even for a creature as powerful as he, there were limitations. He could take her, of course, and he would. But then he would lose her, as she went on to the next step.

No, it wasn't her voice. And there were no other voices he chose to listen to right now, only Laura's and his own. No other souls to deal with but theirs.

Except that he doubted he had a soul in the first place. That part had always been unclear to him, and by now he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

He rose, wandering to the edge of the railing, and looked out over the thickly wooded hillside. He glanced over to the left, to the smaller, log-crafted guest house, and his eyes narrowed. The voices were coming from that direction. How interesting, he thought, wrinkling his forehead. Unexpected.

His shirt was stiff with ice. He moved back to the French doors that led to his room. There was a fire in the fireplace, a fact that amused him, and the down comforter lay on the high bed. He almost pulled it away, then thought better of it. He wouldn't need it.

But Laura might. When the time came for her to share the bed.

He stripped off his sodden clothes and tossed them over a chair, then glanced down at himself. It was the body he was used to. Strong, spare, without discernible weakness. It was a body men and women found attractive, and that was partly how he managed to persuade them to come with him. Those who needed persuading.

He wasn't sure about Laura. Whether she would need persuasion or force. Seduction, or simply the crook of his finger.

He knew only that he wanted her, needed her so badly that his self-control was close to shattering. Those voices crying to him wouldn't have long to wait.

Laura lay in bed, listening. She'd heard him on the balcony, and it had taken all her strength of will not to throw back the heavy covers and go to him. He was courting death out there in the freezing rain, and she wanted to bring him inside, to warm him, to find out what lay behind those mirrored sun-glasses.

She didn't, of course. She knew all too well what Jeremy had said to him in his soft, mellifluous voice. If Alex had had any interest in her, it would have vanished instantly when Jeremy told him how sick she was.

But then, she'd already told him herself, and it hadn't seemed to shock him. Her father had always warned her of unscrupulous men who would come after her, try to seduce her, marry her, knowing that she would die and they would inherit her share of the Fitzpatrick fortune. Perhaps Alex was one of those. After all, what did she know about him? A ski bum, appearing suddenly on the tightly patrolled slopes of Taylor Butte just as the world and the weather went haywire.

She thought she could feel something between the two of them. Some strand, some rope, of longing, of recognition. She was probably going crazy from the stress of William's last weeks and the demands of her own failing body. She had thought she would die tonight, alone in the forest. She'd felt the pain, the sudden cessation of breath and life and heartbeat, and when she looked up, she'd seen nothing but a clear white light.