A moment later she was gone without a backward glance.

CHAPTER THREE

He felt her embrace in every cell of his body. It shook him, more than he'd thought he could be shaken. She'd smiled, backed away, looking neither shocked nor dead. She'd simply kept that calm, tranquil expression on her face, and then she was gone.

She'd left the door open behind her, and he could hear her footsteps as she moved quickly back down the hallway. She'd put her arms around him and nothing had happened.

He moved to the French doors, opening the curtains she'd pulled against the violence of the night, and he watched the lightning flash through the sky, illuminating the mountains. The distant rumble of thunder was an angry counterpoint, but it wouldn't rain. He knew that, as surely as he knew that no one would die. Everything was on hold for the next two days. The weather would threaten, the wind would blow, but nothing would happen. The narrow road up the canyon would be blocked by fallen trees, and no one would risk coming out in such a storm to clear the way. No one would even know about it, with all outside communication severed. He had two days at his command, and no one would interfere.

He heard the sound of her breathing, smelled the heavy scent of her perfume. By the time he turned around, Cynthia was already in the room. She was carrying a down comforter, and there was a predatory expression in her shallow blue eyes.

She was scheduled to die in four years, in a drunk-driving accident with a married lover, though now that future seemed a bit uncertain, cloudy. Nothing was ever carved in stone; life had a habit of changing, and her fate was by no means definite. If he took her earlier, it would surely do the world no great disservice. He watched her through the mirrored sunglasses, curious.

"You must have caught a chill," she said in her deliberately husky voice. "I've never felt anyone so cold in my entire life. I brought you the heaviest down comforter we have, and later I'll see if I can find you some sweaters. What do you sleep in?"

"I beg your pardon?" He kept his voice perfectly polite, simply because he knew it irritated her.

She dumped the cover on the bed, then moved closer, attempting a sexy glide. She came up close to him, so close he could almost taste the whiskey on her breath. "I said, what do you sleep in? You seem the silk-pajama type. Or maybe you wear nothing at all."

She put her hand on his chest, and for a second he felt her flesh jerk beneath the touch of his. But she didn't break contact. "You're sooo cold," she purred. "I've never met a man as cold as you. I think I need to warm you up."

He didn't move. She stood too close to him, and the musky scent of her skin, the gleam in her eyes, the life that flowed in her veins, were all strong and stimulating. Take what she offers, he told himself. Maybe that will be enough.

She swayed against him, and her large, soft breasts pressed up against his chest. Her nipples were pebble-hard, but he had no illusions that the cause might be sexual excitement. He knew just how cold he could be.

But Cynthia was determined to persevere, even in the face of his lack of cooperation. She slid her arms around his waist determinedly, tilting her face up to his, a smile playing around her full, pink mouth. "Do you want me to warm you up, Alex? I think you do."

Her lush hips were tilted up against his, and he felt himself grow hard against her. So this was what it was like to be human, he thought absently. Mortal. The flesh could respond, even when the spirit was bored. Just how far could the flesh take him?

He had bent down to put his mouth over her open, smiling one when he glanced toward the doorway. Cynthia hadn't bothered to close the door when she began her little visit, and now they had a witness. Laura stood there, her pale face paler still as she watched them.

Cynthia must have felt the sudden stillness in his body. She slid her arms away from him, turning with a faint, mocking smile. "Hullo, Laura," she said smoothly, smugly, sauntering toward her. "Are you going to try your luck, as well?"

"I think you've had too much to drink," Laura said in a quiet voice.

"I usually do, darling. What else is there to do in this wretched place except sit around and wait for the old man to die? Don't look at me like that!" Her voice rose shrilly, even though Laura's face seemed entirely blank. "Don't you judge me. Jeremy and I have an understanding, and it's not up to you to come in and—"

"Go away." Alex spoke for the first time, his voice low and cool.

Cynthia cast an amused glance over her shoulder. "Yes, go away, dear Laura, and shut the door behind you. Alex and I—"

"No." His voice was implacable. "You go away. Laura stays."

Both women looked startled. Cynthia summoned up an airy smile. "Well," she said, "I suppose I can take a hint. Don't let me interrupt you." She moved toward the door in a sexy glide that left Alex totally unmoved. She put her hand on Laura's shoulder as she stood there, and a faint shadow crossed Laura's face.

"I'd be careful if I were you, my girl," Cynthia warned her in a cool, mocking voice. "He's a bit too much for someone like you to handle." And she walked past, her lush hips swaying.

The blank expression on Laura's face began to fade, and she looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, disturbed. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I just..."

"Close the door," he said.

Confusion joined the myriad of emotions that played over her face, and she started to step back. "Of course. I didn't mean to bother you."

"With you inside."

He wondered whether she would do it. He could see the flash of defiance in her warm eyes. "I don't like to be told what to do," she said in a calm voice. "Too many people try to run my life for me. I don't like it. And I'm not sure if I like you."

He didn't smile, even though he was tempted. "Close the door," he said. "And come here."

She did, of course. He almost told her to lock it, but he knew there was no need. He wasn't ready yet. Even though his body was still responding to Cynthia's blatant sexuality, Alex had no intention of slaking his temporary lust with Laura. He would take her when he chose to. Now was too soon.

She was carrying a pile of white towels, and she set them on the bed beside the down comforter Cynthia had brought him. She glanced at it with a startled expression.

"It's not really that cold out," she murmured. "I don't know why Cynthia thought you might want that."

"Cynthia was looking for an excuse."

She smiled then, a faint, honest grin. "Well, I suppose I should have warned you about Cynthia. She's a bit…overwhelming. She and Jeremy are in the midst of a divorce, but they decided not to tell Father about it. He wouldn't approve, and he'll be dead soon enough. There's no need to make his last few weeks even more difficult."

"And you agree with that?"

She looked up, as if startled at his perception. "No," she said. "I don't like lies."

"And you don't like your sister-in-law?"

"I feel sorry for her. She's a very unhappy woman, and she and Jeremy were never well suited."

"Then why did they marry?"

Laura shrugged, wandering past him, moving over to stare out at the windy night. "Family pressure. Father thought they'd be a good match. Jeremy was the son of his first wife, not a blood relation, and Father didn't like that. Cynthia is a second cousin—he wanted that connection. The Fitzpatricks put family ahead of everything."