Forever

Forever by Kelly Caddell

copyright © by Kelly Roman Sept. 1997 cover art by Margaret Sheffer

Dedications

To Matthew, for the encouragement, the ideas, the inspiration, and for always listening, even when he had no idea what I was talking about.

And to Margie and Rob, the finest foster parents God ever made, for the technical support.

Thanks. Prologue

Six months ago

Tory Wayne shoved back the stray wisp of long, chestnut hair that was tickling her nose. "Why did I ever let you talk me into this?" "Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not having fun." Sharon used one hand to adjust her daughter's miniature baseball hat and the other to dig through a pile of secondhand scarves. "I could, but I won't," Tory said with a good-natured grimace. She looked longingly at a snowcone vendor. "It's broiling out here. Want something cold?" "Sure." Without looking up, Sharon fished a pacifier out of the diaperbag and deftly plugged the baby's rosebud mouth before it could do more than begin to stretch into a howl. "Grab one for Michelle, too,

okay? We can split it if she doesn't eat it." "Just give me five minutes." Tory meant to head straight to the snowcone vendor, but she found herself detouring to a booth that displayed antique jewelry instead. The old woman behind the counter looked up from her magazine. "Help ya, honey?" "No, I'm... browsing." For reasons which escaped her at the moment, but then, Sharon was always telling her to loosen up and have fun. She might as well get into the spirit of the flea market and do a bit of quick bargain-hunting. "It’s my first flea market." The woman, a veteran seller, knew a potential customer when she saw one. "Well then, why don't you go right ahead and browse, hmm? Holler if you need anything." Tory began poking through tangled piles of beads and metal chains of dubious pedigree. Somewhere in the depths of the heap of tarnished bangles, she found a thin ring of hammered silver. Her fingers closed around it; a strange, hot tingle shot up her arm. Loving you, M. The inscription was just barely legible under all the tarnish, but it seemed to jump out at her. Tory slid the ring on, somehow unsurprised to find that it fit perfectly. "How much for this?" The old woman eyed it, then her. "Are you sure you want that thing, honey?" "Very sure. I... just have this weird feeling it was meant for me." "Well, then, two bucks and it's yours." The old woman held out a wrinkled hand expectantly. "If I were you, I wouldn’t argue with destiny." Chapter One

"Wow, look at that catalog." Sharon snatched up the glossy magazine. "Since when do you get Saks catalogs? And Nieman Marcus? And delivered to the shop, of all places." "Here’s another one." Tory held up a Victoria’s Secret catalog. "And I don’t get catalogs like these. They’re all addressed to Victoria MacCallum." "Right first name. Wrong last name. Too bad. Whoever she is, she’s probably loaded." Sharon sighed and reluctantly put the catalog down. Her daughter was waiting for her. "Loaded? Just because she’s on a mailing list for expensive catalogs?" Sharon finished buttoning her coat. "Sure. I mean, one or two catalogs for expensive stuff - that’s normal. But we’ve been getting a ton of different mail here lately, all of it the pricy stuff, and all addressed to that Mrs. MacCallum. Ergo - she’s got bucks." "Hmm. You may be right. I hope she corrects this address problem soon, before we get buried under these things. They’re even coming to my apartment now." She tossed the glossy oversized envelope into

the trash, along with the other junk mail. "Hey, at least you know somebody loves you." "Ummm, right. The postal service loves me." "Ick," Sharon shuddered, "what a thought! You want me to stick around?" "That’s ok. It’s only getting colder and darker, and you still have to pick Michelle up from daycare. Go on." "Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then." Sharon tugged on her gloves, then opened the front door. Cold air blasted into the shop. "G’night!" She should leave, too, Tory knew. She didn’t particularly care to be at the shop alone after dark. But neither was she eager to dash out into the blustering wind. Now was as good a time as any to catch up on paperwork. There were forms to fill out and stock to order, catalogs - real catalogs full of useful things like flowers and greenery and lovely vases -to peruse. The quiet of the shop soothed her as she made her way to the back room. She had a good life, Tory knew. A business of her own, a few good friends, a home. That she had no one to share the home with was not particularly worrisome to her. It would be a long time before she trusted a man enough to share anything. All in all, wading through paperwork was a small price to pay, and she knew it. Which was why she faced the minor horror of invoices and accounting and tax forms with a somewhat cheerful look. The junk mail addressed to Victoria MacCallum remained unopened in the trash. ***

Tory gave the key a final twist, then rattled the doorknob experimentally. Yep, good and locked. She patted the oak and glass door affectionately, and turned, automatically tucking her keys in her cloak pocket. That's when she saw him. . The giant of a man in a black overcoat was leaning against the side of the sleek gray Mercedes cozied up to the curb. An aura of power surrounded him, as visible to her second sight as the misty white halo of illumination from the nearby streetlight. Even in the soft evening light, he looked threatening. And he was staring straight at her. Colors suddenly flashed in front of her eyes; when she blinked, Tory saw a shabby room filled with battered, old-fashioned furniture. There were sounds, too. The low murmur of voices, the shriek of steam escaping a kettle. The sound of a gunshot echoed in her ears. The scene was so real that she could see the faded pattern of the wallpaper and smell the acrid bite of gun smoke. Then, as abruptly as it had come it vanished, and Tory found herself face to chest with the

stranger. Lord, he was big, even more overpowering up close than he had been at a distance. The broad shoulders beneath the dark overcoat made him look like some mythic warrior. She half- expected to see a sword clenched in his fist. Tory backed up a step, but didn't - or couldn't - stop looking. His dark, thick hair was long enough to flow temptingly over his collar. Her fingers suddenly itched to learn how those crisp, waving strands felt against her skin. Which of course she would never do, even if he did radiate sex appeal like a small nuclear reactor. And his face... His face was almost familiar somehow, although Tory knew she would have remembered seeing him before. It was a wonderfully masculine face, with high, jutting cheekbones, an aquiline blade of a nose, and an unexpectedly carnal mouth, but there was no gentleness in it. Tory fought back another wave of deja-vú that was mixed with a touch of instinctive fear. Acting purely on instinct, she focused herself and tried to probe his mind with her own. It was a mistake. She felt as if she'd slammed headfirst into an iron door. If she concentrated, she could feel eddies of complex emotions - anger? demand? - seeping like light from under that door, but nothing more. And then, as if he suddenly realized what she was doing, even those traces were gone. What the hell? Tory wondered uneasily. She'd never come across anyone before who had been able to block her probe so well. I don't like this one bit. She stared up almost fiercely into the man's unusual eyes, trying to look ten years older and six inches taller. "Who are you?" "M'name is Connor MacCallum," he said in a richly-accented, velvet rumble of a voice that made her think of heathered moors, bagpipes and kilted warriors. "MacCallum? That’s a coincidence. I’ve been getting mail... Oh, was your wife’s mail misdirected here? Is that what you’ve come for?" She spared a guilty thought for all the mail she’d been throwing away. "No. I’ve come for my wife." "Your... wife?" "Yes. I’m your husband." "Excuse me?" Tory started to laugh, but the sound shriveled in her throat. "Oh my God, you’re serious." "Very." "You can’t be my husband." Reflexively, she took a step backward, suddenly feeling very cold. "I don’t have a husband! I’ve never seen you before in my life!" "It doesn’t matter. You’re my wife."

This isn't real, Tory thought numbly. It can't be real. Her shoulders hunched beneath the red wool of her cloak. "I must be dreaming. This... This is impossible." "Is it?" His hands were on her, yanking her to him. Tory felt a flush of sheer panic. He was strong, too strong, and there was no way she could get away from him unless... But before she had time to consider her options, his mouth had sealed over hers. Heat. Ferocious heat. Hunger to the point of starvation. Her senses ran riot under the impact. Away. She had to get away. "Mine." He growled it. "You’re mine." Tory wrenched herself free. She knew perfectly well that he’d let her go, just as she knew that he hadn’t wanted to. "I’m no one’s. Not yours, not anybody’s. And I am damn well not your wife. There was no ceremony, no papers. No blood tests. No witnesses." Something dark, almost frightening, flashed across the surface of his eyes. "Aren’t there?" Then Connor held up a cautionary hand when she took several swift steps away. "No, please. Don’t. I'm no one you need to be afraid of." She stood her ground, but stayed poised to move fast. As if he couldn’t catch her easily if he wanted to. "I'd have to be a fool not to be afraid of you." His eyes never moved from her face. "And I would be a fool if I let you run from me because of it." "Then you’re a fool." Tory moved, but not quickly enough. MacCallum's big hand caught hers, held it in a careful, inescapable grip. Mad tingles shot up her arm. Even through the barrier of his leather gloves, she could feel the heat and power in him. His fingers tightened for a moment. And then released. "Go." ***

Victoria Wayne. No, Victoria MacCallum, he corrected himself. Connor watched her hurry to her small, sensible blue car, watched as she glanced over her shoulder once - to see if he was following her, no doubt. Connor’s mouth twisted. He’d done it wrong, all wrong, all the way around. She was terrified of him. Terrified. But she had stood up to him. There was a fire in her; it flashed in her eyes, sizzled in the depths of her long, darkly auburn hair. The fire drew him. Had always drawn him. They had always been meant to be together. Once, they’d both known that. She’d only forgotten. He meant to remind her, because there was no way, no way he was losing her again. ***

The police had been no help. Or, Tory corrected herself bitterly, they might have been, if she hadn’t mentioned who had been harassing her. But one mention of the name ‘MacCallum’ and... Tory stomped into the kitchen, put the kettle on for hot chocolate, and grabbed a half gallon of mint chip ice cream out of the freezer. She needed fortification. To be perfectly honest, the cops had been polite, and helpful... up until she had made the mistake of putting ‘MacCallum’ and ‘wife’ in the same sentence. And then she’d gotten the standard line about domestic problems and what she could do about them. Even in the 1990's, the cops really hated to get between a man and his wife. Except that she wasn’t his wife. And there wasn’t a chance in hell that she ever would be. Bossy, bullying men were not her style. Barry had taught her that. Tory dug the spoon into the ice cream. "Just what I needed, on top of everything else, a reminder of Barry. God, this day can’t get any worse." And then the phone rang. ***

"I don’t believe this." Tory glared at the fragile blue flowers blooming in a Waterford crystal vase. Apparently, ice cream’s calming effects were pretty long-lasting, which was all to the good, as far as she was concerned. Because it seemed that MacCallum wasn’t the type to give up. Dammit. "Well, well. I leave you alone for a few hours and look what you get into." Grinning, Sharon leaned over to have a closer look. "Niice." She drawled the word, a hint of Virginia surfacing in her voice. "So, who're you sleeping with?" "Sharon!" Grimacing, Tory leaned back against the counter. "You know I don't sleep around." The blonde rolled her eyes. "I swear, you must be the only twenty-seven year old virgin on the face of the earth." "Why don't you say it a little louder?" Tory grumbled, glaring. "I don't think the rest of the block heard." "Oh, she's touchy this morning. Let me guess. Barry call you again?" Tory directed her gaze at the forget-me-nots. "Last night." "You have a fight?" "You know we never have fights, Sharon. He yells and I hang up. Simple." "And you're always in a bad mood afterward." "Can't help it." Closing her eyes, Tory rubbed gently at her contacts to soothe the dryness. "I practically crossed the country so I could live my life without him trying to run it, and he still harasses me. I ought to just move to some country where the only way to send messages is by carrier pigeon."

"Oh, I don't know. Civilization has a few things to offer." Sharon flicked a white velvet petal with one pink-lacquered nail. "Like silver Mercedes." Tory sat bolt upright. "It was gray. And how'd you hear about that?" The older woman smiled - rather smugly, Tory thought, scowling. She perched a hip on the edge of Tory's desk, displacing a neat mound of files. "So, who was he?" "Sharon..." "Come on, Wayne! You know I'm not going to tell anyone. Now give." Tory leaned back in her chair again. "Connor MacCallum." Sharon nearly fell over the desk. "Are you serious? MacCallum? As in Victoria MacCallum? As in all that mail you’ve been getting?" "No, as in wife." Her friend's hazel eyes nearly popped out of her head. "You never told me you were married." "I’m not! You know I’m not." "Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. Some guy just comes up to you, says ‘Hi, my name is Connor MacCallum. You’re my wife’?" "Yep." "Geez." Sharon plunked down on a stool. "I don’t know whether to be scared for you or jealous. Was he gorgeous? Did you call the cops?" "Yes, but who cares. And of course I called the cops. For all the good it did. Unfortunately, one evening meeting does not legally constitute stalking, and the minute I mentioned the word wife... Well, let’s just say that I don’t think the police will be a big help at the moment." "Geez. You want me to, like, bunk with you for a while?" Tempting. Very tempting. But Sharon had her daughter to think of. And Tory was not about to risk either of them. "No. No, I’ll... think of something." "What?" "I don’t know. But I will think of something. Look - do you mind if I hide out in the greenhouse today?" "Of course not. You deal better with the plants, anyway. Go on." ***

She was up to her wrists in potting mixture and singing along with Billy Joel on the tape deck when she

felt it. The tingle at the back of her neck that told her she wasn't alone. She whirled around, fists clenched. Larger than life, Connor MacCallum stood just inside the room. He wore an exquisitely tailored suit in gunmetal gray linen that had probably cost more than she made in a month. The color failed to mute the threads of burnished crimson and gold in his hair and only intensified the brilliant shards of blue in his eyes. "I didn't hear you come in." "I didn't want to startle you." Tory almost laughed. He'd made her nervous last night, when he'd been little more than a looming shadow. Now, in the soft light of the greenhouse, something about him scared the hell out of her. Maybe it was his composure or the way he just stood there, as if daring the world to try and move him. Or the way he seemed to claim everything around him as his like some... medieval laird. Well, he damn well wasn’t going to claim her. "I have nothing to say to you." Connor’s eyes narrowed. Heated. "It's not such an easy thing to dismiss me." "That’s not a dismissal. It’s a statement. Despite your delusions of matrimony, Mr. MacCallum, the flowers are the only available things in this nursery." "But are they as sweet?" He was fast, too fast for Tory to get out of the way. She didn't have time for more than a muffled shriek before his mouth came down on hers. There was nothing gentle about the kiss. His lips were hard and hungry. He tasted of danger and desperation. His arms were iron around her, pinning her to a body that was blatantly powerful beneath the tailored business suit. Terror, mirror-bright and steel-sharp. It sunk its talons into her, paralyzing all but the most basic of responses. And for Tory, the most basic response was to lash out with her mind. The probe sank into the outer layers of Connor’s mind. It had been too long since Tory had done this for her to have any finesse - and in any case, she was in no mood to be careful. He wouldn’t have noticed; too caught up in the flash and sizzle of sheer physical passion. Tory would have gotten caught up in that alone, so powerful were the feelings he was generating. But MacCallum had pushed the wrong buttons when he’d grabbed her. She hated being grabbed, hated being made to feel insignificant. Small. Defenseless. She used the momentum of that anger to push her probe deeper. There had to be something buried somewhere that she could use to make him back off. There was something, but it was only thinly buried under a layer of steely control. Maybe, maybe if MacCallum had been less distracted, he could have stopped her. If she had been less upset, Tory might have stopped herself. She was normally unshakably scrupulous about using her power. Normally. Tory mentally peeled back that protective layer of control and loosed whatever was inside.

Uneasiness, dogging her steps as closely as the sound of her own shoes clicking on the rain- slicked concrete. The night was too quiet. She looked over her shoulder, fearing that she was being followed. God, if she was... If Hans discovered what she was doing.... The threat did not come from behind, as she’d feared. It came from above, with the sudden, terrifying droning of planes, with the throaty scream of air raid sirens. What meager lighting had been on suddenly switched off and Hamburg was plunged into blackness. And then the planes loosed the bombs. Some part of her wanted to stand there in the open, at the top of the tallest building in the city, to invite the bomb. The part of her that felt dirty and squalid for what she had to do to survive wanted to die. But the part of her that remembered why she did what she did was stronger, made her scramble to the relative safety of a doorway to huddle like a frightened child and fight not to scream. She would never remember, afterward, when it was that he first came to he, to hold her hand and help her to fight the fear. But she would always remember her first sight of him, of his eyes. So blue, so bright and incongruously pure in his lean, soot-darkened face. Just as she would always remember how he covered her body with his when the next explosion went off, terrifyingly close. The moments following were never to be recalled with any clarity. There was only the whirling of the darkness when, barely after the dust had settled, the stranger was pulling her with him into a nearby alley. "Are you all right?" She could barely hear his voice above the ringing in her ears, but she nodded. "Thank you. Whoever you are." "Michael. Michael Morrin." Absurdly gallant, he kissed her hand. "Magda." She would have blushed, if she’d had time. But she didn’t. The stranger - Michael - had a good German accent, but not quite good enough to fool her. "You are American." He stiffened. "No, it is all right. I can help you." This time, the blue eyes that met hers were sharp and keen as cut glass. "You’re resistance?" "What I am does not matter. You saved me. I can help save you." She waved a hand at the crumbling city around them. "This is no place for anyone to be, but especially not a soldier wearing the wrong uniform." "Do I dare trust you, pretty lady?" His finger traced her cheek, and she swore she felt tingles rush over her skin. ***

The memory snapped like a frayed thread, and suddenly Tory was back in her own body. A body that

was being rocked by the shockwaves generated by MacCallum’s kiss. Only now it was worse, somehow, because her fury had evaporated in the wake of that strange memory... What the hell was going on here? "Trust me, Tory." He muttered it against her swollen lips. "You can trust me, I swear." The words hit just the right nerves, key points that had somehow appeared with the experience of delving into his mind. She felt a connection, somehow.... She was fighting it, certainly, but it was there and would not be banished. "Who are you?" She’d only whispered, but he heard her. "The other half of yourself. The one you’ve been waiting for." This time, the kiss was softer. Deeper. Wet and warm. The flavor of him on her tongue was rich and boldly masculine. Boldly seductive. Tory could still feel his emotions rivering through the link she’d forged; want, need. Lust. And fear. A terrible, dark fear that he couldn’t hope to more than half-conceal from her. Fear of.... losing her? "Ah, lass." MacCallum lifted his head a bare inch. She could still taste his breath, could only see, as if through a fog, the familiar blue blaze of his eyes. "You are sweeter than your flowers. I could drink you like summer wine." The images that flashed to Tory’s mind had nothing to do with summer wine, and everything to do with lovers drunk on each other. Just for a moment, there was an image of sweat-sheened skin, of straining bodies amid rumpled, faded sheets. Of low, throaty moans mingling with the music that filtered through thin walls, and the impassioned pleas of a woman begging her lover to hurry, to move harder, deeper.... Oh.... Michael.... "You feel it too, don’t you?" MacCallum’s smile was pure male possession. "I know you do." He slid a slow, knowing hand down the center line of her body until he could cup her intimately. "I could have you right here, on the floor, and you wouldn’t want me to stop." It was the smugness in his tone - not the fact that he was right, Tory told herself righteously - that fired her temper. Her gloved fist connected - hard - with MacCallum's chiseled jaw. A small shower of potting soil and debris splattered his immaculate jacket. Breathing hard, her knuckles stinging wildly, Tory sank back against a table. Her knees were knocking too hard for her to have any hope of standing, and her thoughts were almost in as bad shape. "I’m not feeling a damn thing, and you’d better have a good explanation, MacCallum," she panted. "Make it quick; you have about ten seconds before I call the police." He fingered his jaw and looked down at her with an unreadable expression. Then a rueful smile cracked the coolness of his expression. "Such a wee thing to pack such a bite." She was on her feet before he finished the sentence, a sharp-bladed trowel held threateningly low. "Get out." His eyes were a disturbing mix of storm gray and sky blue. They held a strange kind of desperation. "I would never hurt you. D'you believe me?"

"I would never hurt you." A man with flame-blue eyes in a soot-smeared face. Gentle hands and a hot mouth... Enough! "I said out, Casanova." Tory feinted toward him with the trowel. Connor backed up, warily eyeing the weapon. The temper was not unexpected, but it was... a bit startling. "Tory... I'm sorry I frightened you. You can trust me. Don’t you know that?" She stared at him. And felt the same sharp sense of connection when she looked into his eyes. Those sharp, pure blue eyes in a somehow dear face.... No! MacCallum was not that other man in the memory. He was just some obsessive nutcase with enough money to buy himself almost anything he wanted. She struggled to hold to that conviction. "You say I can trust you? Oh, that makes me feel a lot better." "Will you at least let me explain why I was acting like such an ass?" "You've got three seconds." The trowel didn't waver. He blew out a harsh breath and all but bellowed, "I love you, dammit!" Tory felt the blood drain out of her face and puddle somewhere in her shoes. She sank back against a table covered with cacti. "What?" Swearing at himself, Connor knelt in front of her, gingerly unclamping her fingers from the trowel handle and placing the weapon out of reach. "Are you all right, lass?" "Don’t touch me!" If he touched her, she knew she’d see another vision of a stranger with his eyes making love to a woman who looked like her... just like her... "I’m not going to hurt you, dammit." "You’re not going to have time to" Tory mentally shook herself. "You’re leaving." "I’ll not leave until you’ve heard me out. You’re my wife." Her eyes blazed at him, more in frustration than true anger, he thought. "I am not your wife!" "Tory, do you have any idea of just how easy it would be for me to produce the documentation and half a dozen witnesses to say we are married? Would you like to be reminded of what you wore on your wedding day? Who your attendants were?" Oh yes, she knew how easy it would be for him. She’d watched Barry muscle his way around laws for years. "You produce documentation that we’re married, and I’ll get an annulment." "Do you really believe I’d let you?"

She wanted to throw something. Hit him. Scream. "Why are you doing this?" "Because I need you. Love you." "No, you don’t. People who love you don’t scare you half to death, or manhandle you, or threaten you." "I’m not... handling this verra well. I know it. I’m not a patient man, Tory." "I couldn’t tell," she snarled. Was that a blush she saw working its way across his high cheekbones? She was briefly fascinated by it. Connor cleared his throat. She was a clever lass, all right. "I am sorry for frightening you, Tory. But the rest still stands. I’ll not let you go." "You don’t have me, MacCallum. I don’t care what documentation you’ve got, what witnesses you produce. Victoria MacCallum doesn’t exist on anything but paper. Try cuddling up with your stack of legal documents and see if they keep you warm at night." "I don’t want that!" "That’s all you’re getting from me, pal." "Unless I can change your mind." She blinked. The change of direction shouldn’t have surprised her, she knew, but it did. "What?" "Give me until Christmas, Tory. If I can change your mind before Christmas, then you’ll be my wife. In all ways." She swallowed. "And if you can’t change my mind?" "Then... an annulment. A quiet one. Anything legally naming us married will disappear." "Christmas is three weeks away," she reminded him ungently. "I know." "I have to put up with you ruining my holidays?" "Bluntly put, lass." He winced. "I will do my best not to ruin anything for you. But I will woo you." And win you. The confidence glittered in his eyes. He was determined. She was just as determined that he wouldn’t win. But in the meantime... A man with Connor’s eyes floated in front of her mind’s eye. "I’ll not quietly disappear or change my mind, Tory. You’d best agree." Tory looked into his eyes, past the secrets and sorrow, until she could almost see his soul. Almost. She still couldn't read him past his surface emotions. But she could read love, so deep that it almost frightened

her. So, she’d humor him, she thought grimly. Humor the madman, until she could figure out a way to get rid of him. After all, as he said, he wasn’t going to go away. "You have three weeks, MacCallum. But you’d better get the annulment papers lined up. I’m not going to change my mind, either." "We’ll see." With a curiously formal bow, he strode out of the greenhouse. Tory sank back against the table again. What had she gotten herself into? ***

A day after MacCallum’s little invasion, Tory was still jittery. Even if she had gotten a full night's sleep which she definitely hadn't - it probably wouldn't have helped. And MacCallum didn’t show up at the shop that morning. But he didn’t have to be present to make his presence felt. She couldn’t quite rid herself of the feeling that she was balancing on the edge of a volcano - and that it was getting ready to erupt. "Tory, lunch!" Sharon came into the greenhouse, bringing the mouth-watering scent of pepperoni pizza with her. Tory inhaled greedily. "Bless you, woman, how did you know I was in the mood for pizza?" Sharon blinked. "A delivery guy just brought it in. I thought you ordered it." "No." They lifted the lid. Tory sighed. "Never mind, I know who ordered it?" "That gorgeous Scotsman who's panting after you?" "Yep." "You have all the fun." Sharon took one glorious bite and nearly moaned. "Y'know, I don't know what you did, but the man's definitely in love with you." "So he says. I don’t have to believe him." Tory regarded the heart-shaped pizza for another moment before biting into her own piece. The rich flavors of cheese and tomato sauce burst on her tongue. "Oh, this is good." "He knows you pretty well, doesn't he?" "What makes you say that?" Tory asked cautiously. "He already knows the way to your heart." "Lots of people love Italian food."

"Yeah, but how did he know that you love double-cheese pizza with extra pepperoni?" "Lucky guess," Tory said firmly, and stuffed another piece into Sharon's hand. "Either that, or he's had me investigated." "Wonder what else he found out?" Tory stifled a shiver and strove for a light tone. "I have the feeling we'll know soon enough."

She hated it when she was right. "Oh, Lord." Tory fisted her hands on her hips. "I can't believe this." It was after eight at night, it was blustery and freezing, and her car was filled with balloons. Big blue sparkly balloons, with stars on them. This was ridiculous. "How did he... Never mind." She turned and shot a look around the parking lot. No gray Mercedes. No figure in a black overcoat lurking under a streetlamp. Only then did Tory blow out a breath that turned to steam on the frigid air and allow herself a very faint, somewhat irritated smile. Oh, he was good, was Connor MacCallum. He knew her well enough to realize that flowers and candy were the last things she’d respond to. Worse, somehow he'd figured out that she definitely preferred imaginative men. Tory unlocked the car door and spent a few minutes batting balloons out of the way. They floated up, sparkling as they passed the lights of the parking lot. Tory watched, counted two dozen before she realized she couldn't feel her toes anymore, and got in the car. She had the car running and the heater going full blast - thank God - before she noticed the note lying on the passenger seat. 'For all the birthdays I missed.’ She let her head fall back against the rest and groaned. He was playing dirty. It wasn’t surprising, but it was annoying. "I’m not going to let him get to me. I know what he wants. He says he’s in love, but it’s all just a game to him. He hates losing, that’s all. Just like Barry. Well," Tory slipped the car into gear, "he’s going to have to learn to take defeat gracefully, because I am not marrying him." The silver ring on her finger seemed to burn for a moment, but she ignored it.

"He did what?" Tory propped her chin in her hand and stared glumly into Sharon's wide blue eyes. "Filled the car with balloons. Blue balloons."

The other woman's stunned look melted into an expression of pure envy. "You get all the luck." "Do not." "Do so. You don't see some gorgeous rich guy filling my car with balloons. Sending me heart-shaped pizzas." She sighed. "The last time I was lucky with a guy, I had Michelle." "You want to trade?" Tory asked hopefully. "No way." The bell over the door jangled brightly, and a troop of older women with determined expressions marched in. "Customers. Thank God." "Don't think you're getting out of this so easily. Don't you wonder what he's going to come up with next?" Tory thought about Tuesday's pizza and Wednesday's balloons and shut her eyes. "I'm afraid to." "You're just afraid that you're enjoying yourself." "The man’s trying to coerce me into marriage and you think I’m having fun?" "Well... Not about the coercion part, but - let’s face it, hon. You’re a romantic. Born, bred, and hope to die that way romantic. Some part of you is having fun." "No way." Tory showed a steely-eyed woman the poinsettia arrangements she'd been struggling over and discretely faded back. It was true that just about any woman would enjoy being courted, but this? Being courted by a hardheaded Scot with a penchant for bulldozer tactics was not necessarily all fun and games. What scared her was that MacCallum knew her too well. She didn’t know how - he’d probably had her investigated - but he homed in on her likes and dislikes with the unerring skill of a predator. And if he knew her this well... How much did he really know about her? Had he somehow found out everything? She concentrated a moment and watched a faint blue luminescence appear around her right hand. It would be so simple. MacCallum wanted a wife. He’s a wolf in more ways than one. He wants the thrill of the hunt, not easy prey, and he’s used to getting what he wants. But all I have to do is show him, and... No. I may be a freak, but I’m damned if I’ll stoop to displaying it to every curious eye. I can get rid of MacCallum myself.

The invasion of matrons eventually gave way to more customers, and the shop stayed busy until well after lunchtime. Pleading starvation, Sharon went to pick up some burgers and fries, leaving Tory to handle the slow but steady stream of customers. She had just finished ringing up the sale of one rose to a ten year old for a grand total of one dollar - in pennies - when a courier walked in. "There you go, sweetie." Tory handed over the flower, carefully ensconced in her best florist's box. "You tell your mom happy birthday from me, too,"

"Okay." The child gave her a gap-toothed grin and hit the door at a run. Tory winced as the bells slammed against the glass. "Can I help you, sir?" "Yes, ma'am. If you're Tory Wayne." Wayne, not MacCallum. She relaxed a little, but not completely, not until after she’d had a quick "look" at the man. Since she couldn't find anything about him to make her nervous, she answered. "I'm Tory Wayne." "Great." The courier handed her a clipboard and placed a lidded picnic hamper on the counter. "Sign on line seven, please." Tory scrawled her signature and handed back the clipboard. "What is it?" "Beats me, ma'am. Guess you're just gonna have to open it." She eyed the hamper until after the courier left. This was definitely MacCallum's doing. "Oh, stop dithering and open the thing." Tory rolled her eyes. "There I go, talking to myself. Not a good sign." Unlatching the hamper took a second, and then Tory nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard something moving inside. "What the -" A tiny black and white head poked out of the hamper. "Oh." Tory felt herself melt. A kitten. She sniffled a little, then lifted the little fuzzball out of the basket to coo at it. "Aren't you the most adorable thing?" The cat blinked whiskey-colored eyes and began to purr. "What the hell is that?" Sharon blurted out as she came in the door. "What MacCallum came up with for today." Tory stroked a finger along the kitten’s back. The furball snuggled more securely into her spot under Tory’s chin. "Isn’t she adorable?" "Oh, definitely. He pegged you again, you know." "I know." The kitten purred more loudly, and Tory felt herself grin. "Somehow, I don’t care." "Does she have to... you know?" "I sure hope not" She looked at the paper bags Sharon still clutched. "What did you get?" "Relax. McDonald’s best burgers and a chocolate shake for you. The strawberry shake’s mine, so mitts off." "I wasn’t going to argue with you." Tory reached for a french fry, caught the kitten’s considering stare. "Think she’s hungry?" The kitten put up one white-gloved paw and snagged the french fry. Bemused, Tory put her on the counter top and watched her pounce on it.

Sharon handed her another fry and grinned. "Good thing I got you a double order." ***

Tory fitted the key to the lock on her front door and looked down at the kitten. "Well, I’ll say one thing for you. You’re certainly good-natured." Morgana blinked acknowledgment from the pocket of Tory’s cloak. She’d made it clear that, though she’d ride in the picnic hamper while in a car, she preferred to be near Tory whenever possible. Like right now. And what Morgana wanted, through a combination of charm and pint-sized bullheadedness, she got. She was starting to remind Tory more of MacCallum every minute. And there was something else. A subtle sense of wrongness that hit her the moment she stepped into her apartment. Someone had been here. MacCallum. Tory looked around quickly, but she didn’t expect to see anyone. MacCallum wouldn’t be foolish enough to hang around after breaking in, would he? No, of course not. She hoped. Morgana mewed. "All right. You go explore your new home, munchkin." Tory hung her cloak on the wooden Indian. "I’m going to see what’s in that thing." The ‘thing’ was a huge, gaily-wrapped box that was sitting on her coffee table. Tory approached with some wariness. What had that crazy Scotsman come up with now? A tiger cub? Mounds of expensive presents? Nothing but packing peanuts? Morgana attacked one end of a trailing ribbon, snarling as she worried it. "Glad you’re having fun." Obligingly, Tory gave her the rest of the ribbon before opening the box. And then she started laughing. Reluctantly, but laughing nevertheless. He’d given her a litter box. "That man doesn’t miss a trick, does he? I guess you come fully-equipped, Morgana." Tory lifted out the deluxe litter box - self-scooping, she noticed - and an assortment of cat toys. The kitten promptly abandoned the ribbon in favor of a fleecy catnip-scented mouse. "Well, this sure beats that pan of dirt I gave you back at the shop, doesn’t it? Nothing but the best for you, hmm?" More rummaging in the box produced a round quilted cat bed, a package of imported French catnip, a carton of gourmet kitten food, dishes, and a set of brushes. Tory say back on her heels and surveyed the mess. "MacCallum, you are one thorough guy. I’ll give you that."

The kitten mewed again. "Hungry?" Tory scooped her up and headed for the kitchen - and a can opener. "Well, you’ve got plenty of food. What’ll it be? Salmon, ocean fish, or plain old kibble?" Morgana wasn’t much interested in any of the choices, but she did manage to make off with a piece of the pizza Tory had warmed up. "You’re going to be an interesting roomie," Tory said consideringly. "Am I gonna have to fight you for pizza for the rest of my life?" The kitten purred. ***

Later that night, the kitten was curled in a tight black and white ball on Tory's chest, snoring lustily. Tory stroked the silky fur and stared up at the patterns of soft, colored light cast by the nightlight. Connor MacCallum's austere features appeared superimposed over the colors. Tough, angular... a little sad. Why sad? The man was capable of getting anything he wanted; most people would think that would lead to happiness. Not her, though. She'd learned early that money most often meant misery. Was that MacCallum's problem? Did he want something he couldn't buy or cajole? She sighed and snuggled Morgana. She had to stop empathizing with the man. It wasn't smart or safe, and she wasn’t about to aid him in his ridiculous cause. But MacCallum's blue eyes continued to haunt her long after she'd closed hers.

Chapter Two

It wasn’t only his eyes that haunted her, Tory quickly learned. The man seemed to come and go like Santa Claus, managing to get into her mailbox to leave unexpected little gifts. A fragile china music box that played "Music of the Night". Whimsical toys for Morgana. An expensively wrapped gift box that turned out to be filled with nothing but blue almond M&Ms - her favorites. One memorable morning, Tory poured herself a bowl of breakfast cereal only to find that someone had replaced the cereal in the box with small folded pieces of paper. The papers, unfolded and pieced painstakingly together, formed the message "I love you." Tory looked at Morgana, who was crouched on the table, watching the milk carton as if she expected it to try and make a break for it any moment. "I’ll say one thing for him. He’s persistent." Morgana didn’t look away from the milk. Giving in, Tory poured her a sip. "Morgana, what am I going to do with the man? He says he loves me, then goes behind my back with all these blitzkrieg wooing tactics. I can’t decide if he’s trying to woo and

win me," she made a face, "because he hates being told he can’t have something he wants, or if he genuinely loves me." The kitten licked milk off her whiskers and plopped into Tory’s lap for a snuggle. "I know, I know. I should be able to tell what he’s up to, shouldn’t I?" Tory concentrated for a moment on the small cat’s pleasure at being stroked. Blue light glimmered around her fingers. "Thing is, I can feel something from him. At least enough to know that he thinks he’s in love with me. But, True Love? That, my dear, is something even I don’t know yet." Morgana made an interrogative sound somewhere between a growl and a squeak. "Sharon? She thinks I’m crazy. A rich, gorgeous guy says I’m his wife, and I have a problem with this?" Tory snorted. "Maybe she’s right. And maybe I’m right and MacCallum is just trying to get something he doesn’t have. Like a collector or something. What do you think?" Morgana began washing her face. "You’re right. I should stop thinking and go to work. I’m not going to solve the riddle of how to deal with Connor MacCallum right this minute, that’s for sure. Unless," Tory pushed back from the table and headed for the bathroom, still cuddling the kitten, "I have a blinding inspiration while I’m in the shower. And with my luck, I’ll probably fall and break something when I do."

It might have been better if she had fallen and broken something, Tory decided later. She would have had the perfect excuse for not opening the shop. But then, she thought, torn between a desire for sweet silence and the merchant’s drive to pull in a profit, she would have missed all these customers. Petals and Scents was packed to the rafters. It would have all been bearable if she hadn’t been alone. However... Michelle had brought a cold home from daycare, and Sharon had caught it. Just another piece of lousy luck, but, added to the busiest sale day Tory had seen since Valentine’s Day... Well, she was running herself ragged trying to keep up with the phone orders and the walk in customers. Morgana was a black and white-furred oasis of calm. She groomed herself on a display table - right next to an artistic arrangement of a dozen red roses, collectible teddy bears and magnificent drip candles. As Tory watched, a young woman cooed over the adorable picture the kitten made. Her boyfriend bought the roses. Tory grinned in spite of herself as she rang up the sale. Morgana was turning out to be the best sale gimmick she'd ever seen. Maybe too good, as the sales continued to rack up and the constant noise and crowding began to wear on her. The kitten, with the good sense of her kind, disappeared into the greenhouse after a few hours. Tory wished she could, too, as she reached into the cold case which contained the cut flowers to gather an elderly man the makings of a bouquet. What she'd give for a little help right now.... "Tory?" She froze, half in and half out of the refrigerated case. She didn't need her ability to tell her who'd come

up behind her. That voice.... MacCallum. The insane compulsion to climb into the refrigerator and hide hit her. Tory wrestled with it for a moment. It was tempting, and her only other real option was to turn around and deal with MacCallum. Which she really didn't want to do right now. She dithered another second before she realized that she was probably presenting him with a perfect view of her derriere, and considering his propensity for grabbing..... Tory straightened and whirled around so quickly that her head narrowly missed colliding with Connor's chin as he bent to peer into the case. "Are you all right, lass?" Tory drew herself up in some semblance of dignity. "Of course. Why are you looking at me like that?" "I was wondering.... if there was a problem with the case," he finished lamely. Somehow, he didn't think it was a good idea to mention that she looked like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. Dammit, she was still afraid of him. How long would it take to erase the mistake he'd made that first day? How long would it be before she gave him her trust? "There's no problem with the case. Why would you think that?" Tory unconsciously tightened her grip on the stems in her hand until the daffodils started to droop. "Excuse me, I've got customers to see to." "Tory...." She cut him off with a look. "Are you going to buy anything?" "No." "Then you'll have to wait until I've taken care of the people who are. Excuse me." She ducked behind the counter and aimed a bright, false smile at a blue-haired woman with a pine wreath in her hands. Scowling, Connor looked around, grabbed a bucket of flowers from the refrigerated case, and got in line. Tory jumped when the large plastic bucket was plunked on the counter. What the hell? She met MacCallum's ferocious scowl with one of her own. "What are you doing?" "Buying these." "You can't buy out my entire stock of blue roses!" MacCallum raised one lordly brow as if to say, "No?". He laid a credit card on the counter. Platinum American Express. Didn't that just figure? "Put that away!" she hissed.

"You don't take American Express?" He slid the card back into his wallet and pulled out a bill whose denomination had Tory goggling. Who carried around hundreds as pocket change? Apparently, Connor MacCallum did. "MacCallum...." "Not enough?" He pulled out another. "Oh, Lord." Tory dropped her head into her hands. "Connor, please..." Large, unexpectedly callused hands wrapped around hers. Energy surged up her arms. Tory jerked upright and was caught in a pair of blue eyes that held a ridiculous amount of warmth. "You called me Connor." He kissed her fingers. An older lady just behind Connor elbowed her husband. "How come you never do that to me?" Tory groaned. "Lass, is there somewhere we can go?" His voice was husky, urgent. "I have something to tell you." "I can't." "Oh hell, honey, go for it," the older lady cut in. "Isn't this romantic?" A grandmotherly sort in a fake fur coat nudged her companion, who nodded and smiled mistily. A harried looking young businessman holding a bunch of "forgive me" pink roses looked like he was taking notes. Tory wanted to melt into the floor. Instead, she aimed her sweetest smile at her waiting customers and addressed Connor. "I'm sorry. I need to take care of all these people. No time to talk now." Shrewd blue eyes swept over her, assessed the fine lines of strain bracketing her dark eyes. "You need to take care of some things in the nursery." Her mouth dropped open. "I... What?" "I'll take care of the customers." Her look of disbelief had Connor setting his teeth. "You?" "Aye. I know how to handle a cash register, Tory. Go on." "If I wasn't so tired..." She rubbed at the ache between her eyes. "I must really be nuts. OK, MacCallum, get back here." Tory rummaged behind the counter for a moment, pulled out a price list, slapped it down in front of him. "Everything's listed on here. Sale prices are clearly posted on the displays."

Connor slid behind the counter. She fiddled with her necklace. "Are you sure you don't need me to show you how to work the register?" "No." He hoped. "Do you -" "No. Lass, go." He stripped off his expensive overcoat and dropped it casually over a stool. "I'm not a damned dog, MacCallum." But she went. Connor cast one last look after her, then turned to face his first customer. The things a man would do for love.

It was too quiet. Tory glanced at her watch. Over two hours had passed since she deserted Connor to the foliage-hungry masses. She'd half-expected him to fold within a few minutes - at most an hour. But a whole two hours? What was he doing, giving the stock away? Or had a horde of poinsettia-crazed society mavens kidnaped him? Tory had a mental image of Connor, his stalwart form bound by twining grapevines and lengths of pine garland, borne off on the shoulders of triumphant, perfectly-coiffed women. The kitten curled nearby opened an amber eye as Tory snickered. "What are you laughing at?" Tory jumped, turned. MacCallum was standing a few feet away. It was deeply disturbing to realize that she'd neither felt or heard him coming. She'd have to remember that, for all his size, he was an amazingly effective stalker when he wanted to be. "What are you doing in here?" A grimace twisted his mouth. For a second, Tory remembered what it had been like to have that mouth pressed against her own, heated and hungry and.... Stop it! Thank God, MacCallum didn't seem to see her slip. "I was looking for some peace and quiet." His eyes slid over her as thoroughly as a touch. "You feel better, lass? The strain is gone." Quiet and perceptive. A dangerous combination, when added to her attraction to him. "I needed the break. Thank you." "Maybe next time you might say it with a little less of a grudge in your voice?" "What next time?" She frowned. There was pain behind his eyes. She could almost see it throb. "Are you all right, MacCallum?"

"Just a headache. It happens." "I know." She tucked her hands behind her so that he wouldn't see their trembling. There was more to his pain than a simple headache. She was already feeling what he felt, even without a link. "Do you have anything for it?" "The headache? No." The pain was gathering, focusing. It was getting hard to think. Connor gritted his teeth. He knew what it was. He wouldn't - couldn't - let it overtake him. Not now. Not when he was making some progress wooing his stubborn love. And then again, he might not have much choice in the matter.... "I should go." The softhearted part of Tory objected. The sensible part overrode it. The sooner he left, the better. His pain was pervasive, coming in waves, and she wasn't sure she could handle it without giving in to the desire to try to heal it. But there were things to be said before he left. "I didn't ask... I didn't ask before I shanghaied you into helping if you had the time to spare." "I always have time for you, Tory." He wanted to touch the soft, slender hand that had stayed him. He didn't. "Always." "But you must have had other things to do. A meeting or something." He tried for a smile. "Are you tellin' me that I'm not good enough to handle your cash register?" She rolled her eyes. "No. I think I'm trying to say.... thank you." "You're welcome, love. No, don't step away. It was a word, Tory. Nothing more." "It was the way you said it, Connor." "I meant it. I know, you donna want to hear it. But I did mean it." "Connor?" "Yes, lass?" "You said earlier that you had something to tell me." "Aye. But it will keep. I think we both need a bit of distance right now." You're more right than you know, she thought at him. "You'll take something... for the headache?" "I will." He'd promise her anything, even if he knew it would be futile. He could no more rid himself of the headache than the heartache. "Oh.... I closed the shop for lunch." "Thanks." He was almost to the door of the nursery when she spoke again. "Connor? Thank you for helping."

His eyes burned. "I would do anything for you, Tory. Remember that." "It’s not going to be easy to forget," she murmured. ***

Within a few days, Tory was wishing that Connor had stuck with courting ideas as simple as the balloons. The man did not appear to know the meaning of the word ordinary. He sent her a box of gourmet teas. How he'd known that she loved tea, Tory didn't want to know and refused to ask. He hired a bagpiper to serenade her one night. The poor guy must have been freezing in his kilt, but he'd stood outside her building and played for over an hour... much to the amusement of her neighbors. She'd even come home one night to find her apartment filled with iridescent, fragile soapbubbles, thanks to the automatic bubble machine standing in the corner. Morgana loved the bubbles. Tory only hoped that Connor would remove the bubble machine the following night before her floors were ruined. At least, that was what she told herself.... ***

"He's making me crazy!" Sharon looked up from her inventory list as Tory slammed through the front door of the shop. "What did he do this time?" "Nothing." Tory scowled, yanked at her scarf. "He hasn't done one darn thing since the other night." "And this you're complaining about? I thought you wanted him to stop." "I did, didn't I?" Tory looked gloomily at her friend. "Maybe he's come to his senses..." Sharon looked skeptical. "And maybe I'm deluding myself. I know. Sharon, the man scares me." "He scares you because he doesn't scare you." "I'm just worried about what he's going to do next, that's all." Tory sighed and hung her coat in the closet behind the counter. "Is it okay if I go hide in the greenhouse for a while?" "Sure. Have fun." Have fun. Tory rubbed her gritty eyes. She doubted it. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep last night; vague, unsettling dreams had kept her awake until almost dawn. And she'd never been her best on only a few hours sleep. Maybe it would be smart to hide in the back all day and let Sharon handle the customers...

The fragrant, humid warmth of the greenhouse felt like a blessing after being outside. Maybe this was the place for her after all. She almost smiled as she reached for her gardening gloves with one hand and flicked on the tape deck with the other. Music came pouring out, rich and full and glorious, filling the long room. Not the classic rock and roll that she usually played, but something New Age and Celtic. And the flowers woke up and flew. Open-mouthed, Tory stared as a cloud of gorgeous blue and gold butterflies swarmed upward, wings catching the glints of pale winter sunlight coming through the paned roof. "Holy cow." MacCallum strikes again. ***

MacCallum struck again with clockwork regularity every day that week. First the chocolates began arriving. Not the typical chocolates that Tory could have dismissed - even though she was a chocoholic. Chocolate sculptures. Dragons and knights and castles. Wizards and damsels. Romantic scenes of couples strolling on riverbanks. In spite of her better judgement, Tory ooohhhed and aaahhhed over all of them. She couldn’t bring herself to eat them - it would have been like eating a work of art. She took them home and carefully displayed them on a table. After the chocolates came the books. Once a day, a courier would arrive, sometimes bringing the latest science fiction blockbuster wrapped in bright paper, sometimes a first edition of a beautifully illustrated children’s book. Once a first edition of Bram Stoker’s "Dracula". The man was incredible. He knew everything she liked. Of course, he’d been into her apartment at least once, and had probably had her investigated besides. But... the gestures were still sweet. Not that Tory would admit it. Deep inside, where even Tory herself wouldn’t admit it, she was starting to soften toward MacCallum’s suit. "He’s probably at home right now, sipping a glass of expensive brandy and plotting his next move." She stroked Morgana, who was busily sniffing at one of the chocolate sculptures. He’s probably having fun."

He was not having fun. Courtship was torture. You did this to yourself, Connor reminded himself with brutal honesty. You've dug your own grave by declaring that you would court her. He shoveled tense fingers through already-mussed hair. Dammit, there hadn't been any other choice! Tory was a woman who needed to be courted gently, wooed until she lost her wariness. His patience was costing him, but it was also working. She did trust him. She looked on him as a friend.

Connor's short, harsh laugh echoed eerily in the shadow-drenched confines of his bedroom. A small voice that was - and was not - his hissed in the back of his mind, Oh, you're anything but her friend, MacCallum! You want her. You want her so damn bad that you can almost taste it. His fists clenched as a slow howl of pure, animal frustration clawed at the back of his parched throat. Only the barest vestiges of self-control kept him from exploding. It was terror that drove him, Connor admitted to himself when he was reasonably calm again. Terror of living without her, of losing her before she was even really his. Restless and hungry, the icy, gnawing ache in his gut growing by the second, Connor rolled out of bed to prowl the house. A man who cherished his solitude, he lived alone; there was no one in the huge, darkened house to see him stalk from shadowed room to shadowed room, a looming figure clad only in navy silk pajama bottoms despite the faint chill, wandering aimlessly as if searching for something. Connor wasn't aware of making a conscious decision to go to the library, but he wasn't surprised to eventually find himself there, staring at the large portrait that hung over the carved rosewood mantle until his eyes ached and stung fiercely. It was uncanny, he thought with a curious, welcome sense of detachment, how much she hadn't changed. The same curling fall of dark hair, the same thickly-lashed dark eyes, the same fascinating little half-smile that sometimes tipped only one corner of her mouth. And the ring. He hadn't dared to let himself hope until he'd seen the ring. That was when he had known. It was Magda who spoke with Tory's voice. Magda's soul in Tory's body. As he stared at the painting, Connor was only vaguely aware of a memory surfacing until it flashed before his mind's eye with all the impact of a physical blow: dark eyes that held magic, a pale, pinched face; dark, hopelessly soft hair; the feel of her fine-boned body under his hands as he'd pressed her to him. The wave of longing surged through him without warning, leaving Connor dizzy. Coming slowly out of it, Con found himself murmuring her name over and over like a prayer. It would be all right, he told himself fiercely. When he told her the truth, she would understand why he'd done what he had. He had to believe that. Connor stared at the painting with a near-tangible mixture of yearning and determination swirling inside him. "Soon, m'love," he vowed in a gravelly whisper. "Soon." He scrubbed at eyes that stung from too little sleep. He wouldn’t be able to rest, he knew, but he’d go to bed anyway. He had more planning to do. Much more planning. Romancing was hard work.

Winter, Tory decided sourly, is highly overrated. It was snowing heavily and had been since early afternoon, making business slow and driving a nightmare. It’d taken twice as long as usual to get home.

She stomped up the stairs to her apartment, fumbling with her keys. Morgana had stayed home today. God only knew what the kitten had gotten into while she was gone, but there was no help for it. Bracing herself, Tory stepped into the apartment and looked around for carnage. There wasn’t any. Everything was neatly in place except for a few of Morgana’s toys scattered on the carpet. Bemused, Tory dropped her keys in the cigar holder the wooden Indian held and draped her cloak over his outstretched arm. And then she sniffed. She was hallucinating. This lousy day had driven her over the edge. It was the only explanation she could come up with to explain the wonderful scents rolling out of her kitchen. Wait, weren’t olfactory hallucinations a sign of a serious mental problem? Well... Tory really couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. Not when she was hallucinating about the best lasagna she’d smelled in... She wandered toward the kitchen, greedily inhaling. "Ohmigod." It wasn’t a hallucination. Connor was taking a casserole dish from her oven. The first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone, exposing his chest. The view was almost as appetizing as the food. But what really caught her eye was... "Where’d you get the apron?" "Tory-lass. How was your day? Here." He handed her a wine glass before she could protest that she didn’t drink. "It’s nonalcoholic, lass. Dinnae worry." "How did you - ?" "I know a lot about you," he said nonchalantly, taking the foil covering off the lasagna. Tory’s knees almost buckled. "I know you’re allergic to wine. You love chocolate. You have a soft spot for whimsy and small creatures. You live alone, have no contact with your family, and you favor blue." "Anyone who’s broken into my apartment more than once could tell those things just by looking around." She tucked her tongue inside her mouth and hoped she didn’t start drooling. Connor didn’t look the least bit sorry. In fact, he looked suspiciously cheerful as he dished out a generous helping of lasagna. Plate in one hand, his own glass in the other, he headed for the butcher block island in the middle of the kitchen. Tory stared. "Make yourself at home." "Thought you’d never ask. Sit down, lass." "I’m not sure I should." He managed to hide his grin - barely. Lord, but she looked adorable, heavy-eyed and just a little dumbfounded, cheeks still pink from the wind and snowflakes melting in her dark hair. "Oh, it’s all right, Tory. I won’t bite. Unless you ask me nicely."

She blushed. "MacCallum, what are you doing in my kitchen?" "I thought I’d make you a bit of dinner." She slid onto the stool he held out for her. "You can cook?" "Surprisingly enough, yes." "Surprise, indeed. Nothing surprises me about you, MacCallum." "I’ll have to try harder," he murmured. Tory dug a fork into the lasagna and grimly stuffed it into her mouth. Hot mozzarella seared the roof of her mouth. Tears stung her eyes. "That was foolish, love." Connor waited until she’d swallowed and then handed her wine. "Sip slowly," he instructed. "Now, why did you do that?" "Sacrificing a few layers of tissue is a small price to pay compared to putting my foot in my mouth again." She drank a little more. Ah, the fire was dying down. She could even feel her tongue again. "I’ve no desire to trap you." "I hadn’t noticed." He had the good grace to flush slightly. "A man will do foolish things when he’s afraid." "I don’t understand you." Tory put her glass aside. "You came on like a ton of bricks the first few times we spoke. And now... now you’re backing off. Soft-pedaling all this romantic stuff. Cooking dinner. The thoughtful gestures. Morgana." A sweep of her hand indicated the kitten, curled in a black and white ball on Connor’s broad shoulder. Suspicion flared in her lovely brown eyes. "Changing tactics won’t change my mind, MacCallum." "D’you think," he asked conversationally, "it would be too much to call me by m’Christian name, love?" "I’m trying not to encourage you." "Don’t bother. Your existence is encouragement enough, Tory. Haven’t you realized that yet?" "Why?" "You’re asking me why you haven’t realized this?" "No, I’m asking you... Why me? Why pursue a woman you’ve barely met?" His eyes darkened. "Some questions have frightening answers, Tory. Be careful how and why you ask them. You may learn more than you wanted." She stared at him, fascinated and wary at the same time. "What are you telling me, MacCallum?" He pushed back from the table. Morgana leapt lightly to the floor. "Nothing. Nothing but this." He

drained the remainder of his wine in one long swallow. "I have always loved you, needed you. Wanted you. Now," he leaned close, until she couldn’t draw a breath that he didn’t take first, couldn’t see anything but the blue blaze of his eyes. "It is up to you to decide how to deal with that. Because I’m not leaving you, Tory. And I’m not giving you up without a fight." *** Tory sat, staring morosely at her lasagna, several long minutes after MacCallum had gone. She was annoyingly aware that the apartment seemed to grow larger after he’d gone, as if he’d somehow shrunk it with his larger-than-life presence. Certainly, it was easier to breathe. She sucked in a deep breath. It was also too easy to think. Think that he was right, that she’d better decide how to deal with him, and fast. Because she was, Tory admitted grudgingly, in very real danger of liking MacCallum. And liking him, she was afraid, was only the first step on the road to ruin. To love. She felt the power swirl inside her, like glitter inside a glass globe. Remembered that she had at least one very real reason not to want involvement with Connor MacCallum. She’d lived with one domineering man who’d used her gift for his own ends. She was not about to get involved with another. Tory stood, suddenly very tired. "Leave the dishes, Morgana. Let’s go to bed." *** Two days went by without an appearance from MacCallum, and Tory almost managed to succeed in fooling herself into believing he’d lost interest. Or he’d come to his senses, or something. The realistic part of her knew it wasn’t all that likely, but... A girl could hope, couldn’t she? On the third night, she took three steps out the door of Petals and Scents and stopped dead in the snow. There was a limo snuggled up to the curb, and she had a very good idea of who was responsible for its being there. "Oh, no." She shut her tired eyes. "I don’t believe this." Connor unfolded himself from the limo and schooled himself to walk slowly. "Evening, lass." He took her small, cold hand and bowed over it, tactfully not mentioning her open mouth. "Would you join me for dinner?" Suddenly self-conscious, Tory glanced down, knowing she had on jeans and a sweater uner her red wool cloak. "Oh... I’m not dressed for a fancy dinner." He was, she couldn’t help but notice. The man was gorgeous enough on a normal day. Unfortunately for her, he was positively drool- inducing in a tux. He dismissed that concern with a wave of one hand. "I wasna planning on fancy." He waited a spit second for an objection. "So, you’re coming, then." Connor deftly removed Morgana’s basket from tory’s loose grip and handed his lady into the waiting limo. Sinful. Tory sighed a little in spite of her better judgement. The car was blessedly warm, the seats cushiony and so comfortable after a day spent largely on her feet. She definitely wasn’t being suckered by this blatant display of wealth and comfort, Tory assured herself. Definitely not. She was tired, that was all, and it would be foolish not to enjoy being comfortable for a change.

And arguing with herself was getting her nowhere, Tory decided. She cleared her throat. "MacCallum, exactly what are you doing?" "Taking you to dinner. I told you that." Calmly, Connor leaned forward and instructed the driver to find the nearest McDonalds. Tory closed her eyes. Who dressed to the teeth to go to a McD’s drive through? Apparently, MacCallum did. "I don’t understand you," she muttered. "What is there to understand? Can’t a man take a lovely lass to dinner?" "It’s not the dinner. I mean, it is, but..." "You don’t like McDonalds?" "It’s great, but - " "Good. We’re here." The smoked-glass window on his side purred down. "What’ll you have, lass?" Tory dropped her head into her hands and muttered something that Connor didn’t quite catch. He was glad he couldn’t. No sense in ruining his good mood. "Lass?" She lifted her head a little. "I can’t talk you out of this?" "You’d rather go somewhere else?" Tory had a mental picture of Connor - tux and all - in a pizza parlor. He’d be mobbed. "No," she said hastily. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, she reminded herself - just so she didn’t feel like too much of a wimp for giving in without a fight. But there were other ways of making a point in a conflict. She placed her order demurely, purposefully omitting any french fries. And even though she wasn’t looking right at him, Tory didn’t miss Connor’s satisfied smile. He thought he’d won, did he? Well, let the big lug be smug. We’ll see how smug you are when Morgana realizes you’re her only source of fries. As if sensing her mistress’s thought, the kitten purred. ***

Chapter Three

Michelle was in the bedroom, napping cozily. Sharon was curled up in a chair with her latest romantic thriller. And Tory... Tory was close to pulling her hair out. "I don’t have room for all this stuff," she muttered. Morgana, riding comfortably on her shoulder, dug her

claws in for balance as Tory reached up to arrange the fourth porcelain figurine Connor had given her that week. He seemed to be on a Camelot kick; this newest bauble was a very expensive, very delicate figure of a medieval lady. Philosophically, Tory arranged her next to the porcelain knight with a yearning, determined look in his painted features. "He’s driving me crazy, Morgana." She arranged the cold-cast porcelain dragon to better show off his fierce, glittering eyes. "He refuses to believe that I won’t fall in love with him. I suppose he actually thinks I’ll agree to this ridiculous farce of a marriage if he just gives me enough things." "What are you complaining about?" Sharon called without looking up from her book. "I feel like MacCallum’s trying to bribe me." Tory lowered her voice and mimicked Connor’s light accent with deadly accuracy. "Marry me, and all this will be yours." "So? What’s wrong with that?" "I won’t be bribed. Or bought. I’ve had enough of men who think they can own you." "MacCallum - Connor - is not Barry." Sharon slammed her book down on the chair arm. "I swear, Tory, for a smart person, you can be really dense sometimes. There’s a world of differences between him and Barry." "Name two." Tory sank onto the sofa. Morgana immediately snuggled into her favorite spot under her chin. Sharon ignored her. "I swear, Tory, there’s something wrong with you. You’ve got a man who’s the perfect Prince Charming. He’s madly in love with you. That’s more than most of us get in our lifetimes. What’s your problem with all this?" "I never believed in Prince Charming. How can you trust a guy named after a personality trait?" "You’re scared," Sharon said in dawning comprehension. "I am not." "Tory, you’re my best friend. And you’ve never lied to me before." "Dammit, Sharon - . OK, I am scared. No, forget scared. Try terrified." "Why?" "Because MacCallum’s gorgeous, sexy as all get out, mannered without being wimpy..." "You think he’s sexy?" Sharon grinned. "I may not like his lord-of-the-manor attitude, but even I will admit that I occasionally bite my tongue to keep from drooling." "Is he a great kisser?’ "Sharon!" Tory blushed.

"He is, isn’t he." The blonde sighed lustily. "Bet he’s dynamite in bed, too. And this is the guy you’re keeping at arm’s length?" Tory plunked down on the comfortable blue sofa. "He’s too good to be true. And I... We just don’t fit, that’s all." "And what the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re one of the best people I know." Tory blinked. She’d never seen her friend so angry before. "Sharon - there are things about me you don’t know." "What are you talking about?" "Nothing." She dropped her head in her hands. "Never mind, okay?" "Look, Tory, you’re my best friend. If there’s something you want to talk about... You know I’ll listen if -" "No. I definitely don’t want to talk about it." Tory closed her eyes for a moment. She was suddenly terribly tired. "I’m sorry. Mad at me?" "A little," Sharon admitted. "But hey - you’ve stuck by me, I’ll stick by you. And that’s not gonna change. But honey? I don’t think MacCallum’s going to change his mind about you, either." "I know. I know. And what I don’t know is what I’m going to do about it." "You’re going to have to decide soon, you know." Morgana jumped from Tory’s shoulder to her lap and began kneading herself a comfortable spot. Tory stroked her silky black fur absently. "I know. I’m just afraid of making the wrong choice." "Honey, aren’t we all." Sharon got up to give her friend a sisterly hug. "Cheer up. It can’t be as bad as you think. And even if it is, I know how to get your mind off it." "How?" "Wanna go sledding tomorrow afternoon?" Tory grinned. "You’re on." ***

The toddler chortled gleefully. "Snow!" "There she goes again." Sharon groaned. "Tory...." "Got her!" Deftly, Tory scooped up the figure in the quilted pink snowsuit as it dashed back down the hall.

Michelle let out a earsplitting shriek of frustration, which Tory ignored, tucking the protesting youngster securely under her arm. "No more snow, Michelle. It's time to come in now." Tory tightened her grip as the child threatened to escape again. It was time to employ desperate measures. "It's cookie time, sweetie." Magically, the child went utterly limp. "Cookie!" she piped brightly. Tory grinned at the girl's mother as she tossed her the door keys. "Works every time." "Thank God." Sharon opened the door, stepping into her friend's apartment with exaggerated care. Her pink ski jacket, like her daughter's, was snow-frosted and sopping wet. "If it weren't for Michelle's addiction to chocolate, I don't think I'd survive the terrible twos." Tory bumped the door shut with her hip and propped the toddler on her knee so Sharon could peel the child out of her boots and snowsuit. "What makes you think I'm going to give her a chocolate cookie?" "I know you." "Cookie!" Michelle piped up, starting a new round of ingenious contortions. "Sharon! Hurry up!" Tory dug her fingers into the baby's snowsuit and doggedly held on. The other woman dumped the pixie-sized pair of white boots onto the layered newspapers Tory kept beside the door for just such an occasion and then began popping snaps and unzipping zippers until a grinning Michelle burst from her hot pink nylon cocoon. "Your leg's wet," Sharon mentioned unnecessarily, looking pointedly at her friend's left leg. "I'd noticed." Tory picked at the clinging, clammy patch on her already damp gray sweat pants and cast a weather eye around for Morgana. The kitten was already out of Michelle’s reach, snoozing comfortably on a high shelf. "It would be just my luck to come in, cold and damp from an hour of playing in a snowy park, only to get even wetter." "At least it's from snow and not from a diaper." The blonde set Michelle down: both women watched the towheaded little bundle of energy streak unerringly toward the kitchen where Tory had laid out the toddler's favorite toys and the promised cookies before they'd gone out to play. "And let's not talk about your luck, okay? Which one of us got hit the least in that snowball fight we just had?" "That was just because I was smart enough to have Michelle on my team. Give me that coat, Ronnie, you're as soaked as I am." "Yeah, I am." Sharon handed over the offending garment and, heedless of what her wet clothes would do to the cushions, flopped bonelessly onto the couch. "But you're more in shape than I am. You probably won't even be sore tomorrow." "So sue me." She barely dodged the pillow that the other woman hurled at her head, laughing as she grabbed another pillow and got ready to retaliate. "No, no! I give!" Sharon was giggling. "It's good to see you laugh, sweetie. You've been dragging around the shop lately looking like the ghost of the Christmas from hell."

Tory sat up straight. "I have not!" "Oh yeah, you have." "There's nothing to worry about. I've just been having a little problem with insomnia lately, that's all." "Are you taking anything?" Sharon waved away her own question. "Never mind. That's a dumb question. I know you'd argue over taking the aspirin that would save your life." A bawdy sparkle lit her hazel eyes. "Why don't you tell the delectable Mr. MacCallum about it? Betcha he could do something to help you sleep at night." She was blushing again and she knew it. "No, thanks. I’ll stick with hot chocolate." "Ah, maybe that's your problem. You substitute chocolate for sex." You don't know the half of it, Tory thought, then craned her neck around to catch a glimpse of the darkly flaming sun sinking below a charcoal horizon. "Geez. When did it get so late?" "If you find out, tell me." Yawning, Sharon slunk off the couch. "I really should get going. Michelle probably needs to be changed and it'll be her bedtime soon." "I can change her. Speaking of changing, why don't you borrow some of my clothes to wear home?" Sharon wriggled toes encased in damp socks, making a face eloquent of distaste. "If you have something that'll fit me. You do take a petite everything, right?" "Go dig in my dresser drawers. I've got a couple of sweat suits I've never even worn because the pants come up under my arms." "Let me guess - Barry sent them." Tory just gave her a look that didn't invite comment and hefted herself out of her chair. "Michelle! Where are you, punkin? Come see Aunt Tory!" Michelle's feet pattered against the linoleum just before she pelted through the kitchen door. "Aun' Tee?" Tory scrunched down to the child's level. "Hiya, short stuff. I see you found the cookies, huh?" Michelle grinned stickily, holding up one chocolate-grimed hand. Tory sighed, wondering how many tiny hand prints she'd end up washing off her walls before she went to bed. "You're getting cleaned up." Reaching out, she tucked a highly-amused Michelle under her arm and headed for the bathroom. "I just hope I put out dark-colored towels."

The doorbell rang just as Tory was shutting off the water. She froze, nearly losing her grip on the baby, and her heart literally leapt into her throat. Connor! Tory didn't bother to analyze the little tingle of physical and mental awareness that fluttered across her

nerve endings. She simply set Michelle on the floor and tried to quell the impulse to hide. Sharon had let him in. Connor was standing in the middle of her living room, larger than life and twice as enticing, somehow effortlessly shrinking the room around him again. Tory suddenly found that it was an effort to breathe. She drank in the sight of him, aware at that moment of just how much she'd actually missed him. He looked deliciously male in somewhat disreputable jeans and a heavy hunter-green sweater, his long, dark, copper-veined hair shaggy and wind-touched. The darkness of a five o clock shadow showed just under his skin despite the fact that he'd obviously recently shaved. He looked rough and a little rumpled, completely unlike the cosmopolitan businessman who'd taken her to lunch just a few days ago. He was speaking to Sharon as she came into the room, Michelle scampering at her heels with a damp, chocolate-smudged washcloth clamped in her chubby hand. Tory could literally feel the focus of his awareness change when he became aware of her presence. A poignant hunger pulled at her, tying her stomach into a knot. Unconsciously, Tory pressed a hand against her middle, but the odd sensation didn't stop. A second later, she realized why; it was Connor's emotions that were creating the tugging inside her. Creating the craving. God, she wanted him. The sound of Connor's voice ran over her tingling nerves like a provocative stroke of velvet, smoothing but failing to soothe. It was both strangely hypnotic and arousing, luring Tory into a soft white haze of pleasurable pain. "Hello, Tory." Tory blinked herself back to awareness, somehow managing to suppress the shudder that quivered through her at the sound of that rough voice. She spoke lightly. "Hi, MacCallum." His veiled, hungry eyes laughed at her. "Hi, yourself, lass." The brightening blue gaze angled down to rest on Michelle, who suddenly attached herself to Tory's leg. Carefully, Connor hunkered down so that he was on the child's level. "And who are you, wee lassie?" Michelle clung tighter to Tory, but a cautious smile was working its way across her mouth. Apparently, no woman was too young to be immune to Connor's charm. "Her name is Michelle, and she probably has a wet diaper. Right, shortie?" Sharon reached for her daughter. "Come on, let mommy change you before we go." Typical Sharon, Tory thought while her friend vanished behind the stained glass walls of the bedroom, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused at Sharon's less-than-discrete maneuvering. "The extra diapers are in the armoire," she called helpfully. She turned back to Connor, unaccountably and annoyingly nervous. Maybe the way he looked at her, as if he had been hungry for the sight of her for a long, long time, had something to do with it. Or maybe it was because the sight of him aroused an answering hunger in her. Her power surged suddenly. Tory bit her lip and fought to contain it. It didn't help that she was tired, that she had missed him so much that her control over her emotions and her abilities was threadbare to begin with. Watch it, Tory. You can't start glowing right in front of the guy. He'll probably run screaming into the night and never come back.

Although, she added hastily, that wouldn’t be a bad idea... MacCallum, damn him, didn't help matters any by solemnly lifting her right hand to his lips. "Miss me?" he asked, his voice vibrating against her skin. Something inside Tory quivered again as his eyes touched her. For a moment, she swore she could see his features change and he looked like her dream lover. She blinked, and the illusion was gone. "A little." His fingers tightened caressingly on hers. He felt real, solid - not like a dream at all. It helped. "I missed you, too, Tory." Both looked down involuntarily as a small, compact body thudded against Tory's legs and she staggered a little. Instantly, Connor steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. Tingles radiated out in successive waves where he touched her. Startled, Tory looked up and found herself caught in storm-blue eyes that had gone oddly hot. "Michelle!" Sharon yelled from the other end of the loft, sounding more amused than upset. "Come back here and put your pants on!" The spell broke like shattered crystal. The two of them stepped apart, Connor's hands clenching into fists. A bland expression dropped across his face like a mask but failed to shutter the lightning in his eyes. Bending down, he scooped up the little girl and hoisted her up to eye level, his face working to shape a smile. "Hello there. Are you forgetting something?" Blissfully unaware of the undercurrents between the two adults, Michelle giggled. "Want cookie." Tory laughed in spite of herself. "A cookie, hmm? And I just got you cleaned up, too." She tickled Michelle's bare foot and was rewarded with another liquid-sunshine giggle. "Tell you what, munchkin. Connor will bring you back to mommy while I get that cookie."

The wee one was a charmer, Connor thought idly. He was already half in love with her. He pulled a few more pillows from their nesting places on the sofa and arranged them on the floor. He'd missed Tory terribly over the last few days. Connor fought to suppress a harsh, humorless bark of a laugh. Missed her? Oh, that was good! He knew she didn’t want him coming here, but he’d needed to see her. Connor watched surreptitiously as Tory stepped out into the hall for a last goodbye hug with Michelle. She was too pale, he thought critically, and the circles under her eyes seemed even deeper than before. And she looked... fragile, in a way that went beyond the delicacy of bone structure and finely-drawn muscle. He didn't think she'd lost any weight, but the baggy blue sweat suit she wore made it almost impossible to tell. Just then, Tory came back in and shut the door behind her. Connor quickly masked the worry on his face lest she see it. It was easier than masking the aching want that the simple sight of her invoked in him. A small, bemused smile spread over her piquant face when she saw him stretched out comfortably across the floor in front of the television. "MacCallum, what on earth are you doing?"

Connor nonchalantly poked at the volume button on the remote control. The pop-crackle of the roaring fire obediently got louder. "Relaxin' in front of the fire?" "That's a video." "Everybody needs a fireplace at Christmas, lass." Tory mimicked his imminently reasonable tone. "That may be, but I refuse to hang any stockings on my television." His soft laughter mingled with the roar of the "flames" for a moment, then Tory drew a deep breath. "I need to get changed. My clothes are damp." Connor bit his lip against the offer of help that tried to spring onto his tongue. Instead, he folded his arms behind his head and sent a small, thoroughly masculine grin her way. "Oh, I don't mind if you change." "That was a polite hint, MacCallum." "Was it?" She sighed. "You’re not budging, are you?" "No." A single, unadorned syllable. Solid as stone. He had to give her credit; she only fumed silently for a moment. "Stay here. Behave." A few moments later, when Tory reappeared, Connor realized that he was definitely in trouble. In fact, trouble was a pale word for what he was in now. Don't think about it, MacCallum. A blue flannel nightgown isn't the least erotic, even if the neckline does scoop low enough to give you a heart attack. You're going to be a gentleman. You are not going to fall on her like a starving beast. She's too tired, anyway. The lecture should have worked. It didn't. Not when a perverse little voice kept insisting that Tory would sleep much better after he'd loved her silly. "MacCallum?" He gritted his teeth against a blunt, heavy surge of heat. My God, he thought in utter amazement, just her voice! He started to answer, found that he couldn't, and cleared his throat. "Aye, lass?" She was frowning. "Are you all right?" "Just being lazy." "I doubt you know the meaning of the word." He could hear her smile in her voice. It triggered a surge of heat that very nearly fried him from the inside out.

"Don't be silly, m'darlin'. Of course I do. 'Tis only the practical application I've trouble with." Tory laughed softly; Connor felt his heart swell. Lord, he was crazy about her laugh. He intended to devote the rest of his life to giving her reasons to laugh. "Feel like being lazy with me? I promise not to pounce," he added when it looked like she would refuse outright. She only hesitated a second before joining him on the floor, propping her back against one of the oversized pillows he'd propped against the sofa. Her light, spicy-flowery scent washed over him, sinking delicate tendrils into his brain. Connor had a sudden vision of a spring garden saturated in moonlight... and a slender nymph in diaphanous white. His overheated imagination immediately provided an image of that slender figure dancing among the blooms, her bare feet leaving faint marks in the dew-wet grass while she lured men to her with ancient wiles. He groaned. "You're hurting." Tory sat up straight, looking at him with concern in her beautiful dark eyes. He had to bite back a second guttural sound. "Just stiff muscles, m'lass." Lord, he hoped she didn't look down and see just how stiff he was. And where. "I was in Boston this morning on business, and even Lear jets don't make seats for men of m'size, Tory." She smiled impishly. "Really? I wouldn't know." "You will soon enough, lass." "Oh?" "Scotland at Christmas, remember?" "As I remember, there are one or two conditions to be met, first." "They’ll be met." He sounded so supremely confident that her teeth ground together. "Really." "Of course." "I suppose there’s not a woman alive who can resist the MacCallum charm, right?" "Tory, what’s wrong?" "Wrong? What could be wrong?" Sarcasm edged her tones. "Connor MacCallum has decided my fate. What could possibly be wrong with life now?" "I’ve not decided your fate. You decide it, Tory." "Yeah, I decide it, but you’ll do your damndest to influence it, won’t you? Because you always get what you want, don’t you?" "Aye. I do." Irritation had iced his eyes to a hard slate blue. "And you haven’t seemed overly upset

about it." "You wouldn’t have noticed if I had!" She scrambled to her feet. "You’re just like Barry. You’re so intent on getting what you want that you never notice if you grind someone up along the way. And to think I was maybe starting to like you a little." "Who’s Barry?" Dammit. Why did I say anything? "Never mind." "I asked you a question, Tory. Who’s Barry?" "The only thing you need to know about him, MacCallum, is that he’s a hardhearted, selfish, controlling bastard who uses people like Kleenex," she spat bitterly. "Wipe your nose on them and throw them away. Unless he decides you belong to him. Then you’ll never get away from him." And he hurt you, Connor added silently. "You think I’m like that? That I’m a selfish bastard who only pursues what he wants for no other reason than that he wants it?" "I think you could be." She rubbed her hands over her face. "And I don’t want to deal with that again. Just leave, MacCallum. If you love me like you say you do, just leave me alone." He snatched his coat from the Indian. "You weren’t meant to be alone, Tory Wayne, no matter how much you wish it. I’m not going. I’m going to woo and win you, and that’s that." "You can woo me until you’re blue in the face, MacCallum! I’m not changing my mind." *** Clink. Clink. Tory blinked awake. Morgana growled softly once from her comfortable position on Tory’s stomach, and then settled down again. Clink. What the....? It sounded like hail. Or someone throwing rocks at her window. Kids, most likely... Although what kids were doing out at - she peered at the clock - 2AM, was beyond her. Tory rolled out of bed and padded to the window to peek out. Clink. A pebble struck the pane. Swearing under her breath, Tory jerked the window open and leaned out, prepared to give whoever it was a thorough dressing-down. It was MacCallum. Astride a great black horse whose breath steamed in the frigid night air. And he was blue. Tory studied the paint streaking his face and throat. Her own throat had suddenly gone uncomfortably

dry. "Oh my God..." MacCallum looked incredible in a kilt. Like something out of "Braveheart." No... better. The horse shifted and stamped, responding to the shifting pressures of his rider’s muscular thighs. Connor’s deep voice rolled up to her like a distant bell of thunder. "I’m still wooing you, Tory. And you can see I’m blue in the face." She found her voice. "I don’t believe this. MacCallum, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night, and it’s freezing!" He gave her a look that said, And your point is?, and smiled. There was sheer, bullheaded determination in that smile. "Will you ride with me, lass?" "Will I - Are you crazy?" "I’m in love." The grand declaration might have been funny, if anyone other than Connor MacCallum had made it. "What do you think?" "I think I’m the crazy one for even talking to you." Absently, she rubbed at her cold arms. "Come riding with me." "No! It’s the middle of the night." "If you don’t, I’ll stay out here until dawn. And I’ll serenade you." "You wouldn’t." He gave her another one of those looks. "I canna sing, lass." "That’s blackmail!" "Aye." He seemed supremely unconcerned. Tory slammed the window closed in frustration. He’d do it. He’d sit out there all night, turning into a plaid popsicle, and waking the neighbors with off-key and undoubtably lusty singing. While looking like something out of a fantasy. Heck, what choice did she have? Tory shoved her feet into the first boots she found, grabbed her cloak and keys from the wooden Indian, and hit the door at a run before Connor could start in on the Scottish rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall". The horse stamped in surprise as the red-cloaked apparition rushed toward him, but Connor only smothered a grin, controlling the animal easily. It had worked. His success was worth all the aggravation of finding the mount, the kilt, and smearing on the bloody face paint. His poor lass didn’t look as appreciative, but he remembered the sheer astonishment on her face when she’d first seen him. Ah, life was sweet indeed when a man could pull something like this on his lady.

"Don’t look so smug." Tory stood in the snow and tried to look as intimidating as she could. "I’m only going along with this because I don’t need my neighbors forming a lynch mob - which they will if they get an earful of your singing." "Surely not." "Oh no? They were annoyed enough over the piper last week." He was offended. "He was the best piper in the county." "Well, the neighbors aren’t what you’d call fond of Scots folk music. Although the rendition of "You Light up My Life" was interesting." "Glad you liked it, lass." "I didn’t say I liked it. I said it was interesting." He wasn’t winning the argument, so he did what Tory would undoubtably call the MacCallum thing. He ended it. "Give me your hand, Tory." "I’d hoped you were kidding about this." She grumbled, but she gave him her hand. Connor pulled her up onto his lap with a minimum of effort. "I never kid about singing." He turned the horse and set off at a brisk walk toward the park. "Where are we going?" "You’ll see." Connor fell silent, leaving Tory nothing to do but watch the passing scenery. Moment by moment, awareness of the muscular body cradling hers began to seep in. Contrary to her expectations, heat fairly radiated from him. He moved in the saddle with the ease of someone who, if not actually born in the saddle, had been put in one pretty darn quickly. His arms around her were strong and secure, and for a moment, just a moment, Tory allowed herself to recognize the feeling of safety that gave her. "Connor?" "Shhhhh. Time enough for talking later, Tory." "Later?" They had entered the park by now. It seemed deserted, and she half expected a quick canter around the open areas before heading back to her place. At least she hoped so. Connor might have enough body heat to keep him happy in this weather, but she sure didn’t. Connor seemed to have other plans. He rode in the direction of a copse of trees. "Connor?" "Almost there, lass." "Almost where?" But then she saw a small, crude looking lean-to pitched on the crest of the hill beneath

a snow-swept pine tree. A torch planted before it roared heat and light into the cold evening air. "MacCallum, what are you doing?" "We need to talk." "And this is your explanation?" "Yes." Holding her tight against his chest, Connor slid from the saddle. "I’m curious. Was there any reason we couldn’t have had a talk indoors like civilized people?" "Would you have let me in the front door?" "Hm. Probably not." "Well, then." His boots made little crunching sounds in the snow. Tory tried not to shiver as the wind swept up the hill and swirled around her legs. "I can see you gave a lot of thought to this," she murmured. He’d spread a tarp out beneath the lean-to, and a thick duvet lay in one corner, ready for use. A pile of kindling stood in front of the crude shelter, waiting for Connor to take the solitary torch and light it. "All of this production just to talk?" "Something about you, Tory, drives me to grand gestures." He settled her on the duvet and tucked a thick fur throw around her shoulders. "Stay here while I start the fire." Tory looked blindly up at the full, white moon. Something drove him to grand gestures? Hah. She’d bet anything it came perfectly naturally to him. Connor looked up from the flames, letting his eyes caress Tory’s delicate profile. He nearly sighed. She was so lovely by firelight. Tory continued to stare at the moon. "Why did you bring me here, MacCallum?" And so bullheaded. He nearly shook his head. Well, so was he. "We need to settle a few things between us." "And you decided to stage this elaborate little bid for my attention just so that we can do that? Did it occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to settle anything?" "You don’t mean that." "But you don’t know that, do you? Dammit, MacCallum, you’re assuming again!" "Yes. I have a reason." He appropriated the fur wrap and snuggled them both under it. "I didn’t think you were cold," Tory murmured. "I’m Scots, not inhuman. Of course I was bloody cold." "Oh?" Amusement laced the question.

"Well, a bit chilled," he amended. He was so cute when he was self-conscious... Tory cleared her throat. "You said you had a reason for the lord of the manor act." "I did, didn’t I?" To please himself, Connor hauled her into his lap and wrapped both arms around her. No sense in not enjoying the moment while he could. Oh boy... Tory gulped. "MacCallum...." "All right, all right." He sighed. "I was afraid." "Afraid? You?" The thought was frankly mind-boggling. "Of what?" "Lass, I’ve gambled with many things in my life. I don’t like to lose, and well I know it. With you.... with you I don’t want to gamble at all. And I’m frightened to death to lose." "What am I supposed to say to that? To all this?" A wave of a hand encompassed his painted face, the horse, the fire. "Am I supposed to tell you that it’s all right for you to make my decisions for me because you love me?" Something inside him perked up. "That sounds like an old argument." Wearily, she scrubbed at her eyes. "It is. Was. It’s over now. It doesn’t matter." "It’s still here." His finger brushed across her forehead. "And here." Another touch, lower, over her heart. "It’s not over." "No. I guess not." He could barely hear her. "Tell me, Tory. I want to understand. I need to understand." Did she trust him? No, did she trust herself to tell the story? She could at least try... "A long time ago... A long time ago there was a man. He was - is - arrogant and controlling. And there was a young woman who decided that she couldn’t live like that anymore. So she ran away. Sometimes I think she’d still running." "Am I likely to meet this man?" Connor asked carelessly. "I doubt it." "Too bad." "Connor..." He kissed her, sudden and fierce. "You called me Connor." Tory’s lips were throbbing madly, and heated little tingles were zipping through her veins. "You have an odd reaction to being called by name." "I have a reaction to you," he corrected. "A rather... pronounced one."

"What?" Realization dawned. "Oh!" She didn’t dare look down, Tory told herself, staring fixedly at the moon. And she certainly didn’t dare move. He was, after all, wearing a kilt. Connor couldn’t hold back the snicker, which ballooned into a great, lusty laugh. "Surely you realized that I want you?" "Well, honestly... I was trying to ignore it." "Does this make you uncomfortable, love?" "Yes. No. I mean... It’s just... I’m trying not to be a tease, Connor! With all the other things between us, I really didn’t want to bring sex into this." Connor leaned down until his warm breath brushed the curve of her ear. "Sex has no place in this thing we have. What we have between us is making love." "How can you be so sure?" Tory’s own whisper was barely audible over the pounding over her own heart. "I am. That is all I need to know." His large, warm hand cupped her cheek, tilted her face upward. "Kiss me, Tory. I’m asking, this time." "I can’t. Connor, I can’t." Tory’s fingernails dug into her palms as she fought to damp her fear and her power. "This isn’t smart." "You’re right." His eyes were an almost colorless blue in the moonlight reflecting off the snow. "But some of the best things in life are worth a risk." "What if I’m afraid of what I’m risking?" "Ah, lass... That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself." Connor rose, Tory still in his arms, in a fluid surge. "Now, it’s time I did the sensible thing myself and got you home." She waited, still wrapped in the fur throw, while he doused the fire and the torch. Stayed silent when he took her up before him in the saddle. Tory felt like a medieval maiden being swept away by her knight, and quickly squelched the emotion. I’m doing the sensible thing. I know it. So why do I feel like I’m cheating myself? She didn’t want to think about that. A short time later, Connor drew rein in front of her apartment. "Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?" Connor’s voice rolled like velvet along her nerves. Tory smiled and mentally tossed her misgivings. And knew that she’d finally lost the battle to keep Connor MacCallum out of her heart. "Yes. I think I would." Connor didn’t bother to hide his triumphant expression. "Then you’d best be getting in and getting back to sleep. Myself, I’m going home and washing this paint off. It’s bloody itchy." Tory laughed outright and surprised both of them by kissing Connor square on the mouth. "Goodnight, MacCallum. And thanks for the ride."

Connor tried to wipe the idiotic grin off his face. He failed. "Goodnight, my love." He was still smiling as Tory disappeared inside the building. The horse snorted. Connor patted the animal’s neck affectionately. "You’re right, lad. Females are a bother. But they’re worth every minute. Life isn’t worth living without them." ***

Tory was still in the greenhouse when Connor came to pick her up for lunch the next day. Undeniably curious, he leaned one broad shoulder against the jamb of the open door, watching as she carried on a conversation with a rose and a rather spindly-looking fern. There was someone watching her. Tory glanced up, and her eyes lit with an inner smile when she caught sight of him. "Hi." "Hello. Do they answer you?" She cocked her head. "Who?" "The plants." "Oh, naturally." "You’re an odd lass," he said affectionately. "You already knew that. I’ll be through in a minute. Do you mind if I wash up first?" "Take your time, Tory. I’m in no great hurry." His narrowed eyes flicked possessively over her face as she stripped off her gloves and hurried to the small washroom. She had tried to conceal the dark, bruised-looking circles beneath her eyes with makeup, but they were still visible, and she was several shades paler than usual, despite the careful application of blush. "MacCallum?" Her voice, low and a little concerned, reached him. And warmed him. "Sorry, lass. I was woolgathering. And you were quick." He straightened and smiled reassuringly at her. "Ready for lunch?" He'd only half-hoped to fool her; still, it worked. She was smiling as she came out of the washroom, drying her hands on a towel and carrying the utterly romantic garnet-red cloak - Scottish wool, he teased her - that he loved over one arm. "I'm always ready for lunch." Connor looked her up and down, hiding his admiration of the slender form in the neat jeans and stylish sweater behind a rather theatrical ogle. "It is a complete mystery to me, Tory, how you can eat so much and still be such a wee handful of woman." "I canna help being a wee lass," Tory mimicked his rolling accent while he gallantly helped her on with her cloak. "Any more than you can help being such a braw lad."

"Ach, the flattery." He took her arm and gallantly escorted her from the shop, pretending not to notice when Sharon shot her friend an exuberant thumbs up. Yes, things were looking very well, indeed. Connor allowed himself a slightly smug smile. Maybe the time was ripe for asking, after all. Or should he not rush things? After all, she’d just stared to accept him last night.... Well, all important decisions were best pondered over food, at any rate. He’d feed her first. Connor took her to Antony's, a nearby Italian restaurant and one of Tory's favorites, and went to great pains to be witty and charming, keeping the small talk flowing throughout the meal. All things considered, it wasn't too hard; all he had to do was ask her how her work on her manuscript was progressing and she lit up like a child on Christmas morning. It didn't take him long to notice that, however much Tory talked, she ate very little, despite her professed hunger. Connor found himself watching her more and more closely, wishing he'd opted for the large, well-lit back dining room instead of the candle-lit corner booth by the bar. She was still pale in spite of the warmth of the restaurant, and the candlelight formed a golden, liquid sheen over the surface of her haunted eyes. Finally, Connor couldn't stand it any more. "Tory-love, are you all right?" Looking startled and a bit guilty, she bit her lip and began to toy with her crystal pendant. "I'm just tired." "Did I keep you out too late last night?" She shrugged - a little jerkily, he thought - and avoided looking him in the eye. "Oh, that was all right. I had a... bad dream." She abandoned her pendant and began to twist her ring. Connor felt his blood chill and crawl through his veins. "Was it very bad?" She shrugged again, but there was a kind of desperation in the blind, dark-eyed gaze she turned on him. "It was horrible. The thing is, I can only remember bits and pieces." "Like what, lass?" The hand that had been toying with the stem of her water glass jerked slightly. Bright drops of ice water spattered the pristine tablecloth and gleamed wetly in the candlelight. "I remember a room with faded wallpaper. There’s music coming very faintly from down a hall, and a kettle is shrieking on the stove. And there’s a man... a man with a gun. And pain. I remember the pain... Realizing that I was... dead. Oh, forget I said anything, all right? It was nothing. Just a dream." Something very close to terror hit Connor squarely in the solar plexus. He struggled with it, wetting suddenly dry lips. "Tory," he began, but had to stop because the words stuck like sawdust in his parched throat. "I’m sorry." "No, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have told you about the stupid dream in the first place." Not for anything would she tell him that, for a moment, the soldier she had dreamed had his face. "I wish I could have been there for you. To help you." Frustration mingled with fear gnawed at him. The hell with caution. "Marry me."

"Connor..." "Don’t you trust me?" "I trust you. But..." Pain flared, hot and surprisingly sharp. "You still don’t love me." "Connor, please...." "Christmas is coming," he said gently, reminding her of his self-imposed deadline. "I know." "Lass," he caught her hand. "At least tell me if I can hope." She sucked in a deep breath. "There’s hope." He caught his breath. "Thank you, love." Then, mastering himself, Connor glanced at her barely-touched plate. "Now, if you're done with not eating lunch, we can always try dessert." He thumbed through the leather-bound menu to the dessert section with practiced ease. "I'm in the mood for something sweet." Blue eyes lanced upward to capture hers. Sudden heat bloomed between them; Tory was vaguely surprised that the tablecloth wasn't scorched and smoking. "Oh?" It came out on a croak. Connor smiled one of those slow, imminently male smiles that never failed to arouse her. "Don't look so worried, Tory. I wouldna nibble on you... at least... not in a public place. I never do anything with an audience." Tory felt a hot tide of scarlet rush to stain her face. "I'm not on the menu, MacCallum. Why don't you look at that instead?" "'Tisn't as pretty as you are, m'lass." Decorously, Connor bent his head to look at the dessert list, but wicked laughter danced in the depths of the hot, deeply sapphire eyes which never left hers. Tory felt herself melting inside, the sudden rush of arousal peaking her nipples against the thin wool of her sweater and making her hands tremble. Connor saw the reaction, and tore his eyes from hers before he gave into the temptation to do more than verbally tease her. The table was small; it wouldn't be difficult for him to slide his fingers up one of those elegant, jean-clad legs to the sweet warmth between them. But no, groping under the table was just too vulgar for his lady. She deserved petal-strewn satin sheets and scented candles, not a fast fumble in the middle of a restaurant. Grateful from the bottom of his heart for the length of the linen tablecloth than made it possible for him to hide the swollen length of flesh testing the strength of the blue wool of his slacks, he groped for his voice, found it. "Recommendations, lass?" "What's your pleasure?" Tory's voice had lowered and softened, and she sounded just as he'd imagined she would in his bed.

"Chocolate." He suddenly craved chocolate, dark and rich like her eyes, and sweet on his tongue, like the taste of her skin. Anything to keep from lunging across the table and ravishing her. "Well, then..." The impossibly dark eyes caressed his. "Try the fudge cake." "You read m'mind again," he accused huskily. Her smile was curiously feminine. "I told you it's a talent." Something about the way she said it made him take it seriously. God, nothing was sexier than a confident woman! He wondered if she'd be that confident in bed. "Connor?" He nearly quivered at the velvet stroke of her voice. "Aye, lass?" "Stop thinking about whatever you're thinking about." Connor's grin was pure male heat. "Why, darlin'?" "Well... you did say that you never do anything with an audience, and this tablecloth can only hide so much." Tory clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle sudden laughter as the worldly Connor MacCallum blushed like a teenager. "You enjoyed that," he accused when he could speak. "Immensely." Smiling demurely, she patted his hand. And shivered as his fingers stroked hers with a lover's sureness. "So did I. But I thought you were shy, Tory." Tory reached for her water glass and sipped, needing to wet a mouth suddenly gone dry when Connor had turned the power of those warm blue eyes on her. "I am. But I'm also a woman. I reserve the right to be confusing." He absently signaled the waiter with one hand and raised her fingers to his lips with the other. "I never wanted you any other way." ***

Tory woke up shaking and immediately reached to turn on the light. She'd dreamed again, as she had been or the past few days, but it had been different from the vision of her own death that had been haunting her. This time there had been no blood, only a man.... A man who touched her with strong, gentle hands, whose every touch was pleasure. A man she... loved. A short, chopped sigh burst from her as Tory raked her fingers through her damp hair. Why was this dream so different from the other? Nightmares she could handle, but dream lovers? And lovers in every

sense of the word; she could still feel the ghostly touch of hands and tingles of pleasure running through her in tiny, sparkling streams. Tory felt suddenly absurdly disloyal to Connor, but she could swear that she was falling in love with the man in her dream. She twisted her ring in annoyance. Ridiculous! How could she possibly be in love with a man who wasn't even real? She bit her lip. "I don't even know his name." The whisper brought her up short. No, she did know his name! It was hovering at the forefront of her mind. It was... Gone. Tory scowled and punched her pillow. "That’s all I need. Another man running amok in my life." Morgana mewed comfortingly from her nest on the other pillow. "Men are a complication. An irritation. A blip in an otherwise orderly life. You’re lucky you’re too young to worry about that right now." The kitten closed her eyes and started purring. "You’re right," Tory decided. "It’s not worth losing sleep over. Just a darn dream."

Chapter Four

That ‘darn dream’ cost her enough sleep that Tory wasn’t quite up to speed the following day. Closing time had never come so slowly before. At almost precisely six PM, the bell over the door tinkled merrily to announce another customer. Involved in wiring a single chrysanthemum into a custom arrangement, Tory didn’t glance up right away. "I’m sorry, I was just getting ready to close." The apologetic smile she’d pasted on slipped the moment she looked up and saw her customer. Something about him.... "Are you Victoria Wayne?" The man in the quietly expensive suit didn’t seem inclined to move now that he was inside. Tory’s nerves began to prickle uneasily. She retreated behind the counter as casually as possible.. "If you’ll just come with me, miss." "Who are you?" She opened her mind, just a little. Enough to probe with. "My name doesn’t matter. I was sent by a friend. Someone who would like to see you." "I’m sorry. I don’t have time right now. Maybe some other - " The man was definitely frightening her. There was no malice; she could feel nothing but businesslike determination. And that was more frightening than malice could ever be. Even more so, because she could feel what he wanted. If she could just get to the greenhouse - thank God Connor had decided to stop by and volunteer to help out that afternoon... But the greenhouse door was over ten feet away. It might as well have been ten

miles. Which meant that for the moment, she was on her own. "I’m afraid I’ll have to insist." The man reached for her with large, hammy fists. "Learn to live with disappointment." Tory made a fast grab for a large crystal vase and slung it with unerring accuracy. Crystal crunched into flesh. "Connor!" Connor burst through the greenhouse door. "Tory?" His eyes darkened dangerously, narrowed on the still reeling man. "Son of a bitch. Did he lay hands on you, a graidh?" "No." She silently cursed her own trembling voice. "That’s the only reason I’m not going to kill him." But he would cripple him, Connor promised himself with a feral smile. He flowed past Tory like a hunting tiger. "Hold it." A second man leveled a businesslike black matte pistol on Connor. "We just want her." "No." The flat syllable seemed to clatter to the tile floor. "Fine. We’ll do it the hard way." And then the newcomer screamed and doubled over as black and white ball of fur and claws flew at his crotch. Eyes savage, the Scotsman lunged. His fist caught other man on the jaw. Bone snapped. The man slumped to the floor. "Stop." Connor whirled. The first man was standing. Blood streamed down his face from a deep cut in his scalp, but the hand holding a gun on Tory was frighteningly steady. "Don’t hurt her." "That wasn’t part of the deal.. But then, neither were you. She was supposed to be alone." "What are you going to do?" Connor growled it, very softly. "What I was hired to do. Deliver the goods. But you," The gun wavered toward the Scotsman. "Putting a bullet in you is definitely going to be pleasure, not business." She wasn’t going to let this happen. Tory reached out before she could think of a reason not to. Emotions rode a cresting wave inside her, and just as her hand touched his... she pushed. The man screamed, dropping his gun as if it had burned him. Tory swallowed her own cry as she felt the pain she’d given him echoing through her as well, but she’d been prepared for it. He hadn’t been. Connor surged toward the man. He had no idea why the bastard was screaming bloody hell, and he didn’t care. He’d be screaming more when he got his hands on him. No one threatened his woman.

The man was disoriented and in pain, but he was a professional. Connor was fiercely glad of it. He gave in to the red need seething in him. Adrenaline was a storm in his blood, seeming to speed his reflexes as the other man seemed to slow. The man lunged clumsily, trying to get close enough to wield the small knife he’d palmed. Connor sidestepped and shoved him, hard. The assailant went through the plate glass front window with an almost musical crash. Glass shattered and rained onto the floor. The winter evening brawled into the shop on a gust of icy wind. "Tory." His arms closed around her fiercely. "Are you all right?" "That’s a really dumb question, MacCallum." He grinned into her hair. "That’s a lass. We have to call the police." "I’ll do it." She wriggled out of his hold and went to the counter. She’d be all right, Connor assured himself. But he watched her for a moment, just to make sure. She was pale, but steady on her feet, with a gentle touch for Morgana. The kitten had taken up a position beside the phone, and even from a few feet away, he could hear her purring. The man on the floor groaned. Connor gave him a feral smile. "Awake?" He hunkered down beside him. "Good. Let’s see if you can answer a few questions before the police arrive." ***

"No. I’ve never seen either of them before." Connor knew he was being short to the point of rude to the young officer taking his statement. He didn’t particularly care. He hadn’t gotten any answers from either assailant. He doubted the police would, either. Men like that weren’t known for cooperation. It was late. Flashing lights from the police units were bathing the scene in an intermittent red glare that brought no warmth. Uniformed men and women were swarming on and out of the shop, ambulance attendants were loading the two wounded, and a couple of burly cops were considerately putting a couple layers of plywood over the gaping hole in Tory’s front window. He absently made a note to have the window replaced. "Do you have any enemies, Mr. MacCallum?" "Enemies?" His gaze sharpened and focused on the cop in front of him. "Of course." "Anyone who would want to get to you using Ms. Wayne?" "I don’t know anyone that foolish." The cop fidgeted. "Er... Fine." He cleared his throat. "One more question, Mr. MacCallum. Are you

aware if Ms. Wayne has any enemies?" "None." Tory? Enemies? Connor nearly snorted before remembering the mysterious Barry. "No one," he said firmly. If there was a threat from that direction, he would deal with it. The police had rules to follow. He didn’t. "Are you done?" "What? Er, yes. Of course. We’ll be in touch with you, Mr. MacCallum." "See that you are." Tory was a few feet away, cuddling Morgana and being interviewed by another officer. Someone had wrapped a blanket around her; she looked ridiculously fragile. Connor gritted his teeth as the need to protect swamped him again. "Officer?" The dark young man looked at Connor. "We’re done here, Mr. MacCallum. Ms. Wayne? If you think of anything else, please give me a call." "Of course." Tory tightened her grip on Morgana, who was wriggling to get deeper under her sweater. She looked over her shoulder at Connor. In the flashing crimson lights, his strong- boned face looked forbidding and cold, but he hovered protectively close. "Connor? Would you mind taking me home?" "Mind?" He scooped her into his arms with a minimum of effort and started toward his car. "That was a foolish question, lass." "I’m allowed one." "I’d say you were allowed quite a few things." He tucked her into the passenger seat and fastened the seatbelt for her before sliding behind the wheel. The Mercedes purred to life. "It’s been a trying night." "That’s one way to put it." Tory closed her eyes. She was running on sheer nerves at the moment. All she wanted was to shower and go to bed. And to be left alone. Unfortunately, Connor was not inclined to leave her alone. "Connor..." "Don’t even try, lass." He ushered her into her apartment, and closed the door quite firmly behind them. "I’ll not leave until you’re settled. Don’t argue." "I wasn’t going to. Much." Sighing, she unwound herself from the blanket and let Morgana down. The kitten disappeared into the kitchen. "I really want a shower. Could you...?" "I’ll feed the wee one." Images of Tory, water-slick and gloriously naked, seared his brain. He swallowed. "Would you mind if I fixed something to eat?" She looked embarassed. "I’m being a lousy hostess, aren’t I?" "It’s all right, Tory. It’s been a long night." He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the bathroom.

"Go on." He had expected her to linger in the shower, but he heard the water shut off after fifteen minutes. He’d barely had time to feed the cat. Luckily he knew where everything was; he’d been here before, after all. Connor enjoyed Tory’s home. Large oriental throw rugs in a rich indigo were scattered around the expanse of the loft, like sunlit lakes against the gleaming hardwood floors. A comfortable-looking sectional sofa upholstered in a nubby teal fabric was positioned by an entertainment center on the end of the loft nearest the door. Vibrant magenta, green and gold throw pillows were scattered across the sofa and the floor. Gauzy sapphire curtains draped the huge windows. Collections of pewter figurines of dragons and wizards lined the shelves hanging on pale rose walls, keeping company with framed pictures of mountains and sunsets. It looked feminine without the frills. Comfortable. Warm and inviting, like Tory herself. It looked like a home. He could imagine himself coming to this place day after day... "Connor?" He was looking around the loft as if he saw secrets written on the walls. Tory had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing far more than she would have liked. It didn’t matter. He already knew her better than anyone ever had. And he would never hurt her. "Tory." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I thought you would take longer. I made soup." He moved to get the bowl that steamed gently on the coffee table. "I’m not hungry." He frowned. "You should eat, lass." "Maybe later." She rubbed absently at her temple. Pain bloomed. "I’m really tired." "You’re hurting." He had crossed the few steps to her and was enfolding her in a hug almost before she’d realized. Warm lips feathered a kiss on her temple. Such a lovely feeling... Tory closed her eyes, luxuriating in it for a moment. "Connor?" "Mmmm?" "I never thanked you." "There’s no need. You’re my woman. I will protect you." "I’m not yours, dammit." She thrust herself away from him. "I’m not anyone’s." "Are we back to that then? I’m tired of fighting battles someone else started with you, Tory." "I’m tired of feeling like I have to fight them." The pain was back, pounding like a sledgehammer inside her head. "I’m going to bed." "Tory." She paused, not turning back to him. "What?"

"Who’s Barry?" She did turn, then. Giving him a bitter smile over her shoulder, she said, "My father." Father? Connor stared at her as she disappeared behind the shojii screen that separated her bedroom from the rest of the apartment. It was her father was acting like a jealous lover? He’d have to look into this... In the meanwhile, he was going to take a shower and get something to eat. *** The shower washed away the sweat and dirt from his scuffle, but did nothing to relax him. He prowled the apartment like a caged tiger, unable to get the image of that bastard pointing a gun at Tory out of his head. Morgana blinked seraphically at him from the depths of an overstuffed chair, but Connor was in no mood to be charmed. He wanted to rip something apart. No, someone. Putting that bastard through the window had only satisfied a small part of his rage. Despite his best efforts to tame it, there was still a fury in him, like lava churning deep in his gut. His woman, by God. And someone had hurt her. Had tried to take her from him. He hadn’t wanted to throw the bastard through a window. He’d wanted the satisfying pounding of fists on flesh. He wanted blood. And then he heard Tory scream. Connor had absolutely no memory of crossing the loft and plunging into the darkness of the bedroom. He only knew that he suddenly found himself at Tory's bedside, before he’d ever realized that he’d moved, eyes narrow and burning, fists clenched for battle. There was no one there. Tory lay curled in a ball in the middle of the big bed. Connor blew out an explosive breath and forced his fists to unclench. "Tory? Lass?" She had pulled the covers over her head; he couldn’t even see her. How could she breathe? "Are you all right?" "Go away." Not until I know you’re all right." "I am." She forced it through gritted teeth. He wasn’t about to let it drop. "You screamed." "Nightmare." "I won’t go," he muttered, "until I see you. Come out from under those blankets." Damn stubborn Scot. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She could do this - keep it at bay until she

could get rid of Connor. She had to. She pulled the covers down a few bare inches, hoping he wouldn’t notice her shaking fingers. "Happy now?" "I may never be happy again," he growled very quietly. "Are you sure it was only a nightmare, love?" "There’s nothing more you can do, Connor. Please... just go." "All right." Unable to resist the need to touch her, reassure himself, he touched a finger to her clammy cheek. And watched the first tendril of blue light crackle across her skin. "What the - ?" "Go away!" But it was too late. Tory convulsed, energy that she couldn't control coruscated along her nerve endings, seeping out through her skin and limning her with a crackling field of blue-white luminescence. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out. Strong hands, a little clumsy in their rough haste, gripped her shoulders, easing her back onto the banked pillows. She dimly heard a harsh, crushed-velvet voice saying, " My God... Don't move! Just lie still, Tory. I'll call for help." Move? He's.... got to be kidding. "No," she gritted out. "Don't call..." "Tory - " "Promise..." Tory could feel his worry and confusion as if the emotions were her own. God, he wasn't going to listen to her! She knew she wouldn't be able to hide from a doctor's probing eyes, not now. They'd put her back into a hospital and she'd be poked and prodded and studied and locked away again. "Promise me!" "Aye, I promise." "Thank you," she whispered, and relaxed. Moments or hours later, Tory had a vague awareness of Connor's presence, a physical impression rather than a mental one. He had tucked her into the curve of his arm, cradling her in a way Tory could only describe as fiercely protective. She absorbed the slight back-and-forth motion of his big body and realized that he was rocking her gently. A visceral shock radiated out in fluttery rings from somewhere in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't remember the last time someone had held her so tenderly, much less rocked her. Tory lay quietly, doing nothing more than drinking in the sensations. She had always known that Connor was a big man, but never had that fact been slammed home as it was now. He dwarfed her, the wonderful, radiant heat of his long, hard body enveloping her, making her feel even tinier than she knew she was. She inhaled slowly, deeply, and had a sense of his clean, masculine scent that owed only a little to the piney aftershave he seemed to favor filling her with every breath. His arms were gentle steel around her, and a deep, wordless crooning rumbled from the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest. And she knew that she loved him.

A long time later, Tory broke the silence. Her voice was a bare thread of sound that tried hard for levity. "MacCallum... please go away." He made a restless motion with his hands and immediately went back to stroking her hair. "You know I can’t do that, a gràidh." He swallowed audibly, but his voice was no less thick than before. "Are you... all right now?" She swallowed painfully. "I will be." Control would not come easily, but it would come. Connor’s lips thinned into a grim line and he tightened his hold on Tory. There's no way in heaven or hell that you're going to press her for answers now. "Don't." She didn't raise her voice, but the single word carried enough disapproval to hum through Connor's very bones. Startled, he looked down into doe-dark eyes that danced with a curious pale fire. "Tory?" In a voice that was no less fierce for being whisper-soft, she ordered, "Don't look at me like that. Like I’m a freak." Connor tightened his hold on her until he could feel the soft press of her small, perfect breasts against his chest. "You're not a freak," he whispered fiercely. "You’ve magic in you. That’s all." "So... tired," she murmured. "Then go to sleep, a gràidh. I won't mind if you use me for a pillow." Exquisitely careful, he settled her more comfortably into the curve of his body. Need raged through him in a wildfire torrent, and he endured it stoically, taking care to shift his hips away from her. God only knew how she'd react if she inadvertently brushed up against the hungry, throbbing length of his arousal. He gritted his teeth until they ached. God only knew how he'd react. Just the slight, sweet pressure of her against him was enough to get him hard to the point of agony. The fragile, spiced flower fragrance rising from the smooth flesh he knew to be beneath the sapphire flannel gown was only an added torture. Connor clamped down harder on the ragged tendrils of his self-control... and felt it slip almost beyond his grasp when he dared a glance downward and saw that the buttons of the old, well-worn gown had come partially undone. He tortured himself with the realization that, if he moved his head just a little more, he would be able to see the velvet pink of her nipples. He swore quietly, coarsely, and squeezed his eyes shut until glowing red and yellow spots danced across his field of vision. "Sleep, m'love. 'Twill all come out right in the mornin'." Connor lost track of how long he lay there, cradling Tory as reverently as if she were holy, touching her with gentle, compulsive fingers as if by doing so he could reassure her that he was here, that he would protect her from everything and anything that would hurt her. As he had once failed to. "It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know Hans would..." Tory sat up and stared at him, "Oh my God. It was you all the time."

A visible shudder wracked him. "Tory, no..." "You came back." "Tory - " "Don’t touch me!" She jerked away. "I can see it in your head right now. The room I dreamed. The angry man. And you. I can see you in that room. You knew. You knew!" "Tory!" She struggled to free her hands from his hold, just as she fought to control the energy blazing through her veins. "Were you laughing, MacCallum? Did you get a kick out of me telling you about my dreams when you knew all the time they were really memories?" "I wanted to tell you - " There was a soundless explosion inside Tory's head, and energy flared about her in a blue- black nimbus. "Liar!" Teetering on the jagged edge of hysteria, Tory yanked free of his grasp and swung her hand in a wide arc. The shock of her palm meeting the side of Connor's face reverbated up her arm. The colored darkness whirled before her stunned eyes and a suddenly wide-awake Tory found herself helpless in the frighteningly powerful grip that kept her arms pinned and her crushed against his heaving chest. "I ne'er lied," Connor grated, his accent so thick that Tory had trouble understanding him. Waves of emotion too complex for her to read were coming off him thick and fast. "I told ye I'd always come back for ye, e'en if it took me fore'er. I loved you!" He claimed her mouth with the speed and accuracy of a striking hawk, his lips at first cool and hard, then soft and tinglingly hot as they melted over hers. The blunt, wet, velvet stroke of his tongue explored the seam of her lips, roughly wooing, and then drove inside with a sweet ferocity that sent streamers of heat spiraling through her blood. Tory moaned, feeling herself melt as she met his ravaging kiss with her own. Connor tasted of a hot, dark hunger and incredible need, of aching desire and deep, deep loneliness. The scent of pine and man swirled around her, seducing her even as the heat of his mouth on hers turned her bones to honey. Then, abruptly, Connor's touch gentled. His lips became wooing warm, his arms around her held her with tender strength instead of bruising desire. But the dark flavor of desperation didn't leave his kiss, and the long, powerful muscles under her fingertips seemed steel-hard, quivering with a wrenching restraint. Beyond the enveloping haze of passion, Tory knew the bite of an unexpected anger. She didn't want his damned restraint; she didn't want the sweet, overly-considerate gentleman who had been courting her for so many weeks. She wanted the man, and dammit, she was going to get him! Determinedly, she kissed him, brazenly twining her tongue around his. Catlike, she kneaded the thick muscles padding his powerful shoulders with fingers that trembled. A familiar, achy hollowness grew low in her belly. She wanted... something. Something Connor wasn't giving her. She wriggled closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and arching her spine. The movement made her breasts rub against him, chafing her tingling nipples; Tory jerked and cried out in pleasure.

Connor stiffened for a split second, then groaned and took them both down to the bed in a tangle of limbs and clothing. His full weight pressed her into the mattress for a moment, but before the instinctive fear of being trapped could rise to choke her, he had rolled to his back, carrying her along with him. Tory felt a sharp stab of disappointment when he twisted his mouth from hers, but the labored rise and fall of his chest reassured her that she wasn't alone in feeling as if she were caught up in something beyond comprehension. The ache in her lungs reminded her of her own need for oxygen, but she needed Connor more. Hungry for the taste of him, she leaned forward and trailed her lips along the corner of his mouth, the strong line of his chin. The sandpapery beginnings of a ginger-colored beard stubble scratched at the smoothness of her cheek. Tory decided that she liked the sensation, and trailed a string of soft, moist, lingering kisses down the strong column of his throat. On impulse, Tory let her tongue caress his skin. A massive shudder rocked the hard male body beneath hers. She heard him moan softly, "Sweet Jesus, Tory..." and then he angled his head to take her mouth again. Tory shivered, too, but she was grinning inside. I should have tripped him and beaten him to the floor days ago. And then she couldn't think at all as Connor's hands slid oh-so-slowly down her back, his fingertips trailing sultry ribbons of sensation down her spine even through the flannel of her gown. A breathy little moan tumbled past her lips, and Tory lifted her swollen, trembling mouth from the ravenous heat of his so that she could give in to the impulse to lightly sink her teeth into the taut tendons at the juncture of neck and shoulder. She felt more than heard his groan, and then matched it with one of her own when his fingers sank with lush abandon into the gentle swell of her bottom, caressing, molding her against the full, rigid heat of him. "Connor!" A shudder wracked his powerful body. "I know. Oh, sweet love, I know." He rolled them over then, and he couldn't keep his hips from moving, from seeking the cradle of her thighs. When she writhed in response, Connor honestly thought he would die. It wasn't possible, he knew, to live through the devastating feel of the humid softness at the juncture of Tory's slender thighs welcoming the hard heat between his. Instantly addicted to the surging pleasure, he ground himself against her, imprisoning the gentle flare of her hips between his hands and clamoring arousal, pleasuring the both of them with the undulating press of flesh against flesh. Savoring the delicate, moaning sigh that broke from her when he moved, stroking her. Again. And again. There could be no stopping now. Not when they both needed this to drive away the nightmares. Connor lifted his head, needing more than anything to see her face when it happened for her. Tory's eyes were open, fixed on his. Such beautiful eyes, he thought dizzily. She'd always had such beautiful eyes. He could drown in them. And suddenly he was, falling, careening into warmth and darkness until....

He remembered.

Magda’s room. Backstage, and behind the club. The fading cabbage rose wallpaper and worn rugs. The faint scent of whisky and the lingering fragrance of spicy-sweet perfume. Her perfume. "Magda?" His lips formed her name, but no sound came out. Not that it would have mattered. She wasn’t here. He would have known if she were. The soft snick of a doorlock. He automatically faded into the shadows by the battered china cupboard, his right hand itching for the feel of a weapon. Any weapon. "Michael?" He was out of hiding in a heartbeat. "You’re back." She laughed, a rare sound. He never heard enough of her laugh. "I was only gone an hour." She fumbled her hat off with one hand, clutching at his shoulder for balance with the other as he whirled her around. "I found you some tea." "Tea?" He kissed her. "You’re a miracle worker." Her smile faded. "If I were, you would not be here." "Magda..." "It’s not safe, Michael. You know it’s not. You’re a British airman, but you’re not in uniform. And the war goes badly. If you are found, you will be shot as a spy." "I want you to come with me." She pulled away. "I can’t. You know I can’t. If I leave, who will help the other Allied soldiers, like you?" "Someone else can do it. You’ve done enough. Dammit, Magda, it’s not any safer for you here than for me, and you know it." "Hans will protect me." "Hans wants to own you. He uses you." "I’m using him, too." A gentle reminder. Rage tightened every muscle in his body. "Isn’t sleeping with him price enough to pay without adding your soul, too? You think I don’t know what you go through, having his hands on you?" "This is war," Magda reminded him tonelessly. "We all fight. Each in our way. I‘ll make you some tea." "Magda..." Cursing, Michael dragged both hands though his hair and followed her into the kitchenette. "Magda, listen to me. This won’t help. Sacrificing yourself to that Nazi bastard - it won’t bring back your

family. Nothing you do ever brings anyone back." She rounded on him, fury flashing in her dark eyes. "Don’t you think I know that? My family died because they were Gypsy. Because they looked Gypsy. But me - I was beautiful. And young. Not dark-skinned and dirty like a Gypsy. I spoke German. I could hide. This -" A gesture took in the tiny little flat. "This is penance for my cowardice." "Survival, not cowardice." She didn’t want to listen, but he followed her to the front room. "You chose to live. There’s no shame in that." Michael gripped her shoulders with both hands and turned her to face him. "How many have you helped, like you’re helping me? How many have you saved? When will it be enough?" "Never," she whispered bitterly. "It will never be enough." "Magda, please.... I just want to love you." He wrapped his arms around her, rocking her slowly. "Give us a chance." "You played me for a fool." Magda went white, pushing away from Michael. "Hans - let me explain." Michael stepped between them. "You’ve no quarrel with her, Nazi." "No? Well, it won’t matter." Somewhere in the flat, the kettle began to shriek. Hans’ eyes were flat, cold slits. The pistol didn’t waver. " Step away, Magda." "No." Hans sighed theatrically. "Your soft heart always did lead you to trouble, didn’t it, liebchen? I said step away." Michael never took his eyes off Hans. "You won’t hurt her." "Hurt her? Of course not. There’s no point; once she realizes that I’m the only thing standing between her and the camps..." "Bastard!" Magda hissed. "Possibly. But no longer a fool. You’ll not laugh at me behind my back again." "No!" Desperation gave Magda enough strength to shove Michael to his knees. Blood bloomed across the bodice of her dress to the accompaniment of the crack of the pistol. "Magda!" Her name was a surging roar on his lips., drowning out Han’s own hoarse shout of surprise. "Magda, no!" Frantically, he tried to staunch the blood flow, but it was too great. "Mine!" Hans snarled it, hurling himself at Michael. "She’s mine. Get your filthy hands..." The fight was short and vicious. Michael might have won it, if he hadn’t thought he’d heard Magda’s voice calling to him. And then, another shot. Surprise, mingled with the sudden realization of pain. The smell of blood and cordite.

Blackout....

Awareness came with excruciating slowness, but it did come, along with a realization of the present. Connor dragged in a shuddering breath. He could still feel the past clinging like a wet shroud, tangling him, dragging him down. And Tory... Tory was crying. "Shhhh a graidh, it’s all right." She batted his stroking hand away. "Why? Why couldn’t you just have left the night I asked you to?" "I couldn’t have left you with him. There was no way I could have left you." "He wouldn’t have hurt me if he hadn’t thought I’d betrayed him..." Connor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "He was going to kill you! He did kill you!" "Because he thought I was in love with you." A mirthless laugh. "Well, he was right, for once. I was." He caught his breath. The world seemed to hush around him. "And now?" Tory hesitated. Then told herself she was being foolish. "I am." Connor thought his heart would stop beating. "Say the words." "I... love you, Connor." "Oh, God." His arms wrapped around her in a hold that squeezed all the breath out of her lungs just before his mouth slanted over hers in a kiss that curled her toes. "Tory... my Tory." His blue eyes burned into hers. "Marry me." "Yes."

Chapter Five

At just past dawn, the room was dim and intimate. In the soft, watery winter light that snaked its way through the blinds, Tory almost seemed to glow. Connor pushed himself up on one elbow and looked down at the woman nestled in the depths of the big bed with eyes that burned. Just the sight of her softly-parted lips triggered impulses that were best left unheeded for now. He tried to think of the arrangements he’d have to make for their flight to Scotland. And Morgana. Something would have to be done about her. And it wasn’t working. Connor had always prided himself on his ability to concentrate under pressure... But this was a different sort of pressure entirely, he thought, wincing and shifting uncomfortably. Perhaps if he hadn’t been touching Tory, or feeling the weight of her against him, but he was, and... Mind over matter was a vastly overrated ability....

Heat began to sear along his nerve endings, prickle his skin. Just a look at her made him burn! Astonishment mixed with need; astonishment that she could do this to him while sound asleep, and the need to... touch. Tory stirred a little, as if she could read his thoughts even though asleep. A soft, inviting murmur escaped her slightly-parted lips, and she snuggled closer, slim fingers finding, tangling in the dusting of ginger curls on his naked chest. Up until then, he hadn’t realized that he’d gotten mostly undressed sometime during the night. The only things separating him from Tory were the inconsequential thicknesses of his briefs and her nightgown. Connor felt a clammy sweat bead on his upper lip. He thought he stopped breathing. Down, laddie. It was a rough night for the both of you. Tory needs her sleep. This is no time to think about sex. It was a hell of a time to realize that even he didn’t listen to himself. As if in a fog, Connor watched his fingers creep toward her, lightly trace the outline of the single corkscrew curl that had draped itself along her pert nose. The tip of his finger found the minute bow of her upper lip. She sighed; her breath caressed his skin in a rush of sweet moistness. An answering quiver trickled through his insides. Following the line of her lips, his wandering finger dipped just inside, feeling the satin- slick surface of her inner lip, the enamel smoothness of her teeth. Compulsively, he brought the finger to his own mouth. It tasted sweet. Arousal speared through him on a diamond-bright flash of heat. His heart began to pound as if it were trying to beat its way through his ribs. His head began to lower slowly, so slowly, until his lips were barely touching hers and his finger had been replaced by his tongue. Connor stayed that way, barely sipping at her mouth, his muscles quivering from strain, as his free hand began to wander. The long, lean fingers sculpted the curve of her jaw, cherished the smooth column of her throat. Just below the graceful arch of her collarbone, he encountered the barrier of her gown. Without lifting his mouth from hers, Connor found the row of buttons running down the front of the garment. The flannel parted, allowing his tingling fingers access to the far more rewarding feel of her smooth, warm skin. Trailing his fingers downward, sensing more than feeling the soft, small breasts and their velvety crowns, Connor was supremely aware of Tory; the honey taste of her, the rich, sweet perfume rising from her flesh, the small shudders that shook her even in her sleep, telling him he was affecting her as profoundly as she affected him. Wanting suddenly clenched like a hot fist inside him, cramping his whole body with heat and need. He had actually levered himself over her, his hands drawing up her gown, when Tory shivered as the cold air of the room touched her skin. "Mmmm." Tory stirred. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and waited for the world to come back into focus. It was then that she realized that she wasn’t alone under the covers. Her eyes fastened on the obviously powerful male arm lying across her waist. Moving as gingerly as she could, Tory slowly turned to the right. The arm around her waist obligingly lifted, but the large body behind her didn't move, and she ended up loosely tethered to it by the tangled blankets.

Tory dared a peek upward and found herself looking at the underside of a dark-stubbled, strong, cleanly-etched jaw. It was very familiar. "Um... hello." MacCallum's chest shook with suppressed laughter. The jaw angled down, and Tory found herself staring into a pair of very amused storm blue eyes. "Hello, lass," he murmured. She felt the blush zing from the roots of her hair to her toes. "Am I supposed to say good morning?" She cleared her throat delicately. "Or something?" "You can say whatever you want. And dinnae worry. I’ve been a perfect gentleman," he assured her. "Although I have no idea why." Tory continued to look up at him solemnly, inwardly wondering how she could be taking this so calmly. "Because you’re the chivalrous type?" The mock gravity slowly melted from his face, seared away by a rising heat that shaded his eyes to the color of molten sapphires. "We are getting married, Tory." The rough note in his low, rough voice created a little shiver of awareness that zipped through her like a slender streamer of heat and light. Nerves that Tory hadn't even known she had suddenly prickled to awareness. Connor's beautiful, darkened eyes scorched her skin as they swept over her face. His gaze was nearly tangible; she could feel the feathery caress of his eyes dust over her cheekbones, skim the bridge of her nose. Then those heated eyes found her mouth, and she felt her lips swell as if he'd kissed her. Tory swallowed hard. I think I’m in trouble here. And I think I’m going to like it. "Tory." The "trouble" said her name as if it were a prayer. She sighed as his hand stroked caressingly through her hair. It felt like he was stroking bare nerve endings. It was nothing compared to how she felt when his burning eyes came back to hers. Oh my God, I want him! A yearning sound that might have been his name escaped her and she reached for him, laying the flat of her palm against his chest. Connor shuddered heavily, pressing her hand to him. "God, Tory...." he muttered hoarsely, a harsh breath rasping in his throat. His eyes focused on her lips as if they were the only thing that existed for him. Slowly, his head began to lower, the taut, tortured mask of his face filling her vision until she couldn't see anything but him, couldn't take a breath that he didn't take first, couldn't seem to do anything but lift her mouth for him. "This isna smart." The words brushed her lips. "No?" "We don’t have the time." "We don’t?" "Things to do. Work to finish." Restraint was a real bitch, Connor decided.

"You’re thinking about work at a time like this?" Tory drew back an inch or two. "I was trying to be sensible." He sucked in a deep breath. Held it. Then sighed explosively. "It’s not an easy thing, you know." "Really?" Taking a deep breath of her own, Tory rolled out of bed - studiously avoiding looking at Connor, who looked sleep-mussed and tempting enough to eat. "You’re right. We should be sensible. Lots of things to do today." "Like what?" She privately decided that Connor was cute when he was disgruntled. "Well, you have work, and I should finish up my Christmas shopping." He rolled out of bed, muscles shifting lithely under unexpectedly tanned skin. "I donna want you going out alone." "Connor, I said I’d marry you, but if you’re thinking somewhere along the lines of sticking "obey" anywhere in the vows, you can think again." "You’re being stubborn." He strode around the bed and caught her shoulders in both hands. "After what happened yesterday, I donna want you going about the city alone. It’s too dangerous. If you won’t wait for me, then at least wait until I can send a car and driver for you." "You’re being overprotective," she observed. "Cautious. You’re my life, Tory. I donna want anything happening to you." Tory stood on tiptoe, hooked her arms around his neck, and kissed him. "You’re so sweet, MacCallum. I do love you." He caught his breath and wondered when he wouldn’t feel a little leap of elation whenever she said that. Probably never... "Does this mean you’ll go with me to Scotland?" He’d asked. Not assumed, not ordered. Asked. It was probably the most romantic thing he’d done yet. Tory mentally calculated everything she’d have to do to be able to get away for Christmas. And smiled. "As long as you’ll help me ship your Christmas present."

A bell jangled a silvery little tune as Tory blew in the door. Almost immediately, the smell of old paper, fabric and the tang of metal that pervaded the blessed warmth of the shop closed around her. "Well, look what the wind blew in." Tory half-turned, aware that she was still trying to catch her breath. "Literally!" she agreed. "Hello, Sebastian." The tall, rangy man smiled, exposing perfect teeth. "Tory Wayne!" He strode around the glass counter to clasp her hand warmly. "You must be near frozen through, and there's enough snow drifting off your cloak to make a substantial puddle on my lovely parquet floor."

"It's two days until Christmas, Sebastian. There's bound to be snow." "And you would be bound to bring most of it inside with you. Now, take off your wrap and tell me what brings you to my humble establishment." Tory winced as some of the snow from her cloak found its way down the cowl neck of her oversized gold sweater. "I was hoping to find a Christmas present for a friend of mine." Sebastian rubbed his hands together. "All right, what would she like? A book? A tapestry, perhaps." Tory fiddled with her pendant. "Actually, it's for a man." Sebastian planted his hands on his hips. His already crisp, incisive Eton accent suddenly became very distinct. "This wouldn't be more research for a book, would it?" "Nope. This is about as far from being a story as you can get." Tory struggled with a grin. "Or maybe not." The shopkeeper shrugged elegantly. "Well then, what do you think the lucky gentleman would like?" She lifted her hands in a classic gesture of ignorance. "I was half-hoping that you could tell me. I haven't exactly had a lot of practice with buying men's presents, let alone a present for a modern-day warrior." Sebastian's eyes widened at the description, but he didn't say anything beyond, "You've got a point. But then, perhaps you don't have to worry. Antiques have a way of telling you if they're meant for you." He rubbed his hands together again. "I'll tell you what, my dear. You look around while I dash upstairs to check on the girls." A peculiarly mournful expression flitted across Sebastian's patrician features. "You know, living above one's place of work may save on daycare costs, but there are times when it's a truly horrid idea." "Your harem giving you trouble again?" Tory called after the retreating figure. The elegant man snorted quietly. "Just wait. You'll find out," he warned before disappearing up the narrow back staircase. Tory chuckled to herself. Poor Sebastian. He loved those little terrors, but the three- year old twins would be considered a handful by anybody's standards. They ran both of their doting parents ragged with very little effort. Flicking a little snow off the winter-white corduroy of her voluminous, ankle-length skirt, Tory began to wander around the shop. She'd fallen in love with the place the first time she'd set foot in it a few months ago, perhaps because the storyteller in her could practically feel the tales crowded into every nook and cranny of the store. She stroked loving fingers over a suit of armor, feeling a brief, reactionary tingle tickle her skin. It was pleasantly eerie, the way the items in the lighted glass display case almost seemed to sing to her of the past. Sebastian doesn't know how right he was about the antiques talking to me. Now, if I can only find a present for Connor.

Tory pursed her lips in an unknowingly kissable pout. "It has to be something good. Not a book or anything ordinary like that. Connor needs something... unique." A sudden, inspired grin made her eyes sparkle. A warrior needed a sword, didn't he? Stuffing her hands into her skirt pockets, Tory strode purposefully toward the cluster of swords on display. There were delicate but deadly rapiers, lean sabers, and elegant basket- hilts, but none of them, not even the lone broadsword that was at least a foot taller than she was, were right for her warrior. Tory bit her lip, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth. Somewhere in here was a sword meant for Connor; she could feel it. But it wasn't on display here. These swords had no history, no voice. Footsteps thudded down an old, creaking staircase. "Any luck?" Sebastian called. "No. Dammit." Frustration made her bite out the words. "Well, what are you looking for?" "A sword. A warrior's sword. Not one of these, though." The sweep of a slender hand indicated the gleaming swords hanging in the display. "Why not?" "Well, they're all so... bloodless." Sebastian laughed at her. "My dear lady, I couldn't sell them otherwise." "Oh, you know what I mean." "Indeed. As a matter of fact, I may have just what you're looking for behind the counter." Tory could have bounced with delight. "Really?" "Yes, really." Sebastian went behind the main counter and rummaged around for a moment. Then he drew out a long, narrow object wrapped in cloth from a carved chest. "Here it is. Have a look." Tory unwrapped the sword with trembling fingers. A long, bright blade emerged, old but meticulously maintained, the faint scars singing of ancient battles. A Scottish claymore! It was perfect, absolutely perfect for Connor. She caught her breath in sheer happiness as she stroked the wavy steel with loving fingers. "How much do you want for it?" "I take it that the sword meets with your approval." She ran her caressing fingertips along the blunted blade. "Very. I'll bet that if you listened to it, it would tell a story." Sebastian rolled his eyes. "You and stories. I hope your gentleman friend is understanding of your minor obsession." "He is," she serenely assured him. "Now, how much?"

Sebastian made a sound of genteel disgust and began to wrap the claymore for travel. "Really, do you expect me to fleece you for some exorbitant amount? This is a one of a kind sword? Any amount I ask for..." "Will be a pittance compared to its real value." Tory narrowed her eyes, resolutely reaching for her checkbook. If Sebastian thought that he was going to get away with that line of horse droppings, he was crazy, but it was sweet of him to try. He always tried. "You want to haggle, don't you?" His white teeth flashed in his dark face. "Naturally."

Chapter Six

Tory watched the wind-whipped snow lash against the windowpanes and couldn't suppress a little shiver The night looked wild and wonderful, but cold. Connor's arm tightened around her. "A gràidh, are you all right?" A private little smile softened her mouth. "I'm fine." She turned to look at him, absently stroking one of the dogs who had commandeered her lap the moment she'd settled on the floor. He was a beautiful man, she thought for the thousandth time. Not handsome. Not at all handsome, at least not in the classical sense. There was too much strength in that lean, proud face for it to be merely handsome. Tory's eyes lovingly traced the broad forehead, the high arch of his cheekbones, the narrow blade of his nose. No one had ever dared to break that nose, she thought on a glimmer of silent humor. Although she was willing to bet that many had been tempted. "Lass?" "Sorry." She sighed, stroked the hound's silky ears. "I was thinking." "Oh?" There was a knowing curve to his smile. Well, darned if she was going to stroke his ego any more. "I was thinking that I love your home, Connor. It's beautiful." "It ought to be after all the work we just put into decorating it," he agreed. He lifted her left hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on the ruby engagement ring he'd given her that afternoon. She'd refused to take off the scribed silver band that he'd given her a lifetime ago, preferring to wear the two together. "Tha gràdh agam ort." "What does that mean?" "'I love you'." "I've really got to learn Gaelic." The deep rumble of Connor's chuckle rolled like distant thunder, mingling with the crackling of the roaring fire. "I'll teach you, Tory." His calloused thumb traced the thin line of the silver band. "I'm glad

you didn't wish to leave off wearin' this." "Never. This ring is special." Just as she'd known - somehow - that the trip to the flea market where she'd found it was more than just a whim. It had been fate. "Aye. 'Twas m'mother's ring. She gave it to me for luck. And I gave it to you... that last night." "I remember." Their first night as lovers. And neither of us knew that the next day we'd both be dead. She ruthlessly pushed the thought aside. He must have read her mind, because his arms tightened around her and he grated, "Don't think about it. I'm not leaving you this time." After a few moments of comfortable silence, Tory glanced down at the remains of the light supper provided by Mrs. McCormick, Connor's housekeeper, and then back up at her fiance. "Hey, MacCallum, can I have that tour of this place now? You promised." "I remember. Looking for more stories?" he guessed. "You know me too well," Tory murmured. Or at least he tried. He'd taken her explanation of her empathy pretty much in stride. Well, he had been used to it the last time... "Ach, lass, I'll never know you well enough." Rising with a lithe grace that Tory envied, he reached down to help her to her feet. "Come on, then. There's plenty of stories to be told in this great old manor house." "Perfect."

Less than half an hour later, Tory had changed her mind. Completely. "I’m going to have to kill you." She felt around behind her to make sure the door was locked. Securely. No sense in taking chances... His changeable eyes held humor as well as a muted desire. "I'm hurt, lass." "After that stunt you just pulled in the cellar, you're lucky you're not permanently disabled." "You don't like ghost stories?" he asked innocently. "Not in a dark, damp, hundred year-old cellar with the lights out, I don't." "Shall I get down on m'knees, lass?" She scowled. "Only if you want to make it easier for me to punch you in the nose." Connor chuckled, leading her toward the grand staircase. "No more ghost stories, I promise. Just the tour." A moment later, "No, on second thought..." With a lithe move, he lifted her to a higher step and brought the small hand he still clasped to his mouth, absorbing the trembling of Tory's fingers with his lips. Heat spasmed through him. Oh, yes, he needed this. "Connor? What are you doing?" How could she concentrate when rational thought was slowly being replaced by an insidious, sparkling warmth. It wasn't like the first time, she thought with some distant, persistently analytical corner of her mind. This wasn't a free fall into sizzling emotion but a slow, deliberate

glide into something deeper, richer. Infinitely more powerful. "Taking your mind off ghost stories?" His words vibrated against her skin like butterfly kisses. Connor turned her hand over and pressed a tickling kiss in the palm. "How am I doing?" Tory felt her knees start to turn to jelly. "Um, fine." Her voice, to her mortification, came out as a squeak. "Good." He nuzzled aside the loose sleeve of her sweater and caressed the fast-beating pulse in her wrist with his lips. God, what she did to him! "Connor." It was a sigh. "Aye?" "Is this smart?" The next kiss landed on the tender inside of her elbow. She shivered. The black satin of his words licked over her like quick flames. "Smartest thing I’ve done in my life. But wise? Ah, lass." His voice was hot. Thick. His breath brushed her ear like a moist caress. "Wise has naught to do with it." "Tell me about it." Oh god, she couldn't take this! She was being seduced on the stairs, for Pete’s sake! With a little whimper, Tory leaned back against the blessedly solid bannister, feeling his eyes and his desire touch her, melt her. "I'd rather show you." He didn't fully understand her magic, her empathy as she called it, but he knew he could use it. A clever man could think of many ways to please his woman. "Can you feel what I feel?" She nodded jerkily, unsure whether or not Connor could see the movement but unable to speak. Finally, Tory found her voice. "Heat. Hunger." "Aye." It wasn't much more than a growl of sound. Large hands clamped on her upper arms, pulling a startled Tory flush against a male body so charged with heat that to her other- sight it seemed to glow. "You're glowing," she said thickly. "So are you." Tory lifted the hand that been braced against the muscular swell of Connor's chest and looked at it, at the starry light just barely emanating from her skin, Confusion momentarily distracted her from passion. "That shouldn't be happening." "None of this should be happening at all." He took a precious few seconds to curse his own lack of control. "I swore I'd keep m'hands off you until we were married, Tory. But I canna seem to do that. I need you too much." Groaning, Connor wrapped his arms around her and lifted Tory clear off her feet. "I need you to hold me." She wondered what he meant, but only for a second. The big body supporting hers trembled with restraint, and she knew that despite his needs, Connor would go no further than this. But his kiss had no such limits; it seared her mouth, delicately ravaged it, pleasured it. It was a... bond. Connor stiffened for a moment, drawing back until his lips brushed Tory's as he spoke. "Can you still

sense me?" "Oh yes." "Good." An absolutely wicked smile; Tory could feel him casting scruples to the wind and wondered for a brief moment what that would mean. And then she knew as his lips melted over hers. "Feel me, Tory. I need to make love to you. Now. Feel me." A strange heat flashed between them, and then Tory felt hands... the rough satin brush of skin on skin, the cool, coarse-silk trail of Connor's hair over her shoulders. The wet warmth of his mouth moving lower, tracing patterns over shivering skin and soft flesh. Her heartbeat thundered against her ribcage and Tory's head fell back as she gasped for air. It was all in her mind, and in Connor's; she knew that, but it didn't matter. She was burning. Suddenly, violently, Tory wanted her clothing gone; they were too rough against sensitized flesh. She wanted Connor, wanted the reality of his touch. Then, just as suddenly, she had it. His large, warm hands slid up, over her ribcage, to surround her breasts. Callused thumbs chafed her hardened nipples through velvet and the silk beneath. A moan caught in her throat; Tory sank her teeth into her lower lip. More. Please. She thought it to him because she had no breath to speak. Oh, Connor... He gave her more, stroking. Fondling. Her breasts swelled beneath his touch. As he caressed her, his knee slid slowly between her legs. Tory parted them willingly, letting Connor's arm around her waist pull her closer until she rode his muscled thigh. Her low moan fell in counterpoint to the rising growl rumbling in his chest as he began to rhythmically press himself against where she was most sensitive. Through a rosy, tingling mist, she heard him groan again, softly. He cupped her breast, fingers catching and tugging at the taut peak. A hot jolt of pleasure raced to her core, heightened by the mental caress of lingering, openmouthed kisses touching fire to her skin. The line between reality and fantasy no longer existed; Tory couldn't tell which sensation was the true one as Connor's tongue simultaneously filled her mouth and flicked heat around her navel. And then, in her mind, Tory felt the searing, wet caress of his tongue on secret, too- sensitive flesh. It was too much: she whimpered his name into his mouth and convulsed in a flash of heat. A starburst of light swept the staircase as her sparkling aura went nova, enveloping the man who held her. Tory felt him stiffen against her, a smothered shout reverberating in his chest. She sensed first his shock, then his pleasure as a psychic rapture just short of agony engulfed him, and cried out at the feeling of hot gratification that eddied around her in boiling currents. When she surfaced from the warm, euphoric mist, Tory realized that Connor was still holding her, his arms wrapped inescapably tight around her slender form. And he was sitting on the stairs in a way that told her he was unable to stand. She knew just how he felt. She'd never felt so limp in her life.

Tory let her head loll against Connor's shoulder and breathed in his piney scent, mixed with the musk of wool and the tiniest tang of sweat. She wondered idly if she were still glowing. Right now, she felt like she could light up the whole room. "Tory." His voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it, and it carried the slightest undertones of regret. "No, don't talk." Without opening her eyes, she snuggled closer to the solid heat of him. "And don't be sorry." She heard him say in a tight voice, "I lost control." Oh, really? Tory delicately cleared her throat. "I hate to point out the obvious, but..." Connor chuckled softly, sounding more like himself now. "'Tis obvious, isn't it?" "Bawdy Scot." "Aye," he growled. "I didn't know that would happen," Tory confessed quietly. There was a satisfied smile in his voice. "I did. 'Tis a passionate woman you are, m'love. God, such sweet fire. I knew 'twas there, hiding from the world. But not from me." Bending his head, he brushed a quick kiss across her parted lips. "Not from me." "You're crazy." "Aye. And I'm taking you to m'bed... just as soon as I can move." "I don’t want to wait." "Tory..." "No." She silenced him. "You’ve been calling all the shots lately, Connor. If you wanted a meek, submissive woman, you shouldn’t have come looking for me." "I had to find you. It’s you I want... and need." "Exactly," and she kissed him. Lust, hot and pure, instantly swept through him. Awareness of anything but the miracle of her was driven out by the frantic need which made every drop of blood in his body rush to the aching thrust of flesh that was straining against the placket of his jeans. And - oh, God - Tory was melting against him again, her fingers stroking through his hair, sending delicious little shivers of sensation down his spine. Her tongue was a sweet flame as it explored the seam of his lips, stroked over the smoothness of his teeth. Then her tongue found his, twined around it in a gliding caress, and something burst inside him. Restraint vanished in a savage explosion of wildfire, and Connor's passivity vanished with it. He deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with powerful movements of his own, until kissing her was as

unthinking and necessary as breathing and their frantic heartbeats meshed. Eventually, Connor came up for air, his chest heaving as he dragged oxygen into his starved lungs. "Tory..." Slender hands locked behind his head and dark eyes smiled dazedly into his in the second before she drew his face down to hers. "Tongues are for more than talking, MacCallum." This time, the kiss was not so much a kiss as it was a mating. They made love to each other with lips and teeth, with passionate whispers into each others' mouths. And then the kiss wasn't enough. Greedy hands began to wander; Tory's fingers bit into Connor's tense shoulders as his sank into the soft flesh of her derriere and he lifted her to fit more perfectly against him. She squirmed in his lap until she could wrap her legs around his hips, her velvet skirt bunching up around her thighs. Easily holding her in place with one powerful arm around her waist, Connor dropped his other hand to her thigh, pushing the skirt up until he could slide his hand underneath it. His long fingers molded the flaring curve of her hip, snugging her pelvis tighter against his. He could feel the heat of her through his jeans; a long, low growl seared its way up from his chest, and he couldn't keep himself from thrusting against her, deep and hard, as if he were already buried all the way inside her. Tory's kiss-swollen lips parted; her moan was low and incredibly sweet. When he repeated the movement and her head fell back, he leaned forward to rake his teeth down the tense, pale arch of her throat. She shuddered. So did Connor. He nipped at the curve where her shoulder and neck joined, then licked the tiny hurt away. Her skin had the flavor of warm, wild honey, he thought dimly, drowning in the sensation. His lips moved to trace the graceful arch of her collarbone and found the hollow of her throat, where a pulse hammered at the delicate flesh and the scent of her was rich and intoxicating. He moved lower, nuzzling aside velvet to find skin just as soft. Tory's slender fingers tunneled through his hair, holding him closer as he covered the upper swells of her breasts with tiny, nipping kisses. Hungry for more of her, he tried to move lower. The material of her gown, which had been such a sensual pleasure before, now served to frustrate him. Connor snarled an exotic curse and surged to his feet. "I canna wait." Tory murmured a soft, shaky protest as she suddenly found herself on her feet again, a protest that turned to a moan of assent when he took her hand and tugged her up the stairs. They made it into his room, barely. Connor slammed the massive oak door behind them and turned to her. Tory got a fast impression of a huge four-poster bed and a huge fireplace roaring with heat. Connor took the rest of her attention when he framed her face in both hands and kissed her with the kind of hunger that went all the way to the bone. "If you donna want this, Tory, say so now." "I love you, MacCallum. And that means that I very much want to make love with you, too. That’s my answer." She kissed him back, hard, and reached for the zipper at the back of her gown. The blue velvet gaped over her shoulders and breasts, and then was stripped away by Connor's hard, impatient hands. "Perfect." He whispered it in such an awed tone that Tory started to tremble again. "Ah, Tory..." Another kiss. She melted against him; Connor growled into her mouth. The world spun behind her closed

eyes as he picked her up, his fingers never pausing in their electrifying stroking, and carried her to the hearth where a thick rug and the warmth of the dying fire waited. There was an electrifying moment when Connor simply pulled away and looked at her. It was the most erotic moment of Tory’s life. Her bare toes curled. "Touch me." The blunt, callused tips of his long fingers traced a feathery, fiery line down the center of her body. Tory's breath shuddered out of her lungs. He repeated the movement a little more confidently, watching the little shivers that shook her wherever he touched her. "Ye feel like silk," he murmured in a tone so low that it was more felt than heard. His fingers traced the gentle inner curve of her breast. "Warm silk." A fingertip ghosted over the rosy aureole; Tory caught her breath as currents of hot sensation zinged from her rapidly tightening nipple to the aching center of her. "And velvet." He drew a deep, harsh breath. "What will ye taste like?" If she could have, Tory would have moaned. But every breath in her body rushed out the moment Connor slid his wet, warm tongue across her nipple. Tory's knees buckled. If it hadn't been for Connor's hands around her waist, she would have crumpled into a heap on the stone floor. Connor... She didn't know whether or not he heard her, but the velvet sweep of his tongue was suddenly replaced by the dark, avid heat of his mouth. She whimpered and dug her nails into the cloth covering his shoulders as the sweet, suckling pull sent electricity sparking through her entire body. He pulled back a fraction of an inch. "Ye taste like fresh cream." The words vibrated against her already-sensitized skin. His mouth moved to her other breast, giving it the same hungry caress. "Like wildflowers." He licked the pouting rose peak, then withdrew to watch the firelight glimmer on the sheen of moisture he'd left behind. Slowly, the searingly blue eyes rose to hers. "I want to taste you. Everywhere." Tory's shaking fingers threaded through his hair and she drew his mouth back to her. "Please." Tory felt something snap inside him. His hands moved over her body with a rough urgency. His lips followed, searing pathways over her shoulders, along her arms. Ardent, nibbling kisses defined each one of her ribs, the curve of her waist. There was an electric moment when he peeled off her panties and lingered to mold the curve of her hips, thumbs erotically kneading the hollows where hip and thigh joined. Then the teasing, tormenting touch moved to discover the long, graceful legs that, he mentally informed her, he'd been fantasizing about for weeks. "I love the way you touch me," she whispered as he discovered an unexpected erogenous zone at the back of her knee. "Like liquid fire..." Suddenly, he surged back up her body, crushing her mouth beneath his. At the same time, he cupped the sultry heat between her legs. "Then burn for me." His fingers parted the damp, copper-colored curls and stroked the exquisitely responsive bud hidden there until she was writhing against him, hips lifting to his caress. More, she demanded silently, arms tightening around his neck.

Tory never even noticed the luxurious sheepskin cushioning her from the hard floor; all her senses were focused on the wicked, wonderful things that Connor was doing to her body. And then she was beyond noticing anything at all as one finger probed the tight, dewy core of her body. Her whole body jerked, a little scream building in the back of her throat. He swallowed it, just as he swallowed the cry that escaped her when his thumb resumed its feathery, circling caress. Tory arched against him, thighs parting as she sought more of his touch. Her slender fingers dug into his powerful shoulders, tearing at the heavy wool of his sweater. Connor... I want to feel you... Taking his hands away from her heat and softness nearly killed him, but Connor was suddenly driven to feel Tory's hands on his skin. Rising on his heels at her side, he stripped off his sweater and tossed it into the surrounding shadows. Jeans and briefs were skimmed off and discarded with equal unconcern. In seconds, Connor came back down beside her on the rug, his eyes blind and hot, his hands seeking the warmth of her flesh as if the feel of her were the only thing keeping him alive. Tory's slender hands locked on his wrists, bringing his hands back to her throbbing breasts. Willingly, he cupped them, stroking, caressing. When he bent his head to claim the swollen flesh, she cried out softly. She ran her fingers through his hair, delighting in the feel of the thick, silky strands. The nape of his neck, oddly vulnerable, led her to the sloping line of his brawny shoulders, and then the curving arch of his back. She traced the line of his ribs around to his chest, where coarse dark hair tantalized her fingertips. Connor's tongue flicked her nipple just as her fingers found his, hiding in a thicket of wiry curls; they both shuddered. With a sudden, convulsive movement, he rolled away, panting. Tory could feel the finger- and-toehold grip he had on his self control... and it was slipping. A reckless, purely feminine smile crossing her swollen lips, Tory levered herself over her startled lover. You don't think I'm going to let you get away now, do you? He was breathing heavily; she could feel his heart pounding so hard that she thought it would drum right out of his chest. Fine tremors were wracking his entire body, and his hands came up to compulsively stroke her flesh. "Ah, God. I... need to slow down, lass, or I'll hurt ye." "Oh." She chewed on her lower lip pensively. "I suppose that this is a bad time to tell you that I'm a virgin?" He seemed to stop breathing. "A virgin... Lord, Tory, dress yerself, or I won't be responsible for what happens." Tory pouted delicately and tilted her head to one side; her hair trailed across his flesh in a sweep of scented silk. "You mean you're going to stop?" Connor gritted his teeth until they ached. "'Tis killing me, but aye." She smiled softly. "I don't think so. Since I knew you'd rather die than hurt me, I went to the doctor a week ago to remove that particular... um, barrier." His burningly blue eyes went wide.

Tory kissed him lingeringly, then slid down his body until her humid softness was nestled against the hard, throbbing shaft of flesh that stirred eagerly at the touch. She moved her hips slowly, savoring the sensation. Her normally soprano voice a throaty purr, she murmured, "You've run out of noble excuses, my love." "Believe me, lass, nobility is the last thing on m'mind right now," Connor muttered hoarsely. A strangled groan clawing its way out of his throat, Connor slid his hands to her hips, even as he silently ordered himself to go slow. Raising her over him, his eyes never leaving hers, he whispered, "Guide me, Tory." Covering her hands with his, she did, helping him fit their bodies together one aching inch at a time. Their moans rose and fell in counterpoint, Tory's head falling back helplessly. It seemed forever until he was deep inside her, so hot and full that she could barely breathe. She caught her breath in a long, sighing moan. She felt as if she had become a part of him. Her pulse was roaring in her ears, and she could feel the first, tentative tingles of sparkling blue seeping out from her skin. Experimentally, she moved, just a fraction of an inch, drawing a low groan from him. Incredibly, he swelled even more inside her, until Tory was certain that she'd wouldn't be able to take anymore of him; he was going to split her apart. "Connor!" "I know, a gràidh." His voice was deep and rough and primal, as if he'd lost the ability to even sound civilized. There was a ripple of muscle across his lean midriff as he sat up slowly, his hands sliding down her legs to arrange them around his waist. Tory gave a little sob as she settled even more deeply into his lap, driving him further inside her. She felt an alien tightness gathering low in her belly, hot and powerful. "Connor... please... I want - " She broke off on a sharp, sweet moan. He wrapped his arms around her, running his hands in long, sensual strokes down the elegant length of her back, shaping the soft curve of her bottom with evident pleasure. "I'll give ye what ye need, m'lass. And I'll be careful. I promise ye." He began to rock back and forth, very gently. She heard his breath hiss out from around clenched teeth. Fire rushing along nerves she had never even known she possessed, Tory let her head fall forward onto Connor's chest. I'm not a dream, Tory. He changed the angle of his hips ever so slightly, and made her gasp. Then he was the one who was gasping as Tory discovered his flat male nipples and licked one coppery disk before nipping at it gently. "Oh, lass, ye shouldna do such things," he muttered harshly, faltering a little in his rhythm. "Why not?" she whispered to him, rubbing her cheek against his sparsely-furred chest before nibbling at the other nipple. In the next second, she was flat on her back, Connor's strong arms supporting her as he loomed over her. The dying fire in the hearth provided just enough light for her to see the strained, almost primal look on his face. "This is why," he grated out just before he bent to her once more. He kissed her until she was breathless, her head forced back over his heavy forearm. His determination to please her tangled in her mind, along with the sense of fraying control. His other hand, large and calloused, swept over her body, tormenting her already swollen breasts and their sensitive crests. When she moaned, he shifted to probe the tangle of dark and copper curls. His mouth came down on her

breast, and he simultaneously stroked the sensitive heart of her and arched his hips, moving slowly in and out. The faint indigo radiance that had been glowing like mist an inch above Tory's skin suddenly went nova. Burning light spread like cold fire down the length of their joined bodies, connecting them in a way that had nothing and everything to do with their physical joining. No barriers between their minds now, each felt the other lose the last vestiges of control. He abandoned her breast to kiss her with a near-violent eroticism, his tongue mimicking the driving motion of his hips as he plunged in and out of her silken depths. Tory returned the kiss wildly, clawing at his back with her short, unpainted nails as she tightened her legs around his lean hips to add her strength to his thrusts. God, she couldn't take much more of this! Fire was racing along every nerve, and her entire consciousness was focused on that throbbing place where he drove fiercely into her. And then she was there, exploding into a fountain of heat and light and pure, aching sensation, moaning brokenly as she locked her arms and legs around him. Dimly, she heard his guttural shout of satisfaction, then her name growled in a voice ripped raw by ecstacy as he erupted into her, giving his soul to her with every pulsing rush of release. *** The fire had finally, quietly died in the hearth, and the room, with the ice-edged wind howling outside, was rapidly moving beyond being merely chilly. Tory barely noticed. She cuddled closer to Connor, who lay on his side next to her, and whispered, "I love you." The silliest smile she'd ever seen a man wear spread across his lean face. "Tha grà agam ort, mo mna." She roused herself enough to raise up one elbow. "That's new. What did you call me this time?" "M'wife," he said tenderly, eyes glowing. "I don't need the words, or a priest, to know that. You're mine. I'm yours." Surreptitiously, she wiped away tears. Silly, she thought, to be crying because she was happy. "Forever?" He caught her fluttering fingers and kissed away the moisture on them. "Forever." *** Tory murmured softly in her sleep and turned her face into the hollow of Connor's shoulder. The air was uncomfortably cool against her bare skin, but she was too tired to care. Connor's arms were around her; that was all she needed to know. She did, however, rouse a bit when she felt herself being lowered into a wet, fragrant warmth. "Mmm... Connor?" His deep voice rumbled against her ear. "Shh, love. 'Tis only a hot bath." Tory pried her eyelids open and peered owlishly at the lacy, frothy bubbles that cocooned her. "Why do I smell flowers?"

"I tossed in some of that heather bubble bath you keep on your dresser." As he spoke, he casually gathered her hip-length hair into his fist and began to braid it to keep it out of the water. "Oh." Her eyes fell closed again. "What time is it?" "Oh, sometime between dinner and breakfast." She opened one eye and glared. "Why am I in a tub full of bubbles in the middle of the night?" He smiled gently. "For the soreness, love." A flash of heat turned his eyes a molten blue, but regret colored his voice when he murmured, "I wasna exactly gentle with you, Tory." "A wise man once said that if you've got decorum on your mind when the lights go out, that you've got no business being in bed with another person." She cleared her throat and beamed beatifically at him. "I'm happy to report that you don't have that problem, MacCallum." "You don't know how pleased I am to hear that." Connor swirled one finger in the bubbles and then dabbed them on her nose. "Have I told you how verra lovely you are?" "Not recently." She wrinkled her nose to rid it of the tickling bubbles. "Unless you count physical expression as a means of communication." "I do." His voice was dark velvet. "But the words need saying, too." Tory looked at him, this large, blatantly powerful man who appeared perfectly at ease kneeling naked beside an antique tub full of heather-scented bubbles, acting as a lady's maid. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen," she said intensely. Connor blinked, then smiled slowly. "You're a strange lass, Tory. I'm not beautiful." "Yes, you are. Inside and out. Especially inside." "I’m glad you think so." "I don’t think. I know." "It will be interesting, seeing just which one of us is more stubborn," Connor observed, and slid into the tub. Water and bubbles gushed over the sides. "Connor!" "Dinna worry, I’ll clean it up. Later."

Chapter Seven

"Come on, MacCallum, move it." Tory nudged him firmly. "I want food." "Have a heart, Tory," he mumbled without opening his eyes. "I'm an old man who needs his sleep."

"You're the one who had things other than sleeping on his mind last night." She blushed thinking about it. "Don't blame me if you're tired this morning." Smiling, she threw back the covers and rolled to the edge of the massive bed, automatically wincing at the unaccustomed sensitivity between her thighs. There was a light touch at the base of her spine, the gentle pressure of a large, warm palm. "Sore?" Well, Tory wasn't about to admit just how sore she was, so she deftly changed the subject. "For a sleepy old man, you sure move fast." The fingers traced upward to the nape of her neck, and then back down. Tory felt the mattress shift as Connor propped himself up on an elbow and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. "I'm sorry, a gràidh. I shouldn't have hustled you from your bath last night." So much for changing the subject. "MacCallum?" Smiling sweetly, Tory twisted around until she was looking at him. "If you start with your damned apologies again, I'm going to scream." "Ach, don't do that. It turns me on." "You're not human," she muttered. "How can you have so much energy on so little sleep?" He winked at her. "Inspiration, darlin' lass." "I think that the word you're looking for is 'insatiable'. "You could be right. Want to find out?" ***

Someone was stroking her hair. Tory smiled as she drifted gently into wakefulness. Connor. Her eyelids fluttered, the heavy fringe of lashes lifting to reveal eyes dark with dreams and a woman's secret smile. She blinked at him, murmuring a dreamy "Hi." "Hello." Connor smiled quietly, his long fingers tangling in her tumbled curls. "Sleep well?" She stretched luxuriously. "Mmm. What are you doing up?" He shrugged. The loosely-belted robe shifted slightly, revealing more of an enticing, thoroughly male chest. "I made a fire. I didna want you to wake up cold." "Not likely, if I'm in your bed. You're better than an electric blanket." Connor’s smile widened. "You’re a warm armful yourself, Tory." To please them both, he brushed a lingering kiss over her mouth. "Now, come. 'Tis Christmas Day. Don't you want to see what Santa left you?" She sat up in bed, shaking her hair back from her face. "Is it warm enough downstairs yet?" "I'll go stoke the fire for you, m'delicate lass." With a last, lingering caress, Connor headed out the door. "Come down in a few minutes."

Tory sank back into the warm nest of pillows and blankets, staring blankly at the roaring fire in the hearth across the room. She desperately needed time to recover from the sight of that magnificent body in nothing more than a loose robe and silk pajama bottoms. After a couple of minutes of deep breathing that did wonders to restore Tory's composure, she wrapped herself in the lush blue velvet robe which had been another one of Connor's gifts to her and headed downstairs. The mismatched pack of dogs was waiting for her at the foot of the great staircase. "Okay, you guys. Here, I'll pet you." She giggled as one enterprising hound attempted to lick her face. "Hey! No fair!" The Great Dane whined plaintively. "What're you doing to m'hounds?" The deep voice echoed from the parlor. "Pampering them," Tory called back. "They obviously never get any attention from you." The velvet voice took on a saccharine tone. "Come in here and say that, darlin'." Rolling her eyes, Tory gently nudged her way through the dogs and strolled into the parlor. "Was that a threat, MacCallum?" "Never." Still kneeling at the hearth, Connor replaced the fireplace poker and shot her a quick, boyish grin that held the barest touch of reserve. "Would you help me with the gifts?" Tory laughed. "Is that all you can think about?" His smile changed, heat scorching away that slight hint of strain. "No." She shot him a sassy grin. "No kidding. I'm in the mood for presents and Christmas stuff, not sex." Connor shook his head sadly. "You can't know how disappointed I am, love." "Really?" "Really. I had m'heart set on you wrapped in a satin bow and nothing else." "Try me next year." "Remind me to get that in writing," he murmured. Tory plunked her fists on her hips and scowled theatrically. "Come get your present, MacCallum. I want you to at least see it before I brain you with it." He had the grace to look alarmed. "Lord, Tory, what did you get me?" Without answering, she went to the tree and dragged a long, rectangular box wrapped in silver foil out from under it. "Open it and find out." With one hesitant look at her solemn face, Connor did. Tory had to bite back a smile as he tore through

the wrapping with the finesse of a kid. The wrapping in shreds around him, he smoothed his fingertips over the varnished, unadorned wooden lid. "Tory...?" "Go on." Connor hesitated. "'Tisn't going to blow up?" She rolled her eyes. "Would I be so obvious?" He carefully lifted the hinged lid and breathed out a reverential curse in Gaelic. "Oh, lass, where did you find this?" "I have my sources. Do you like it?" Carefully, Connor lifted the gleaming, beautifully-restored claymore from its velvet- lined case. "I love it." Something she hadn't seen before - a glint of unapologetically uncivilized male, perhaps - flashed across the surfaces of those blue eyes. "'Tis perfect, a gràidh. But what made you pick a claymore?" Tory twisted her fingers in the luscious material of her robe. "Every laird needs to defend his castle." "And his lady, too. Unless, of course, his lady is an enchantress and defends herself with her magic." Still holding the claymore with obvious skill, he reached over to retrieve a gaily- wrapped box from the mound of presents. "Here, m'love. Something to help you cast your spells." Tory opened the box with almost as much eagerness as Connor had displayed and drew out a slender, gem-encrusted wand and a vial of pinkish dust. Laughing, she sank down beside him on the thick beige hearth rug and examined her treasures. "I think we know each other too well." "Perhaps 'tis only to be expected?" Connor balanced the blade across his knees. Be honest now, love. Isn't this better than hangin' stockings on the television?" "Definitely. If this were a video, I couldn't use my present make a wish." Leaning forward, Tory tossed a scant handful of the glittery pink powder onto the fire. Blue flames shot up for a few seconds and the scent of roses and sandalwood laced the air. "What did you wish for?" Connor asked quietly. Tory's eyes glowed with more than reflected light for a moment. "A happy ending for us." Then she looked at him and grinned. "And to see if you can handle that sword as neatly as you seem to." "'I'll be happy to show off for you, love, but breakfast first. You'll blow away on the next good breeze." Tory grimaced. "You're always pushing food at me." "Aye. I can scarce tell when you're in my arms, 'tis such a tiny lass you are." Tory cocked a brow and gave him a slow smile full of hell. "Come here and say that, big boy." He gave her a hand up and a looking-for-trouble grin that seemed the tiniest bit phony - that was all.

Dammit. "Before coffee?" He looked slightly scandalized. "Do you need to be awake to get into trouble?" "It helps." Still carrying his claymore, Connor offered her his arm. "Shall we see what I can feed you, m'lady?" "As long as it's hot and tastes like chocolate." ***

"You put her up to this, didn't you?" Tory leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, one hand on her stomach. "You deliberately had Mrs. McCormick make the biggest chocolate pancakes I've ever seen and then told her how desperately hungry I was." Connor looked mildly offended. "What possible use could I have for stuffing you like a Christmas goose?" "Deviltry. Sheer deviltry. You knew I'd have to eat every bite." "And you did." He smiled at her from over the rim of his coffee cup, and idly clinked a fork against his own clean plate. "I'm impressed." She closed her eyes and willed herself not to give into the temptation to stick her tongue out at him. "I may never move again." "You'd better, lass. Otherwise Mrs. McCormick will assume you're waiting for seconds." Tory moaned. "Lord, no." She heard the delicate chink of china meeting china, then the muted scrape as Connor pushed his chair back from the long formal table. "Come here, lass. I'll carry you to your room." "No need. Just give me a minute and I'll roll myself up the stairs." His familiar, rumbling chuckle reverbated in her ear as he scooped her up. "Too late. Here comes Mrs. McCormick." "Mr. Connor, is the bonnie lass all right?" Tory didn't need to open her eyes to see Connor put his tongue firmly in his cheek. "She's a wee bit sick. Female problems. I'll take her back to bed." "Mind 'tis to her own, now." Mrs. McCormick's voice grew fainter as Connor moved out of the dining room. "Yes, ma'am." Tory bit her lip to stifle her laughter until they were out of earshot. Halfway up the stairs, she let it go. "Female problems?"

Connor was grinning, but a hint of strain showed in the tiny lines around his mouth. "'Twas the only thing I could think of." "If she brings me a hot water bottle..." "You can hit me with it." He opened the door to her room - the one she hadn't slept in last night, and carefully deposited her on the antique blue counterpane. "Rest, lass." Tory let her head fall back into the puffy pillows and went utterly limp. "I may not have a choice." She felt the softness of an thick, warm afghan settle over her, felt Connor solicitously tucking her in. "What will you be doing while I'm recovering?" "Oh, I think I’ll go exercise. I seem to have all this extra energy for some reason." Tory opened her eyes and smiled a little. "You sure? You could always nap with me." "And we’d neither of us get out of bed for a week." Bending quickly, he kissed her with a passion that made her melt into the bed. When he pulled away, Tory's lips were swollen and tingling like mad. "I’ll see you downstairs when you wake, love." By midmorning, Tory felt more like herself again, both mentally and physically. After a quick shower, she dressed in a long royal blue velvet tunic and matching leggings and went downstairs to look for Connor. The hounds were lolling about at the foot of the stairs again and looked up hopefully as she approached. "Sorry, guys," she murmured, wading among them and patting heads indiscriminately. "I don't have time to chat. I'm looking for that thickheaded master of yours." Trailed by the hounds, Tory went into the parlor. No Connor. The dogs immediately made themselves comfortable on the hearth rug and seemed uninterested in following her as she made her way to the kitchen. Mrs. McCormick and a couple of helpers were presiding over the bubbling pots and pans. Tory ducked an especially long rope of dried herbs which hung from the ceiling beams and approached the housekeeper. Mrs. McCormick saw her first. "Well now, how are ye feeling, lassie?" "Much better, thank you. Have you seen Connor?" "Aye. He's in the exercise room at the moment. Has been for a while, as a matter of fact." Tory thought of all the labyrinthine halls in the manor and grimaced at the thought of trying to locate an unfamiliar room. "I don't suppose you have a map?" "Ach, Miss Tory, ye dinnae need a map. Just go down the long hall and listen. Ye'll know where he'll be, sure enough." Tory shrugged and thanked the cheery woman, gracefully declined the offer of a freshly- baked scone, and escaped from the kitchen before Mrs. McCormick could fret over her lack of appetite.

Halfway down the long hall, Tory could hear muffled shouts and several strange clanging noises. "What the heck..." Curious, she followed the sounds to a set of doors at the left end of the hallway. "It sounds like a Conan movie in there." Carefully, she eased open one of the heavy oak doors and slipped inside. "Oh, my..." Eyes wide and knees weak, Tory leaned against the door. "Somebody pinch me. I'm dreaming." Metal on metal screeched and sang. The fluorescent lights that looked so incongruous in the old wood beam ceiling glittered on the incredibly long blades and glimmered in the thin layer of sweat sheening the men who wielded them. Tory recognized Connor, but only barely. He wore a thin, ice-blue tank top, worn black jeans and sneakers that looked as if the dogs had been teething on them. His hair was tied back in a rakish ponytail, and that hint of uncivilized masculinity in him that she'd detected earlier that morning was no longer masked. Powerful muscles bunched and coiled along his shoulders, their movement visible beneath the sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt. He handled the claymore as if it were an extension of himself. An expression of almost violent concentration tightened his face. Tory swallowed hard and had to remind herself to breathe. Connor's opponent was a stranger. He was big and brawny, wielding his claymore with an obvious skill. He wore his ginger-colored hair long and caught in a tidy braid. A neatly- trimmed beard hugged the strong line of his jaw. A thatch of gingery hair peeked out over the collar of his violet-blue T-shirt, which was tucked into a pair of indecently snug worn jeans. Sharon would die on the spot, Tory decided, trying to figure out whether she should, too. Two overpoweringly masculine specimens in the same room was just too taxing on her hormones. She felt Connor become aware of her just then; the flashing claymore faltered for just a second, but it was enough. With a shout, the other man rushed him, knocking Connor's sword aside and ramming into him with his shoulder. Connor went rolling backward onto the mat. Connor swore; Tory could almost see the Gaelic words turning the air blue. The other man just laughed. "Ye lost, Connor. Dinnae ye be a poor loser now." "If I'm a poor loser, 'tis only because you're a poor winner." Scowling, Connor reached for a towel from the pile on the exercise mats and blotted his face. "And I was distracted." The other man grinned, looking at Tory. "Aye, I can see that." Snatching up his own towel, the man crossed the room to where Tory was still leaning against the door. "And I don't blame ye a bit. I should thank ye, bonnie lass. That's one of the rare times I've been able to beat the MacCallum, there. Fights to win, he does." "Aye. Remember that." Connor slung the towel around his neck, rolled to his feet and strode over. "And leave the lady alone. She doesn't like to be crowded." "Ach, 'tis possessive ye are!" the other man crowed. "This must be Tory." Bowing with surprising panache, he lifted her hand to his lips. "I canna say how pleased I am tae be meeting ye." "There must be some Irish in there somewhere," Tory mused. "Beggin' yer pardon?"

"The blarney. It shows." The redheaded giant guffawed. "Ach, a feisty one. Ye've done well, cousin." "Cousin?" Tory arched her brows and looked at Connor. "Unfortunately." Connor was grinning in spite of his sour tone. "This is Arran MacCallum, lass." She eyed the other man, who looked like he should have been wearing swordsman's leathers and a Viking helmet. "Height must run in the family, then." Connor laughed, but his eyes were like flame as he kissed her other hand with a leisure his kinsman hadn't displayed. "Aye. It does. Let go of her, Arran." Arran stepped back with a hurt edge to his smile. "'Tis pained I am, Connor. When have I ever tried to steal a lass from ye?" "Never," the other man answered readily. "But I'm thinking 'tis only because I never let you." "That's slander!" "Truth and nothing but." Arran said something cheerful in Gaelic that Tory knew better than to ask to be translated. "Break it up, kids. Why don't we go see what Mrs. McCormick has for your lunch before I give in to the desire to send you both to your rooms." "I like her," Arran beamed at his cousin. "Are ye sure ye can handle so much woman?" Connor replied with a rude finger gesture and followed Tory out the door.

"Would you like something, m'love?" Tory placed a hand over her stomach and waved away the platter of cold meats that Connor was holding, fighting not to turn green. "Lord, no." "What's wrong, lassie?" Connor grinned at Arran. "Tory's recovering from breakfast." Arran shook his head, tsking gently. "Ye're no' goin' to grow any more, lass, if ye dinnae eat more substantially." Tory smiled sweetly. "I don't want to grow any more. And there's no way I can eat as substantially as the two of you." "Just a wee bit of a thing, isn't she?" Arran mentioned to Connor. "Aye. But a dangerous wee bit of a thing. Watch your manners, or she'll turn you into the toad you are."

Connor piled sliced meat onto his plate and started constructing a sandwich of intimidating proportions. "Then she'll have tae kiss me and turn me back into a prince." Arran made a grab for the platter. Connor snickered. "Back?" "I was hopin' ye didnae notice that." "Not a chance. Don't mind him, Tory. His ego is as inflated as his appetite." Arran paused in the act of biting into a huge sandwich and glared. Tory laughed. "I can see that. You're an interesting man, Arran." "Truly?" He swallowed and grinned. "'Tis obvious ye're a woman of taste. Marry me." "No, thank you. I'm marrying him." Tory jerked a thumb in Connor's direction. "Him? Why, lass? He's foul-tempered and demandin'. I'm much more the gentle man. Better lookin', too." "Maybe, but I never go out with guys whose hair is almost as long as mine." Arran looked wounded. Connor snickered again. "You should see him when he wears a kilt, a gràidh. All the lads think he's the bonniest thing they've ever seen." "Do you always let him flatter you like that?" Tory asked the other man with interest. Arran choked down his laughter. "Oh, I like her verra much, Connor. The lass has a sense of humor." Eyes like slices of sapphire sparkled. "Perhaps she'll be able to put up with ye after all." "Slander." Connor took a huge bite of his sandwich. "Tory's already decided to put up with me." "You're darn right I did," she agreed. "I couldn't put up with the wooing much longer. Agreeing to marry you seemed much safer." "Wooing?" Arran looked at her with renewed interest. "The MacCallum here wooed you, lassie?" Tory made a delicate face. "Thoroughly." He looked skeptical. "Flowers?" "No. Chocolates. And music boxes, back rubs, kittens..." "Only one," Connor interrupted. "And then there was that night you threatened to serenade me..." Arran looked interested. "Really? What happened?" "None of your business," Tory said serenely.

Connor laughed. "That's telling him, a gràidh. But don't expect him to listen. Arran's got a head as hard as any stone." "Enough talk. There’s food to be eaten." Arran grinned. "In another minute, I’ll get flitty. Starvation always makes me woolgather." "In this weather?" Tory looked pointedly at the narrow kitchen window and the snowy land beyond the diamond panes. "God, that would be uncomfortable." Humor lit the Scotsman's eyes again. "Worried about me, were ye?" "No. Just the sheep." This time Connor joined in the laughter. "I love your humor, Tory." "Really? I thought it was my fathomless dark eyes that attracted you. After all, you did write several sonnets about them." Arran hooted. "Sonnets? 'Tis a lovesick swain ye are, Connor. No wonder I beat ye." Connor's mouth turned down at the corners as he regarded his kinsman. "That's the outside of enough. Back to the practice room with you, cousin. I've an urge to shove your humor down your throat." "He's always had the very devil of a temper." Sighing, Arran stood. "Coming, lassie? Somethin' tells me I'll need the distraction this time." "Sorry. I've got things to do. Mrs. McCormick's grandchildren are coming this afternoon and I promised I'd tell stories." "Just don't forget to eat lunch," Connor cautioned on his way out the door. "Don't worry, Mr. Connor, I'll see to it that the lass eats," Mrs. McCormick called from her position over the open oven. "Here, lassie, try some of this meat pie." Tory groaned. I'll get him for this. *** "Are you certain that you wish to do this, Tory?" "I've been lying around digesting all morning. If I don't get some exercise soon, I'm going to have to start buying a larger size of jeans." Connor's blueing eyes flickered over the taut curve of her derriere. "Nothing wrong with this size, lass." She shot a pointed look at the worn denim gloving his muscular legs. "The same to you, MacCallum. But if you don't stop thinking what you're thinking, you're going to have a small circulation problem." He grinned, totally spoiling the aggrieved look he'd been trying for. "Small, is it?"

Tory pointed the safety-tipped dueling rapier at him. "Oh, no. You're not suckering me into one of those damned suggestive conversations." "Getting to you, darlin'?" "Do you really expect me to answer that?" "You already did; you're blushing." "That's not a blush. That's the heat of annoyance; you promised you'd teach me how to use a sword." "Aye, so I did. You're certain about this?" "You already asked me that. What's the matter; are you afraid you can't handle it?" "Lass, do I look like a man who doesna know how to handle his sword?" "Oh, is that what you call it?" "Little witch." He ruffled her hair. "First, you grasp the hilt firmly but loosely." She glanced down at his worn jeans. The button fly was definitely showing signs of strain. "That could get tricky. You're still wearing your jeans." A low growl reverbated up from the depths of his chest. "Don't tempt me, woman. We're speaking of the blade, now, and practice." "I really don't think you need practice with your blade, Connor, but if you're that paranoid - " She shrieked as he swept an arm around her waist and swept her off her feet. Her rapier clattered to the floor. "Just who is tricking who into a suggestive conversation?" he growled softly, nose to nose with her. An unrepentant Tory grinned at him and looped her arms around his neck. "So sue me." "Oh, I can think of much better things to do to you, lass. Dinnae fash yourself about that." His mouth swooped down to claim hers. Breathing was a dim memory by the time Connor released her long moments later. "Are you," Tory panted, "going to do that... every time I sass you?" "Aye. Does that bother you?" "Are you kidding? Remind me to give you hell more often." "I'll be dead before I'm forty," Connor complained, letting her slide down his torso until her feet touched the floor. "How old are you?" "Thirty-six."

"I'd better get busy, then." Connor looked at her askance. "You mean to kill me?" "Not on purpose, but you've got to admit that it would be a helluva way to go." His bawdy laughter bounced off the rafters. "Aye. And you could inscribe "He died with his boots on" on m'tombstone." "And tell the world of your favorite fetish? Never." "Brat," he accused, swatting her lightly with the flat of his blade. "Beast," she returned, rubbing her abused posterior. "Even I know that wasn't the proper way to use a sword." "Oh, and are we back to the lesson now?" "You bet we are; I owe you for that swat, MacCallum." "First you need to learn to hold the sword properly, a gràidh. Then you can see about slitting m'throat." "Promises, promises." Tory didn't bother to remind him that she couldn't stand the sight of blood. "Firmly and loosely, you said." "Aye, so an opponent canna twist the hilt from your grasp, as he could if you were holding it too tightly." "Like this?" "Not exactly. Here, let your wrist droop a wee bit." He moved behind her to place her hand correctly. "Ah, the old touch-and-snuggle method of teaching." "Keep your mind on business, Tory, or I won't be responsible for the consequences." "Spoilsport." She made a face at him. "Like this?" "Aye. Verra good. Now, try waving it around. Carefully. Let your wrist be the pivot for the weight of the blade. Good." He stood back and eyed her critically. "You could have a real talent at this, Tory." "Thank you." She concentrated on the sweep of the blade, inscribing hypnotic, glittering figure-eights on the air. "I think I've got the weight of it, now." "I think you're right," he said admiringly. "Feel ready to try some lunges?" "That depends. What's a lunge?" Saluting her with a flourish of his own sword, Connor moved into the lunge with a fluid, muscular grace that made Tory think of a lion. "Wow."

He came upright again with that same grace. "'Twas only a lunge, lass." "It wasn't the lunge. It was you." Heat sparked in his eyes again, and his expression tautened. "Want to try the move?" Resolutely, Tory squared her shoulders. "Try? No. I prefer to do." With a fair amount of skill, she mimicked his earlier maneuver. Admiration replaced the passionate heat in his expression. "You're a true-born fighter, a gràidh. Don't you let anyone tell you otherwise." "Does that mean I did all right?" "Aye." He tugged affectionately on her lengthy braid. "Try it again." She did, and he stepped back a pace, making a soft hmmm sound. "Back to the ready position. Now again. Left arm out a bit more to the side, lass." She watched him move back and study her from the corner of her eye. "What are you doing?" "Admiring your form, of course." Connor made a show of perusing her. "D'you know that your jeans mold that sweet little bottom of yours in the most gratifying way when you lunge?" Tory gave him her sweetest smile. "Connor, would you mind terribly getting in front of me so I can skewer you the next time I do this little move?" "Before the wedding? You won't get any of m'money." "Now I really am going to skewer you. Hold still." He was laughing. "If you really want to stick something so badly, a gràidh, we can move on to the practice dummy." Tory lowered her sword and looked uncertainly at the blank-faced dummy. It was hanging against a wall, looking quite pitiful. "I don't know, Connor." "'Tis only a great doll, Tory, made of straw and canvas." "I know, but it looks so... helpless." "Softhearted little lass." Connor hugged her with his free arm. "If it disturbs you so much, then pretend 'tis someone you dislike." Unbidden, an image of Barry's face came to mind. "That's a good idea," she murmured, walking over to the dummy. "A very good idea." This time, she tossed off a mocking salute to the dummy and then proceeded to land a hit directly on the little painted heart decorating its chest. "Amazing what a little visualization will do for you." Soft applause from Connor brought her swiveling around to face him. "Well done. Who was it you were slicing?"

Tory's mouth twisted upward into an unwilling smile. "My father. Good old Barry." He walked over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "We won't be inviting your father to the wedding." She snuggled closer. MacCallum was definitely turning out to be the touchy-feely type. And he was sexy as hell in the now-familiar ice-blue tank top. "He might show up anyway." "Not if you don't want to see him, Tory." Tory rolled her eyes. "Notice how I'm not asking how you intend to accomplish that." "Sensible woman." He gave her a last careful squeeze and then moved away a few paces. "Now, let's try the most basic maneuver." Deftly, he engaged her blade with his own to teach her the moves of parry-and-thrust. "While we're speaking of the subject of marriage, lass, I'll ask whether you want a morning or afternoon wedding." "Let's compromise. How about a late morning wedding?" She blocked his gentle thrust. "All right. Shall we book a church?" "Do you want a church service?" His grin flashed briefly. "Lass, all I want is the wedding." "Me, too. Then you won't mind if it's a small one?" "T’would be easier. You realize that there will undoubtably be some interest on the part of the press?" "Oh, hell." Tory lowered her sword. "I never even thought of that." "You're not used to it, a gràidh. Don't fret so, Tory; there's a way around it all." "Really?" "Aye. We'll have the wedding here. Something small and private." "Perfect. We don't have to go far for the wedding night." Connor discarded his rapier and confiscated hers. The weapons were dropped to a convenient mat. Tory herself was gently corralled and gathered close. "Have I told you that I love the way you think?" he murmured. Tory wrapped her arms around his waist and propped her chin on his chest. It was the only way she could comfortably look up at him. "Why don't you tell me again?" "I love the way you think. I love you." "You know, I don't ever think I'll get tired of hearing you say that." He winked. "It won't be for a lack of opportunities." She squeaked as he swept her up high against his

chest. "Connor?" "I’m, as you Americans say, in the mood again." "Oh boy...." Tory grinned as she looped her arms around his neck. "I’m a dead woman." "D’you think so? Let’s find out."

Several hours later, Tory's legs still felt like jelly. When that man promises to be good, he doesn't fool around. A private smile tipped her mouth, and she clung a little more tightly to the polished bannister. Taking a header down the stairs was not on her agenda this morning. "Allow me," a deep, accented voice murmured into her ear. Strong arms swept around her waist and under her knees. Tory sighed gently, finding herself held an alarming number of feet off the ground. This was becoming a habit with him. "I can walk, you know," she politely protested. "Aye. But why should you?" "I'm getting dizzy," she informed him. "The air's too thin up here." He chuckled; he had been doing that a lot lately. "More like a lack of food. I know how you are when you haven't eaten for a while." "You should see me when PMS hits," she muttered, and ignored him when he snickered. Arran was already in the dining room; his brilliantly blue eyes widened when he caught sight of Connor with Tory in his arms. Tory saw his mouth twitch beneath the neatly-cropped copper beard. "Good evening, Arran," she said sunnily, dignified as a queen as Connor deposited her in a chair. "'Evening, lass." Arran looked from her to his cousin, who was settling himself in the chair nearest Tory's. "How is it wi' ye?" "It's fine," she assured him calmly, brushing at the folds of her gold knit dress. "Thank you for asking." Arran studied her face for a moment, as if he were searching for something there, before turning to his cousin. "And ye, kinsman? How is it wi' ye?" Connor stared at the other man, something unreadable flickering in his gray-to-blue eyes. "Well, thank you for the asking." Mrs. McCormick bustled in just then. "Now then," she fussed, setting down platters of crisp fried ham and fluffy cheese and potato omelets. "Ye'll be eating every bite of this or else I'll be knowing the reason why." Mrs. McCormick turned and plucked a silver serving tray from the laden sideboard. "Now, I've made chocolate-chip scones just for ye, lassie. Mind ye do them justice; a wee thing like ye needs to keep up her strength." Meekly, Tory allowed her plate to be loaded with omelet, ham, scones and a small side dish of oatmeal,

until she was afraid that the china would crack under the weight. "Thank you, Mrs. McCormick." The housekeeper patted her shoulder. "No thanks needed, lass. Just enjoy." Tory looked glumly at her plate after Mrs. McCormick had bustled out of the dining room. "I don't know why she expects me to eat twice my body weight in food every time I sit down at this table." "You were the one who said she was hungry," Connor reminded her. "Hungry, yes. Not starving to death." "Just try, Tory." Casually, Connor reached over and grasped Tory's left hand. Unperturbed, she interlaced their fingers and began eating with her right hand. "Shall we talk of wedding plans after breakfast, a gràidh?" "Mmm hmm." Tory swallowed. "Arran, are you available next week?" Arran choked again. "Next week?" "We don't wish to wait any longer than we must," Connor explained in a tone that said that he didn't care what anyone else thought of their haste. Arran apparently got the message. "I believe I'll be available, then. Do ye wish me to be witness?" "Best man," his cousin supplied, and calmly sipped his coffee while Arran's eyes bulged. "'Twill be my honor," Arran said feebly. Tory smiled at her fiance. "You know, that's the first time I've seen him speechless." Connor brought their entwined fingers to his lips. "It probably won't be the last."

Chapter Eight

The news was bubbling like champagne inside her, so, despite her best intentions, Tory told Sharon everything within five minutes of opening up the shop. "Wedding?" Sharon practically squealed the word. "You're getting married?" Tory leaned back from her desk and tried - not too successfully - to smother a grin. "Please don't yell, Ronnie. I'm still fighting jet lag. And you usually get married at a wedding." "Wise guy." Sharon shoved back a lock of blonde hair that had been dangling in front of her eyes. "I just can't believe that you're actually getting married. I mean, I've never even seen you go out with a guy before, and here you are engaged! To Connor MacCallum, of all people!" Tory automatically bristled. "What's wrong with Connor?" "Nothing, nothing. I'm just not over the shock yet."

"You think you'll get over it in time for you to be my maid of honor?" Sharon nearly fell off the desk. "Maid of honor? Me?" "Yes, you. You know, the woman who's my best friend?" "Very funny. Of course I'll do it. When is the wedding, anyway?" Tory steepled her fingers together and peered over them at the other woman. "In less than three weeks, give or take. At Connor's estate." "Wow. Hey, will I be rubbing elbows with the rich and influential?" "I don't know, actually. We haven't gotten around to making out the guest list yet. I wouldn't get too excited, though. It's going to be a small ceremony, nothing fancy." "A wedding." Grinning hugely, Sharon leaned over the paper-cluttered desk and gave her friend a hug. "Tory, honey, I'm so happy for you! Congratulations! And tell your fiance that I said he's one hell of a lucky guy, getting hitched to you." Tory laughed. "I'll do that when I see him tomorrow night." "You mean you don't have other plans?" Sharon waggled her brows lavisciously. "We're abstaining. You know what they say about absence and fondness." Not to mention, she thought with a trace of disappointment, that we're both too tired to do much while we're working double time to clear our desks before we go on our honeymoon. "Abstaining? You mean..." "Yep." "Well?" "Well, what?" "Don't play dumb with me, Tory Wayne. I want details! Wonderfully decadent, juicy, intimate details." "Sorry. I don't kiss and tell." The blonde scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. Her chin thrust forward belligerently. "Well, at least give me some idea." Tory smiled like a cat. "Ronnie, do I look like a frustrated woman to you?" "Damn. I should be so lucky. Great." Sharon stuck her tongue out at her. "Thanks for making me jealous." "Does this mean you're mad at me?"

"Actually, yes. But you deserve someone who loves you, Tory. So, even though I'm jealous, I'm happy for you." "Thank you, Sharon." She leaned forward over the desk to hug the other woman. "That means a lot to me." "No problem. That's what friends are for." Sharon gave Tory one last squeeze and moved back. "So, when do we get together for fittings and stuff?" Tory toyed with her necklace. "Can you get away Friday afternoon?" "I think so. Hey, d'you have a flower girl?" Tory leaned back in her chair to the accompanying creak of leather. "Actually, no. I was hoping Michelle could do that." "Are you kidding? She'll love it. I'll bring her on Friday, then. She's been bugging me to visit you for days." "Great! This'll be more fun than I thought." "Tory, honey, the fun ain't even begun yet." Sharon winked. "Wait until the honeymoon." ***

"Sharon is willing to be maid of honor." They were strolling in the park, enjoying a soft winter evening after a quiet dinner at Connor’s favorite restaurant. The sky was heavy, like purple velvet. It hadn’t snowed yet, Tory thought, but it was going to. "And the wee lassie? Michelle?" "Flower girl." Tory thought sentimentally of how adorable Michelle would be, golden ringlets shining, dressed in a little satin dress. She’d look like an angel. "You love the little one, don’t you?" Tory looked sideways at the man who was strolling so companionably beside her, his gloved hand clasping hers with an undeniably possessive warmth. Connor looked very large and very imposing in his black overcoat, the faint light from the streetlamps casting mysterious shadows over his strong-boned, austere features. And then she had, with perfect clarity, an image of Connor, holding a soft-featured infant in his strong arms, his blue eyes soft with awe and a stunned kind of love. "Tory?" Her eyes had gone so soft, so deep. Something clutched at his heart with a tight fist and squeezed. "Tory, what is it?" She shook herself. "Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Everything will be fine." Reaching up, she laid gloved fingers on his cheek. "I love you, did you know that?"

"Aye. I knew." They walked in comfortable silence for a while longer, snow from an earlier fall crunching under their boots. The park was virtually deserted, only a few die-hard sledding schoolchildren visible off in the distance. The world seemed wrapped in a dark, pre-storm hush that should have been oppressive but managed somehow to be almost poetic. Connor squeezed her hand gently. "Tory, look." She followed his pointing finger and grinned. "Oh. I’d almost forgotten it was here." "Ah, how could you forget anything so grand?" Shaking his head at her folly, Connor led the way to the now-silent carousel. "Honestly? Mostly out of self defense. I was addicted to this carousel for a while." "Taking Michelle riding?" "Nope. Me. I love carousels. They were always my favorite ride at carnivals." Tory ran a caressing hand over the peeling black paint of one horse’s mane. "And this one is my special favorite. It’s old and run-down and it doesn’t go very fast, but the horses are all wood, and when the paint was new this thing looked like a Christmas present. All bright color and dreams, wrapped up in calliope music." Connor looked the carousel over with an expert’s eye. The brass poles were tarnished, the mirrors all broken out, and graffiti marred some of the exquisitely carved animals. But there were fantastic creatures like dragons and seahorses and winged lions mingled in with the horses, and the construction seemed sound enough. "Why wasn’t it taken indoors for winter storage?" "Lack of interest, I suppose." Tory shrugged. "And lack of money. The city fathers don’t particularly care about one old carousel. And even if I bought it, I wouldn’t know what to do with it." "It’s a crime to neglect something like this." "I know. But the world is full of crimes, Connor." "Aye." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to one of the red-painted benches on the carousel. "But I refuse to add to the list. Come here, woman. I haven’t snuggled you for at least the last hour. That’s a crime." Tory laughed and slid onto the bench and into his embrace. "Poor Connor. I’m sorry." A sigh of pure contentment escaped her. "Ahhh. This is nice." Connor made a rumbling sound of contentment. "Are you warm enough?" "Fine." To make sure, Tory arranged the folds of her cloak to cover her legs. "You?" He sounded nothing if not amused. "It takes more than a bit of winter weather to chill a great hulking brute such as myself, a graidh."

A comfortable quiet wrapped itself around them after that. Then, "Connor?" "What is it, love?" "Do you want children?" Startled, he pulled back so he could see her face. "What brought this on?" "I was... just wondering. It’s not important." "Aye, it is." He stroked a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Very important. I want children with you, Tory." "You do?" "I always did. A little lass with your eyes." He kissed them. "I have my heart set on that." "And what if I wanted a son, with your eyes?" Tory felt like weeping. "Well," Connor settled her comfortably back in the curve of his shoulder. "We’ll just have to keep trying until we get it right, won’t we?" Another long, sweet silence. It started to snow. "We’d best go back," Connor murmured reluctantly. He didn’t want the magic to end. "I know." Just as reluctant, and for the same reasons, Tory rose to her feet. "Come on, MacCallum. We’ve both got work in the morning. I’ll race you back." Grinning like a schoolboy, Connor leapt to his feet. "You’re on." *** "I come bearing gifts," Connor announced grandly, sweeping into the apartment. He dropped a smacking kiss on Tory's upturned mouth. "So my nose tells me." She shut the door and grinned up at him. The long hours at work of late apparently hadn't taken that much of a toll on him; he looked great. Better than great. "How did you know I was craving Chinese?" "Lucky guess?" "Is there such a thing?" she asked interestedly. He stared down at her with a thoughtful expression. "If you're going to get philosophical, Tory, I'd better put the food in the kitchen." "Connor, everybody knows that you can't eat Chinese food properly if you're sitting at a table." "Oh? Where then?" "On the floor, of course."

"Verra interesting." Obligingly, Connor walked across the room and dumped the various paper bags of food onto the coffee table. "Do we also require chopsticks?" "Do I detect a hint of worry in your voice, MacCallum?" "Of course not," he said staunchly. "Good. Then give me my hug and let's eat. I'm hungry." "Bossy wee thing," Connor accused, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her clear off her feet - as usual. "'Tis no wonder but that I love you." An hour later, the coffee table boasted an assortment of open white cartons and no shortage of lists. "Are you sure that Arran will be able to make it?" Tory wondered aloud. "He said he would," Connor reminded her, feeding her a morsel of chicken with broccoli with his chopsticks - he had indeed proven to be fairly adept with them. "And a Scot always keeps his word?" "More like he'll be wanting to be sure that I actually go through with the thing." "You'd better," she growled, "or it'll be crossed swords at dawn." "I love it when you're fierce, lass." "Get your mind out of the bedroom, MacCallum. It'll only make it harder on you." He smiled ruefully. "Lass, it canna get any harder than it already is." Tory shot a quick glance downward. "I'll be damned. I never knew MSG was an aphrodisiac." Connor laughed. She was laughing with him when suddenly, she froze and looked at the door. "Damn," she said quietly. "Tory?" She looked at him, an odd expression flitting across her face. "He's here." Connor's eyes chilled to silver ice. "Is he now?" he inquired silkily. "Connor..." "'Tis all right, a gràidh. I promise I won't get violent." "Why don't I believe you?" she mumbled. A heavy staccato knock rattled the front door. Tory stuck her tongue out at it. "Hold your horses, Barry." She turned back to her fiance. "MacCallum, do yourself a favor. Don't pay attention to a word he says." "Then he'd better not say a word to upset you." He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss

into the center of her palm. "Why don't you answer the door now, lass?" Shaking her head, Tory uncoiled from the large throw pillow she'd been lounging on and crossed the door. "Who is it?" The voice that came back through the thick wood was gratingly familiar. "Dammit, little girl, open the door! It's Daddy." Daddy, Tory mouthed in disgust, wrinkling her nose. Then she carefully wiped all traces of expression off her face and unbolted the door. Barry Wayne strode in the door and stood glaring at his daughter. Still temporarily out of sight, Connor studied the man. He was of medium height and middle age. A scattering of gray laced the neatly-combed dark hair and the close beard which couldn't hide a weak-looking jaw. Despite it being long past business hours on a snowy Tuesday evening, Wayne wore a business suit and heavy gray wool overcoat. He was also, Connor noticed, standing much too close to Tory. Connor hated him on sight. His worry over Tory, however, took precedence over his urge to paint a red heart on the older man's barrel chest and use him as a dummy for sword practice. Carefully, so as not to startle her, he reached out with his mind. It wasn't all that reliable, he was still learning the intricacies of mental touch, but he had learned enough to recognize the heavy barriers around Tory's mind when he more or less thudded up against them. She'd walled Barry out. Good. From his comfortable position on the floor, Connor watched the tiny, secretive smile quirk one corner of Tory's expressive mouth. "What are you laughing about?" Barry demanded. "What are you doing here, Barry?" Tory countered, smiling politely. "Do I need a reason to come visit my baby girl?" Barry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Are you going to invite me in or not?" "You're already in, Barry." Unconcerned, Tory stepped back to let him pass and shut the door again. Connor noticed that she didn't lock it. Barry shrugged impatiently and yanked off his coat. "Why don't you get a normal coat tree?" he muttered, throwing the overcoat over the Indian's head. Tory winced and removed it, hanging it on the outstretched hand. Barry didn't even notice. "What's this about you getting married?" Oh, he's going to be difficult. She gave a small mental shrug. "I'm getting married. This is a difficult concept?" "And who the hell do you think you're marrying, little girl? Connor MacCallum? The Connor MacCallum?" Barry sneered. "Get real. Why would he want an impractical little dreamer like you?" "Perhaps," a deep, accented voice rumbled from over by the coffee table, "because I'm in love wi' her."

Barry had the grace to blanch. Tory had to bite her lip in order to stifle a giggle. Oh, I've waited years to see him get caught out like that! And it's worth every moment. She was torn between watching Barry's expression as Connor rose to his feet, and watching Connor himself. MacCallum won. He looked as imposing as she'd ever seen him, rough and eminently male in his aqua wool sweater and jeans, but curiously elegant in a way that had nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with self-confidence. "Hi, darling. Finish dinner?" she called breezily. "Aye." Connor nodded to Barry, his slate-colored eyes curiously alive. "Good evenin' to ye, Mr. Wayne. I've been lookin' forward to meetin' ye." Uh, oh, there's the accent. Tory fiddled with her engagement ring. That either means that he's very, very happy... or that Barry's a dead man. As if had I to guess. She shot a quick sideways look at Barry; he looked positively ashen. She almost felt sorry for him. "Why don't you have a seat, Barry? I'm sure that you and Connor have a lot of things in common to talk about." Acutely mindful of the tempers rattling in the air, Tory walked over to the coffee table to collect their empty mugs. A mug in each hand, she paused to wrap one arm around Connor's lean waist and give him a quick hug. "More hot chocolate?" she asked limpidly. Connor smiled down at her, some of the austerity melting from his face. "Please, lass." She peeked over at Barry, who had just sat down heavily on her loveseat. "Can I get you anything, Barry?" "Ice water," he muttered, his deep-set eyes skittering up to meet hers, and then skittering away. "Bottled, not tap." Tory waited. "Please." "Certainly." She gave Connor one last hug and then headed for the kitchen. Connor smiled as her thoughts drifted back to him. Don't kill him, okay? You know that I don't deal well with gore. Don’t worry , lass. I'll not harm him. Yet. Connor's smile didn't disappear as Tory vanished around the corner, but it changed, becoming feral. Frightening. "Mr. Wayne. D'ye often visit Tory this late at night?" "I do when I think that she needs me." "'Tis my observation that the lass doesna need anyone." He seated himself on the sofa opposite the loveseat and adopted a listening posture.

Wayne's lips thinned. "She's a young woman, inexperienced and sheltered. I was worried that she was getting involved with some con artist who wanted to get his hands on her trust fund." Connor nodded politely, but his eyes were slate-gray and hard. "It sounds as if you're a dotin' father." "Well, we have our differences." Wayne shrugged, beginning to feel more at ease. "Victoria's never been able to live in the real world. Vivid imagination and all that. And she's high-strung, overly emotional. I've had her in and out of therapy all her life." "Therapy?" Connor's big hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, but his voice remained mild. "She is an artist; wouldna that be a reason for her bein'... temperamental?" Barry waved the comment aside. "She writes science fiction and fantasy. That's not art. And the girl's high-strung; her mother and I could never have a simple argument while Tory was around; she'd go into hysterics every time. Now, you ask me, that's not normal." It was also no reason to force someone into therapy. Connor buried the thought deep. He had other matters to attend to here. "And is it normal for you to harass your daughter with phone calls and private detectives, Mr. Wayne?" The implied insult went right over the other man's head. "Someone's got to keep an eye on her. I've recently moved all the way from California and bought a house in Greenwich just so I can be close to Victoria. She's... odd. She doesn't do well in the outside world. I don’t understand it. I raised her better than that." Connor's lazy voice could have cut steel. "It seems to me, sir, that you've ne'er understood a damn thing about your daughter." "Connor?" Tory came back into the room. The blue glow hovering around her was barely perceptible. "Darling, you're giving me a headache. Drink your chocolate." With an effort, Connor unclenched his hand and accepted the mug. "Tory..." "There's whipped cream in it," she mentioned over her shoulder, moving to give Barry his ice water. "Here. Drink it and leave." Barry sputtered. "You listen to me, you - " She felt Connor tense. Lass? I'll handle it. "No, you listen." Tory's normally soft voice matched her iron eyes. "You came here because your detectives told you that I'd left the country and come back engaged, and that drove you crazy. But there's nothing you can do about it, Barry." Her voice dropped to a silky murmur not too unlike Connor's own. "Not a damn thing. You're not running my life anymore. You're not even a part of it. Close the door behind you on your way out." Veins were standing out in Barry's reddening neck. "Bitch! You little -" He reached for her, his hand forming a fist. Connor moved suddenly, with that same unnerving speed she'd seen when he'd fought Arran. His hand

closed on the older man's fist. "I wouldna be doin' that," he said very gently. "And I believe that the lady asked ye to leave." For a moment, it appeared as if Barry was warring with himself. Eventually, his fist lowered, but the venom didn't leave his eyes. "This is the thanks I get," he muttered heavily, "for bringing you into this world? For giving you life? Food? A home?" He edged away from Connor and stalked toward the door. "You're not my daughter." "You know, I think that's the seventh time he's disowned me," Tory murmured to no one in particular. Barry's muddy eyes blazed. "You'll be sorry. One of these days, you'll regret what you said to me." He slammed the door dramatically behind him. Connor snarled something Gaelic which sounded particularly foul. "Are you all right, a gràidh?" "Well," Tory had closed her eyes and was rubbing her temples, "I've been better." He swore again and scooped her off her feet like so much fluff for a massive hug that made her ribs creak. "He won't try to hurt you, will he?" Gosh, he sounded almost hopeful. "No. Barry's a coward. And he's scared to death of you. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, as a matter of fact." She burrowed closer, nuzzling the side of his throat. "Oh, you feel so good. I'm very glad you were here for moral support, MacCallum." "'Twas all you needed, little warrior. 'Tis proud of you I am, Tory. You gave him hell." "I did, didn't I?" She laughed softly. "Well, at least we won't have to worry about him showing up at the wedding." His hands stroked her back soothingly. "Did it hurt, lass?" "The headache will disappear after a while." She planted a quick kiss on his mouth, effectively stemming the flow of questions, and wriggled to get down. "I've got to clean up." "I'll clean," he said firmly, reluctantly letting her go. "Anything else?" "No. But... thank you, Connor." There was no help for it, he thought. He had to hug her, and did so tightly enough to make her squeak and giggle. "I love you, MacCallum." "And I love you, wee, fierce lass." He kissed her lingeringly. "Remind me of why we were going to wait until our wedding night to be together again?" "Mmm, I think it had something to do with recovery time." Tory snuggled a little closer. "Aye, but for which one of us?"

"You, old man." Growling, he swept her up and more or less fell back onto the couch with Tory atop him. "I’ll teach you to sass your elders." "Uh oh. I’m a dead woman." "Possibly." Connor smiled, slow and hot. "But I promise you’ll be smiling."

Chapter Nine

Tory peeked through the rose and ivy-covered lattice. My God, look at all the people! Actually, there weren't all that many sitting in the chairs at the center of the conservatory. A few of Connor's closest business acquaintances and their families, her small circle of friends and their families, and two very discreet members of the press. Sharon was behind the lattice with her, presumably to keep her company. Tory knew she was really there to keep her from bolting for the nearest door. She drew back, the scent of roses heavy in her nose and the oddest feeling of foreboding niggling at her. Jitters, she thought. Or maybe not. Her stomach took a quick, queasy swoop and dive as her uneasiness increased, coalescing into a hard knot of blackness pressing right behind her eyes. "I think I'm going to faint. Or be sick." "Don't you dare." Sharon pinched her, then resumed straightening the folds of her gown. "This is your wedding day. You can't be sick." Tory wasn't listening. She was too busy panicking. "I don't think I can go through with this." "Are you crazy? You can't back out now." Sharon dragged her to the edge of the screen and pointed. "You see that man out there?" Tory looked. Connor wasn't hard to spot. He'd refused to wear a suit, choosing instead dark dress slacks, a full-sleeved white linen shirt, and the navy and hunter green MacCallum plaid slung over one broad shoulder. She knew it was a cliché, but she sighed with appreciation anyway, feeling the unease fade slowly. "I see him." Sharon's voice held an unusually fierce note. "That man is crazy for you. He loves you, Tory Wayne. And you love him. Are you going to run away from that?" "You have a way of making a point, don't you, Sharon?" Grinning mistily, Tory hugged her. "Have I ever thanked you for being such a good friend?" "No." The blonde grinned back, equally mistily. "But that's all right. I've never thanked you, either." The two women hugged each other, springing apart when the sound of the prelude to the wedding march began to rise above the murmuring of the crowd. "My dress!" Tory frantically brushed at it until the wrinkles were gone. At least she wasn’t feeling faint anymore.

"Relax, you're gorgeous!" Sharon arranged the hood of the full, flowing white gossamer cloak a little more to her satisfaction and then handed Tory the small bouquet of forget-me-nots and baby's breath she'd chosen to carry instead of the traditional roses. "Ready?" Tory affected a cheeky grin and thanked God that her long skirt concealed her knocking knees. "Oh, what the hell? Let's go for it." The wedding march began, and Sharon began to pace sedately down the carpeted aisle in time to the dulcimer music. A few paces behind her mother, a grinning Michelle stomped along, a small basket of blue rose petals clamped in one chubby hand. For a second, only a second, Tory was hyperaware of everything and everyone around her. Including... including a strange, tight emotional signature, as if someone were holding their feelings under tight rein. Briefly, she wondered if Barry had managed to slip into the ceremony despite Connor’s discrete security.... And then she caught sight of Connor himself standing at the flower-decked altar. Arran stood just behind him, an irreverent gleam in his eyes. Awareness vanished, and Tory forgot everything, including her knocking knees and the herd of butterflies doing loop-the-loops in her stomach. The music swelled around her, prompting her on. Tory stepped out confidently onto the red velvet pathway, feeling as if she were floating. She wasn't even conscious of Sharon's turning aside at the altar to go to her seat, or of Michelle's brief indecisiveness as to whether or not to follow her. She could only see Connor. I'll love you forever, she thought to him, and watched him smile. Electricity jolted through the both of them when their hands met. Connor's fingers tightened on hers. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The ceremony was a blur to her, and probably to Connor, too, until the end, where Connor, who had been acting the perfect gentleman, swept her off her feet and kissed her dizzy. "'Tis done," he whispered into her mouth. Belatedly, Tory realized that the ringing in her ears was the applause of the guests and not the hammering of her pulse. "Are you mine now?" His blue, blue eyes, inches away from her own, seared her. "Aye. For eternity." "Good. That just might be long enough." ***

She was floating. It all seemed dreamlike - the minister, the vows, Connor’s mouth on hers, sealing them as man and wife. All she could think was, this is our happy ending. There was food and wine. Tory tasted none of it. The scents and sounds were what was important; she wanted to fix them, this moment, in her memory. And then, cutting the cake. The flavors of chocolate and mint. Connor’s grin as he gently smeared icing

over her mouth - and proceeded to kiss it off. The first dance. A waltz, as she’d somehow expected it to be, and Tory quickly learned why the dance had once been considered scandalous. Connor’s eyes burned a deeper blue with every brush and tug of their bodies, and his grasp on her tightened. "Would anyone notice if I dragged you off to a dark corner and ravaged you?" Tory suppressed a delicate shiver. "Probably. We are the center of attention, you know." "Then let’s see how quickly I can get rid of a roomful of well-wishers. I want you all to myself." Tory’s smile hovered, then faded suddenly. Not everyone here was a well-wisher, or even only jealous. There was something... dark in the huge room. Like she’d felt before in the conservatory just before the wedding.... seeming to pulse like a heartbeat... "You two look as if you want tae be alone." Arran’s voice boomed, unexpectedly close. Tory jumped a little. The odd dark feeling vanished. Connor’s arms tightened around her. "Love?" "Nothing. It’s... I’m fine." She smiled, forcing the. "I suppose I’m just a little tired." "Well, then," Connor scooped her into his arms to startled applause. "Let me take you to bed." Tory laughed, her foreboding vanishing like mist, and twined her arms around his neck. "Feel free. But what about the guests?" "Arran will tend them." The giant, his ginger mane caught back with a velvet ribbon, had quite seamlessly stepped into the role of host. The party was winding down. "Don’t worry." "Okay." Tory sighed happily. "What a beautiful, beautiful day." Connor made a murmuring sound of agreement and started toward the hall. "Aye. Did you like it?" "Like it? I loved it. And we even had chocolate wedding cake." "Mrs. McCormick's recipe. She couldn't come herself, but she made certain that she was properly represented." "And did you see Arran dancing with Michelle?" "The wee lassie wasna sure whether to laugh at him or scream at him." "I remember. But she did dump cake in his lap later. He took it rather well, actually. Arran is such a sucker for children." "Aye. But so am I, lass."

"Does this also run in the family?" she teased. "Along with flowery flattery and large appetites?" "Aye." He reached the top of the stairs, not even out of breath. "Would you care to discuss my appetites in more detail, mo mna?" Tory leaned back against his shoulder and gave him a saucy look from under lowered lashes. "I was hoping you'd say that." Connor growled and carried her into his bedroom. Laughing softly, Tory looked around. She'd never seen his bedroom in this house. But her curiosity was superseded by sheer astonishment. The entire chamber was alive with flickering candles. Jewel-toned votives and tall, elegant tapers adorned every flat surface available. "Oh, Connor," she breathed. "You like it?" He sounded anxious. "I love it. Mmm, scented candles." Tory inhaled the bouquet of sandalwood, jasmine and vanilla with undeniable pleasure. His sensual little lass. Heat began to gather in the pit of Connor's stomach. "I wanted it to be romantic," he murmured into her hair. "It is. Oh, it is." Impulsively, she hugged him. "But even if it wasn't, I'd love you anyway for trying." "You're an easy woman to please, Tory." Carefully, Connor let her slide down the length of his body until her toes were barely skimming the floor. "Only where you're concerned." "Good." His accent deepened, making the word into velvet. "I intend to please you, Tory. For the rest of our lives." Carefully, his eyes capturing hers, he began to pluck the pins from her hair. "You've m'word on that, a gràidh." Spellbound, she stood there, feeling lock after lock of her hair being loosened and allowed to fall free. "I trust you," she whispered. When Connor began to gently massage her tight scalp, Tory groaned softly in pure pleasure. "Do you know how wonderful that feels?" With that familiar, feline grace and speed, he seated her at the antique dressing table and picked up a brush with a carved silver back. "Tell me," he grated softly, running a handful of her hair over his hard palm. Tory closed her eyes as he began to brush with long, steady strokes. "Like you're stroking my nerves. Like you're unwinding me from the inside out." He chuckled darkly, deeply. "Ach, Tory, I'd like to." He fell silent for long moments. Tory felt herself being lulled to sleep by the hypnotic rhythm of the silver brush. She yawned delicately.

Behind her, she heard Connor's low, rumbling laugh. "Tired, a gràidh?" "You're making me sleepy," she murmured. "Where did you learn to be a lady's maid?" "'Tis something I've wanted to do for a long time." The soft bristles stroked the crown of her head. "I love your hair, lass. A true crowning glory." "And long. Very long." "'Tis beautiful," he corrected. "Like a river of silk, threaded with fire and gold when the light touches it. I've dreamed about it caressing my skin." A lick of flame ignited low in her, and grew. With an unconscious grace, she rose from the padded stool and moved to face him. Connor's eyes, brilliantly blue even in the uncertain candlelight, devoured her. "God in heaven, but you're lovely." His rasping voice sent little thrills along her nerves. She moved toward him in a swirl of white velvet and unbound hair. "Are you," she whispered, taking the brush from his unresisting fingers, "going to waste the entire night talking?" He growled very softly. "No." He grasped a handful of her hair and carefully drew her to him. "I have a gift for you." Tory's fingers walked up the hard wall of his stomach until they could tangle in the sparse curls revealed by the gaping collar of his shirt. "Really?" His laugh was more of a groan. "Insatiable lass. Not that." "It's the only thing I want." "What?" "Your heart." "Ach, Tory, you've got that." He kissed her tormenting fingers and then turned away. Tory saw him reach out with one long arm and take a small, narrow box from the bedside table. "But I wish you to have this, too." She took the box and held it for a moment, uncertain. "What is it?" "Open it." Heart fluttering in her chest, she carefully pried off the lid. "Oh, Connor." She touched a fingertip to the small, antique gold key tipped by a tiny, perfect open heart. "It's beautiful." "'Tis the key to m'heart." "You're such a romantic."

"That should appeal to you." Tory graced him with a sweet smile that made his blood run like hot honey run through his veins. "It does." His large hand engulfed hers, drawing her close, while the other plucked the jeweler's box from her grasp. "I've been dreaming of you wearing nothing more than this key and a smile." "You have quite an imagination, MacCallum." She lifted her hair out of the way so that he could fasten the delicate chain around her neck. "Aye." He drew back to watch the heart-shaped key glitter in the hollow of her throat. "You inspire me." She stopped him as he reached for the zipper at the back of her gown. "Oh, no. I don't want a repeat of what happened last time." He frowned, wounded. "What was wrong with last time?" "Nothing. Except that I didn't get a chance to... explore." The heat her words kindled in him made his face tighten into a mask. "You wish to... explore me, mo mna?" Tory's nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirt. "Explore... admire... touch..." The dark eyes that met his were molten. "Whatever comes to mind." He sucked in a quick breath when her fingers brushed his skin. "Feel free." "I do." She conquered the last button and spread the shirt open, kneading his hard flesh delicately. "Umm, Connor, we've encountered a small logistics problem here." "Aye?" His voice had become a throaty rasp. Tory shivered. "Yes. You're too tall; I can't reach to take this off you." She tugged mutely at the shirt. "Ah." He slid his big hands around her waist and lifted her off her feet. "Try again," he grated, and covered her mouth with his. For a moment, Tory forgot what he was talking about. The bare, muscular chest he crushed her to seared her with its heat even through her velvet bodice. She clutched at his shoulders and felt linen bunch beneath her fingers. The shirt. She pushed frantically at it until she could feel smooth, hot skin under her hands. A purr built deep in her throat as she kneaded the steely muscles beneath that enticing skin. Connor broke the kiss and set her abruptly on her feet. Silently, his hot eyes never leaving hers, he yanked off the shirt and sent it flying across the room in a blur of white. Then he took her hands and pressed them, palm up, to his chest. "Touch me." She shuddered, sliding her hands over smooth skin and coarse hair, savoring the way ripples of

sensation took him wherever she touched. He was so hard and warm, so wonderfully strong. That he'd never once turned that enormous strength against her was a powerful aphrodisiac. Tory glided her hands down his sides, careful not to tickle. The expanse of his chest tapered to a lean, spare waist and an intimidatingly flat belly. The barrier of his slacks prevented her from further exploration. She unbuttoned them and carefully worked down the zipper, aware that Connor had clenched his hands into fists and was holding them rigidly at his sides. "Connor?" A shiver ripped through his big frame as if her voice had been a physical caress. "Please." Shivering now herself, Tory carefully peeled down the slacks, stroking the taut muscles of his thighs for a long moment, and then reached for the plain white briefs that were fighting to contain him. The muscles of his stomach contracted as if he'd been hit at the first petting, caressing touch of her hands through the too-thin cloth. His big hands wrapped around her wrists. They were trembling. "No." "Connor..." He pulled her to her feet, stepping out of the puddle of his slacks as he did so. "Don't touch me, lass. I canna stand it." His lopsided smile looked very out of place on an otherwise harsh face. "I don't want our wedding night over so quickly." Tory's mouth rounded until a little "o" of surprised understanding. "You're blushing, Tory," he said in that sexy, silken voice that never failed to send shivers through her. "And I'm wondering just how far that blush extends." The blush deepened, and a faint blue aura pulsed to life around her, fluttering as rapidly as the pulse he could feel hammering in her delicate wrists. "Why don't you find out?" On cat feet, Connor moved to stand behind her. She felt his fingers slide through her hair, moving it so that the entire mass fell over her right shoulder like a thick skein of silk. The muted rip of a zipper parting accompanied the sudden loosening of her bodice. Tory took a deep breath and felt her breasts lift free of constricting material for the first time in hours. She felt the zipper stop at the small of her back. "You are wearing a bra." The blunt tip of his finger charted the line of her spine, up and down, and then back up. "I wondered." An expert flick of his fingers dealt with the fastening of the strapless bra. Hot lips caressed her shoulder at the same time that hard, gentle hands stripped away the unwanted garment and surrounded her aching breasts. Tory stifled a small gasp, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "You like that, lass?" Slow words in a voice gone impossibly deep. "Oh!" Her head fell back against his chest as calloused fingertips circled sensitive nipples. "Oh, yes." Oh-so-slowly, Connor peeled down the bodice of the gown, freeing her arms. Pristine velvet gathered loosely at her hips. Tory's hands tightened into small fists when he gathered her hair into his fist and repeatedly whisked the trailing ends across the hard coral tips of her breasts. She couldn't stop the long, low moan that escaped her. "Connor..."

"Not yet, a gràidh. I want this to be perfect." "And if I faint?" she panted, shuddering as one strong hand molded the quivering flesh of her stomach, pressing her back against the hard, hot ridge of masculine flesh that had so fascinated her before. Another dark, almost wicked chuckle. "I'll be here when you wake up." His hand slipped down further, shoving the gown down into a puddle of pale softness around her feet, the sliding back up to cup the vulnerable softness between her legs. Delicately, he stroked her through the sheer white lace of her panties. Liquid lightning invaded every cell in Tory's body. Her knees abruptly gave out. Dizzily, she clung to Connor as he swept her up against his chest. A few long strides carried them over to the massive bed. As carefully as if she were made of crystal, he set her down on soft sheets fragrant with thousands of rose petals. He peeled off his briefs with more haste than finesse. The candlelight painted his naked skin with fragments of gold, sliding in a rippling tide over muscle and sinew when he came down beside her. Connor braced himself on one elbow, rising above her like a pagan god, while his free hand scooped up a palmful of red-velvet petals. "If you say one word about me never promising you a rose garden," he warned darkly as petals drifted from his fingers like fragrant confetti, "I will be forced to do something drastic." "Like what?" Her dark, slumberous eyes challenged him. He answered her with a bone-melting smile, and smoothed his palm down the length of her, peeling away the panties that were her only covering. "Ah, lass, I was hopin' you'd ask that." He began to drop light, almost nonexistent kisses on her mouth, her throat, between her breasts, his breath scattering rose petals from her skin. Tory caught her breath sharply when he kissed her stomach, investigated the shallow indentation of her navel with the tip of his tongue. "I didna get to go slowly enough that first time," Connor murmured. He pursed his lips and blew gently, stirring the soft curls between her thighs. "Or the next. And those few times in the past weeks..." He rubbed his hard cheek on her thigh like a great cat. "Teasing, all of it." Raising his head, he met her eyes. "I've been dreaming of you in m'bed, Tory." He ran his hands down the length of her restless legs to her ankles, and then started back up, gently separating her legs with the stroke of his fingers along her calves, her thighs. "Would you like to know what I was dreamin' of doin' to you?" The wicked slash of his smile warned her of his intent a half-second before he bent to her. Tory's entire body convulsed at the first stroke of his tongue. When his hands slid under her hips to lift her to his mouth, she screamed softly. Her power flared out in a flash of sapphire incandescence, sweeping down along Connor's taut body. Their thoughts intertwined as easily as two streams of water merging into one. Yes, beautiful Tory. Fire, scorching me from the inside out. So sweet...

Stroking me from the inside out. Like honey. Like wine. Ah, lass... You're killing me... Connor! He felt it happen for her, within and without. She trembled and burned in his arms, radiating blue fire that burned him as surely and sweetly as he had burned her. Needing more than anything to hold her, he surged back up the bed and wrapped his arms around her. Her short nails sank into his arms, but he was beyond feeling the pain. "I love you," he whispered against her forehead as she shuddered against him. Slowly, Tory's quivering stilled. Connor smoothed her damp hair back from her face and kissed her softly. She murmured something that he didn't catch. "What, lass?" Tory cleared her throat, but her voice was still no more than a whisper. "It was worth it." His heart turned over painfully in his chest. "What, mo mna?" "Waiting all these years for you." A muscle jumped in his jaw. Emotions too primal to have a civilized name welled in him. "I don't know what to say." "Say nothing. Anyway, it's my turn." Her hands, still trembling from the pleasure he'd given her, feathered along his strong jaw, down the tense muscles of his neck. "I have things to tell you." Connor privately doubted that he would be capable of listening. "What else is there that needs saying?" "Many things." Her hands kneaded his shoulders; when she withdrew her touch to reach to pluck a rose from the full vase on the bedside table, Connor felt as if she'd ripped away his skin. Tory turned back to him, dark eyes soft and glowing... and hot. She trailed the full-blown blossom, so much like the flower he'd first given her, along the paths her hands had traced. "This is to say that I love your strength, and the way you use it to shelter me, not hurt me." She moved to the richly-muscled breadth of his chest, mapping the contours with sensual precision. "This says that I love your honesty, your heart." His flat belly rippled at the flower's touch, and his skin roughened under the butterfly caress of her lips. "This, for your beauty, inside and out." Connor sucked in a ragged breath when she skimmed the flower lower, following the meandering trail of dark, coarse hair. Fragrant, velvet petals painted his blatant arousal, cool against his burning heat. It was unbelievably erotic. "And this," she whispered, bending to him, her breath skimming him in a caress of its own, "says I'll love you forever." A reverent curse exploded from Connor's lips when Tory delicately twirled the heart of the flower against the sensitive tip of his hard, hot flesh. His hands clenched spasmodically, tense fingers pulling deep

furrows in the petal-strewn bedsheets. Then, suddenly, the torturous flower was whisked away, replaced by the soft, moist heat of her tongue. Connor nearly jumped out of his skin as she tasted him with exquisite care. His breath hissed out through gritted teeth. God, he wasn't going to survive this! He wasn't at all certain that he wanted to. "Tory..." Her soft, slim hands caressed the twin hollows between his hipbones, the ridged hardness of his belly. He groaned... and belatedly realized his mistake when Tory took the agonized sound as encouragement and took him into her mouth. Bliss exploded throughout Connor's body, zig-zagging along his nerve endings and setting him ablaze in a wash of fire and lightning. The bed beneath him, the scent of the candles, the soft lighting, all receded in a whirling rush. He was paralyzed, he was dying. And then it stopped. Her eyes soft and hot, Tory flowed up his body, her trembling hands rushing over him, touching him as if the feel of his flesh was the key to salvation. Writhing, mist-blue tendrils of energy stroked them both. "Come into me," she whispered. Her name a savage growl on his lips, Connor rolled her beneath him. He was beyond being mindful of the delicacy of her body. All he knew was its promise of paradise. Her mouth was nectar; he took it greedily, drinking deep. Tory's arms slipped around him. The brief sting of her nails in his back only drove him onward. He parted her thighs with a single motion of his own, some tattered vestige of sanity making him pause to ascertain her readiness. She was wet and hot, burning his fingers. It was too much. He nipped at the joining of shoulder and neck and entered her with one savage thrust. Tory screamed. The blue light erupted around them, joining their souls as surely as Connor had joined their bodies. He crushed her mouth with his as he drove into her spasming depths once, twice. And then he threw back his head with a groan that rose from his toes and exploded into her with a force that took off the top of his head. ***

The candles had guttered out in their own fragrant wax by the time Tory came back to herself. She opened her eyes, looking out into the spangled darkness beyond the bed. Connor's long, solid warmth was wrapped around her. She was hyperaware of him, the feel of his sweat- moistened skin, the musky scent of him, the wonderfully rough feel of hair-roughened limbs against her own smooth ones. His big body felt utterly relaxed against hers. Tory herself felt like a blob of pudding. I'll ne'er look at roses in quite the same way again. The stunned thought floated into her own mind from Connor's. It set off a series of images and sensations that prickled along nerves Tory had thought too seared to carry them.

Connor's arms tightened around her. He was still inside her, and she felt the trace echoes of ecstacy shivering along the inner softness that held him. "Tory..." The voice, barely-there and almost too husky to be heard, almost wasn't recognizable as Connor's. With great effort, Tory lifted her head to look at him. Utter exhaustion had made a harsh mask of his angular features, but his eyes glowed a luminous blue. Somehow, she summoned the strength to push his sweat-soaked hair away from his brow. And then she said the only thing she could. "Wow." A grin split his face, masculine and full of the devil. "Aye." He kissed her very, very gently, gathering her tumbled, tangled hair with his free hand and arranging the wet mass on the pillow so that it wouldn't stick to her moist skin. Tory combed her fingers through the damp thicket of his chest hair and closed her eyes, smiling into the growing darkness that was alleviated only by the occasional pale flashes of her power which mirrored the aftershocks still going on inside her. "Not bad for an old man, MacCallum," she whispered, and fell asleep. When she awoke next, it was sometime in the middle of the night. Connor was sitting beside her in the incredibly rumpled bed, running a warm, damp cloth over her skin. Tory stretched luxuriously, realizing that, this time, there were no crushed flower petals sticking to her skin. "You slept through the cleaning," Connor murmured. "If you're going to read my mind," Tory answered in an equally soft voice, "at least do it right." Following her unvoiced desire, he leaned over and kissed her sweetly. Her arms wreathed around his neck, pulling him into the embrace. "Hussy," he whispered against her kiss-swollen lips. "And here I thought you were a demure little virgin." "Little, yes. Virgin - well, definitely not after that first night. And I've never been demure." "So I'd noticed. Where on God's earth did you learn that trick with the rose?" "Imagination." "I love your imagination." Resisting Tory's efforts to tug him back down to the mattress, Connor instead brought her up with him when he sat back up. "I wish to do your hair," he explained. He took his time, stroking with the brush until her hair was a dark-copper skein of curly silk instead of a tangled nest. They laughed softly every time Connor found another hopelessly- crushed rose petal. Struggling against the silky lassitude that was permeating her entire body, she leaned back against him. Immediately, a pair of powerful arms closed about her. "How d'you feel?" he rumbled. "Wonderful. And no, you didn't hurt me."

Wordlessly, he kissed a mark on her arm that would surely become a bruise. "No?" Tory's breath shivered out of her lungs. "If I said yes, would you kiss me and make it better?" The heated blue of his eyes deepened. "If you want me to." With an easy grace, he tumbled her back to the mattress and rose above her on his elbows. Tory ran her hands up the prominent muscles of his arms and shoulders and tried to tug his head down to hers. He resisted, looking down at her with an odd expression. "What?" He shrugged a little, sliding his forearms under her shoulders so that his fingers could tangle in her hair. "You're so beautiful, mo mna. I've dreamed of you like this for so long. I canna believe 'tis real." He dropped a kiss on the little key that glittered faintly in the light of the few remaining candles. "'Tis real enough," she countered softly, affectionately mimicking his brogue. "Aye. And you look verra bonnie wearing nothing but that locket. And me." "Rogue. You're a braw lad yourself. Too braw; you almost made me forget." "What, lass?" A frown tugged at his mouth as she wriggled away and reached for the bedside table. "Your present. I had Arran bring it up here before the reception. Where did he... Ah!" She fished an elegant, leather-bound book from one of the lower shelves, smoothing her fingers over the hand-tooled leather cover for a moment before giving it to him. "I hope you like it. I... didn't know what else to give you." Connor rolled onto his side - taking care to keep her close - and took the volume from her, handling it with the same delicacy that he'd shown to Tory herself. "'Tis perfect." She gently poked him in the ribs. "You haven't even looked at it." Scowling playfully, Connor fended off the ticking fingers. "Lass, I won't be responsible for my actions if ye don't stop that." Tory wrinkled her nose at him. "Have you noticed how much thicker your accent gets when you're emotional?" "Have ye noticed how much quieter ye get when I love ye senseless?" She shot him a wicked grin. "Why do you think I bother you so often?" Growling deep in his throat, he kissed her fiercely. "Insatiable lass." He nipped one last time at her swollen lower lip. "Behave. I wish to examine my gift." Determinedly, he opened the cover of the book and studied the flyleaf, where Tory had added a dedication in her curiously elegant script. "'To my husband Connor, who understands the value of a happy ending'." He looked down at her, a mixture of surprise and awe flickering in his candlelit eyes. "Tory, this is your story." "That's what I was working on while you were so feverishly working to clear your desk for the

wedding." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "You already know that it's a fantasy romance, and I don't even know whether or not you even like that kind of thing, but... I wanted you to have it." "Thank you, a gràidh." Carefully, he closed the book and set it aside. "Now come here so that I may thank you properly." "I thought you already did." "Practice makes perfect."

Chapter Ten

"Absolutely incredible." There was a dazed kind of rapture in Tory’s eyes. "Just," she sighed gustily, "incredible." A man found himself doing a lot to keep a beatific smile like that on his woman’s face, Connor mused smugly. Although... the extent to which he’d been called upon lately was, in truth, starting to get a bit exhausting. His muscles twinged when he stretched. So much for the delusion that he was in shape - not that Connor would ever admit that to anyone, even Tory. But he was smiling as he thought it. There were few things in life more delightful than a demanding woman, and hell, he’d definitely enjoyed every minute, but... Connor sank into a pew. When he’d suggested a tour of Edinburgh’s churches, he’d certainly never expected Tory to walk him into the ground. "Have you ever seen anything so exquisite?" Tory whispered, unabashedly staring, awed at the somber glory of gray stone and jewel-toned stained glass. "Aye." Exhaustion and throbbing feet aside, Connor snagged a corner of Tory’s cloak and tugged her close enough for a hug. "I’m looking at her." "Connor... I was talking about art." "So was I." She managed to keep her laughter low. "You’re impossible, do you know that?" "That’s why you love me." He kissed her soundly, oblivious to the utter fascination of a band of schoolgirls also touring the church. "What do you say we continue this in less... ecclesiastical surroundings, hmm?" Tory smiled into his hot blue eyes. "Sounds good to me. I’m rather in the mood to appreciate a different work of art at the moment." Connor nearly groaned. She was doing it again, turning him hot with a word. He was a lucky man. "How fast can you run back to the hotel, love?" "Not as fast as you want, I don’t think. Anyway, a taxi would probably be faster."

"You’re right." "Connor! I can’t run this fast." He slowed his pace, but only marginally. He did not release his grip on her hand. "If we’re not at our hotel in fifteen minutes, I’m checking us into another one." Fourteen minutes later, Connor fumbled open the door to their suite and all but dragged Tory across the threshold. "Not a moment too soon. Come here, woman." Tory laughed out loud as they tumbled to the lake-sized bed. "Can I at least get my cloak off first?" "I thought you were wearing too many clothes." Obligingly, he wrestled off both their coats. Shoes followed quickly, thrown by hard, impatient hands. "God, I want you. I never stop wanting you." "Mmmm, me too." She ran her hands over his chest, delighting in his strength. "Connor, your sweater..." "Gone." He’d liberated them both from their sweaters and was attacking the waistband of Tory’s corduroy skirt when they both heard a discreet knock at the door. Connor bared his teeth in a growl. "Stay here, Tory-mine. I’ll go kill whoever that is." Flushed and smiling, Tory rolled off the bed. "Why don’t I just go finish getting undressed in the bathroom?" Wifelike, she straightened his now mostly buttonless shirt into some semblance of propriety. "Please don’t kill anyone, okay?" "Only because you ask so nicely," he gritted, watching with the sway of her hips with hot eyes until she’d quietly closed the bathroom door behind her. Then he took a deep breath before yanking open the door to the suite. "What?" The uniformed bellhop cowered very satisfactorily. "Pardon, sir, but there’s a note for you." Quaking almost imperceptibly, the young man held up a salver that held a sealed message slip. Connor swallowed another snarl. "Thank you." He snatched the message, then slammed the door in the boy’s face. A message? He’d left strict orders at the office not to call him unless Armageddon was breaking out. And even if all hell had broken loose at the company, Nathan should have been back from his inspection trip by now, and God knew he was as capable a vice president as any could hope to be. He broke the seal on the message, still puzzling over who could have sent it. Surely there was nothing that could have come up that couldn’t be handled... Oh, God. Connor read the message twice to be sure. "Oh my God." "Connor?" Tory padded out of the bathroom, belting her blue velvet robe around her narrow waist. The sultry smile melted from her face as soon as she saw his expression. Her eyes narrowed. "What is it?" Connor found that he had to swallow a few times before his voice would work properly. "Tory... Sit

down, love." She sat on the edge of the bed. "Why? What’s happened, Connor? Is something wrong with Morgana?" They’d left the kitten with his assistant Anne again, who doted on her. "Nothing is wrong with Morgana." If only it were something simple. Connor knelt to face her. "The note was from my lawyer. He’d been contacted by Social Services." "Social Services? I don’t..." "For Michelle. Sharon apparently named us her guardians, in case of..." She was cold. So cold. Tory tried hugging herself, but it didn’t help. The chill came from inside. "In case of what?" she asked steadily. She didn’t really have to ask. The knowledge was there, in his bleak blue eyes. "I’m sorry...." "No." Connor caught her when she would have jerked away, hauling her against him in a manner that had nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with a need for human warmth. "I am so sorry, a graidh," he whispered into her hair. "Sharon is dead." "No!" Tory tore away from him "The lawyer is wrong. The information is wrong." Helpless, he watched her pace the room in restless strides. "It’s not." "Then the bellhop delivered the message to the wrong room!" "Tory..." "You don’t understand!" Furious, she rounded on him. "Sharon can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone or anything. All she wanted was to raise Michelle. Oh my God, Michelle...." She paled, her eyes going big and glassy. Her legs made a little swishing motion. "Shit." He caught her before she could fall and installed her in the nearest chair, a small gilt affair that looked like a throne. Nerves jangling, he splashed Scotch into a glass at the corner bar and hurried back to Tory. "Drink this, lass." She managed to glare at him. "Not on your life, MacCallum." "Drink." Tory sipped. Choked. "That’s enough." A bout of coughing ensued as liquid fire seared its way down her throat. If it had been anyone but Tory, Connor would have forced her to finished the glass. Instead, he downed the rest of it himself. He needed it, he thought grimly. "D’you want to lie down?" "No." It took a minute to clear the fire and brimstone from her voice. "No, I don not want to lie down. I damn well want to know what happened to my best friend." She reached for the phone on a nearby

table. "What time is it in the States?" "Tory..." Tears were trembling on the edge of her lashes, and she didn’t even notice. She was too busy fighting the rage and shock to feel the grief. But it would come, Connor knew. It would come. "Tory, put the phone down." Very carefully, she did. Her hands were shaking, Tory noticed very calmly. How annoying. She looked to Connor, who stood watching her with concern and love and grief in his eyes. "Connor?" Very carefully. He opened his arms; she flew into them without hesitation. The tears came like a storm, sudden and unexpected and overwhelming. "Oh, God, Connor... she’s dead!" He let her cry, rocking slowly, blinking back his own tears. "We’ll find out what happened, a graidh. I promise. I’ll make it come right." "It’ll never be right again." There was nothing he could say to that, so Connor didn’t try. He picked Tory up as is she weighed nothing and carried her to the bed. "I feel so bloody useless." Her beautiful eyes were red and swollen, but very direct as they met his. "You’re not." A small, shuddering breath. "Connor, could you just hold me? Please?" He would have moved mountains for her. It would have been easier than lying there, holding her as tightly as he dared, feeling her muffled sobs cutting into him like dulled knives. "I love you, Tory." A long time later, the tears stopped. Tory took a deep breath, held it. Let it out slowly, and felt calm settle over her like a blanket. "I got your shirt all wet," she said huskily. "It doesn’t matter." Connor took a deep breath of his own. "Tory, I want to adopt the wee lassie." "You do?" His brows formed a single dark slash above silvery eyes. "Why would you think not, mo mna?" "Because we're still newlyweds, for heaven's sake. Having a toddler underfoot would put a serious crimp in your habit of grabbing me and vanishing into vacant rooms for a quick bit of 'courting'." He grinned a little. "I can live with it if you can." Tory refused to be charmed. "This is serious, Connor. You didn’t really know Sharon and you’ve never raised a child. Are you sure?" The blueing eyes smiled down at her with a gentle warmth. "I wouldna have said anything if I were not certain, Tory." A thought occurred to him. "Unless you don’t think I’ll be a good father to the lassie?" She hugged him tightly. "You’ll be a wonderful father. It was just that - I know you want children, Connor, but most men want their own, not someone else’s." "She is my own, now." He stroked the curve of her cheek. God, she felt fragile! "We’ll have to go back,

mo mna." "I know." And it would have to be soon. And there would be other details to attend to once they arrived back in the States. The funeral. A room for Michelle. Papers and proceedings and the investigation - and there would be an investigation, Tory knew. Connor would see to it. "I love you, Connor. Remember that, when we’re back and things are a little crazy. I do love you." "I always remember that." And he kissed her, very gently, to seal the promise. ***

There were, Connor thought grimly, advantages to being rich. Such as having your own Lear jet at your disposal. His austere expression didn’t change as he gently shepherded Tory to a seat. She didn’t object to his coddling. She hadn’t said more than two words to anyone, including him, since they’d found out about Sharon. It was... worrisome. The pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom. "We’re clear to take off as soon as you give the word, Mr. MacCallum." "Go." As soon as they’d hit cruising height, Connor unbuckled Tory’s seatbelt and hauled her into his lap. She barely acknowledged the move. The worry that had been churning greasily in his gut exploded into full-fledged fear. "Tory, if you don’t talk to me right now, I’ll tell Mark to set this plane down at the nearest hospital." "I hate hospitals." A flicker of life turned her eyes a more lively shade of brown. "Colorless places. How can anyone be expected to heal in such a dismal...." Relief flashed through him. "If I’d known how annoyed the subject would make you, I’d have brought it up sooner." "I wouldn’t put it past you." Sighing quietly, Tory allowed herself to snuggle deeper into Connor’s comforting embrace. The scent, the feel of him, wrapped around her like a blanket, cushioning her against the grief. And the guilt. "You know me well, lass." To comfort himself, he stroked her hair. "You had me worried, Tory. You wouldn’t talk to me." "I’m sorry. It wasn’t on purpose." "I know." And he did know. But that didn’t lessen the churning in his gut. They’d gone through so much, come so far. He didn’t think he could bear it if she started to shut him out again... "I’m not shutting you out." Dark eyes were suddenly burning up into his. "Understand that, Connor. I just... I guess I just need some quiet time." "Then you’ll have it, love." Quieting his own fears, Connor snuggled her closer. "But you’ll have me, too.

Neither of us is going through this alone." "I know that." A soft kiss quelled his frown. "I’ve always known that, Connor." He grunted. "As well you should, lass. Now, sleep. You didna get much rest last night, and you’ll need it for... for whatever happens later." Tory suppressed a shiver, not sure if it came from exhaustion or dread. There would be so much to deal with once they arrived back in the States. Thank God neither she nor Connor hurt for money. Impatient, she knuckled her dry eyes, trying to soothe her contacts. It would take money to move things along quickly in Michelle’s adoption, and to arrange a proper funeral for Sharon. She’d have to find a means of packing or disposing of Sharon’s things. No, how could she get rid of Michelle’s only mementos of her mother? There’d be packing and sorting and storage..... and.... Connor let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding when he felt his wife’s slender body finally go limp in his arms. I didn’t think you’d ever go to sleep, mo mna. It’s good you did. You’ll need your strength. ***

Screams. They tore at her throat, ricocheted around her mind. They seemed to be coming from everywhere, bouncing off invisible walls, buffetting her with waves of sound. And there was terror, sharp and thick and nauseating. Red pain, coming in waves... Waves? No, bursts. Like sharp blows. Her head hurt. Her whole body hurt in rhythm with the bursts of agony. Sharon’s face floated in front of her eyes, pale and swollen, mouth purple and bleeding. Eyes pleading. Suddenly Tory was drowning, fighting against a rising red tide and losing. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe! Tory woke screaming. Connor clamped his arms around his wife’s thrashing body. Saints, when had she gotten so strong? "Tory! Tory, wake up!" "Mr. MacCallum?" The pilot’s wary-sounding voice over the intercom. Connor spared a second to swear bitterly in Gaelic. "It’s all right. Nightmare." When Steve took the explanation without question, he reminded himself to give the man a bonus. Later. "Tory." He shook her gently, then not so gently. "Tory! Come on now, love. Wake up. Wake for me, a graidh." The screams cut off. Abruptly. "God." She clung to him, shaking. "Oh, God. Connor, I saw her. I dreamed of her." "It was just a dream, Tory." Reflexively, Connor coddled, soothed.

"No, it wasn’t. I saw her. And I think... for a moment, I was her." She pulled away from him, buried her face in her hands. It might have only been a dream, but for a split second, she had felt her friend’s spirit. And she’d felt what it had been like for her in her last moments of life. Tory shuddered. Sharon had been so vibrant, so full of joy and zest. She’d never thought that anything could happen to change that, but hadn’t she just seen the proof? Sharon broken and bleeding and cringing... "Tory." A wealth of fear vibrated in Connor’s deep voice. She was just staring, looking at something only she could see, and little sparks of blue light flashed intermittently across the surface of her eyes. "Talk to me, love. What do you see?" "Her." Hysteria simmered in the word. "Alive and happy and... And then cringing like an animal. Dead." Tory couldn’t swallow past the thickness in her throat. "If something like that could happen to Sharon... It could happen to you, Connor." Oh, hell. "Nothing is going to happen to me, Tory. Or you. We’re both safe." "There’s no such thing as safe." Her small hands clenched on his sweater, knuckles white with strain. "You and I know that better than anyone." She’s right. Helplessness was not a feeling that sat well on Connor MacCallum, and he quashed it ruthlessly. "I will keep you safe, Tory. I’ve waited two lifetimes for you, and I’ll not be cheated again. D’ye understand me? You’re mine." To prove it, he pulled her over to straddle him and crushed his mouth down on hers. Tory was passive, shocked - but only for a moment. The heat of his mouth, his passion, burned through the lingering remnants of the nightmare. Her every sense focused on him with exquisite clarity, and the hunger that speared through her was both instantaneous and irrevocable. The need to prove to themselves that they were wholly alive, together, was all- consuming. Tory wasn’t sure which one of them tore at the other’s clothing first, which was the one to lock greedy fingers on wanting flesh to pull it close. She only knew that suddenly his sweater was gone, hers probably shredded. Her skirt fared a little better; he simply shoved it up. There was the muted sound of ripping fabric as her panties tore. She nearly whimpered at the sizzling impact of his hand cupping her. The muscles of her thighs trembled. "I want you." The words were raw and without romance. Connor wasn’t capable of romance at the moment. He wasn’t capable of anything but satisfying the edgy, screaming need riding him in Tory’s lushly welcoming body. "Be in me." She nearly panted the words. "Connor...." Growling low in his throat, Connor freed himself from his pants and thrust home with a stunning force that drew groans from both of them. He knew he should be appalled at his own lack of finesse, but couldn’t care, not when her muscles fisted around him in sudden, screaming climax. Blood pounding in his ears, Connor made himself wait until Tory’s soft, erotic mewls of pleasure subsided to whimpers, until her fisted hands slid limply from his hair... and then he drove her up again. And again. Until finally, with the scent and feel of her branded in his brain, he let himself go.

***

Chapter Eleven

"I’m nervous." Tory fisted her hand in Connor’s as they followed the tired-looking social worker up the cracked sidewalk. "Me, too." Pensively, he stared at the sprawling bungalow. It was in an older residential area of Fairfield, and it looked lived in. The roof could have used some judicious repair, Connor thought critically, and the trim was a weathered and gray-stained white that would have benefitted from a new coat of paint. But the sidewalk was shoveled clear, and a lopsided snowman grinned drunkenly from the side yard. "This looks like a good place, Tory." "Hmm." She’d also noticed the signs of children in residence. Now she was looking around with eyes that saw other things. This was a happy house - insomuch as it could be happy. She huffed out a little breath of relief that turned to smoke on the cold air. Michelle would have been well cared for here. Which didn’t lessen her desire to take her home one whit. "Connor?" Do you think they’ll let us take her? Do you think we’ll be good parents? Do you think she’ll like us? She bit her lip. Understanding, he squeezed her hand. "It’ll be all right, lass. Let’s go get our little girl." An older woman with frazzled, improbably black hair opened the door. "Hi. I’m Mrs. Kimmer. You must be Mr. and Mrs. MacCallum." She ushered them all inside. "Come on in, it’s freezing out here." Like the outside, the interior of the house showed some signs of age in faded wallpaper and linoleum. But it was scrupulously clean, and cheerful and cluttered with the debris of half a dozen children of various ages. Tory took a deep breath. "Michelle is here?" Mrs. Kimmer’s faded green eyes held a sad smile. "Your little one is in the den with the rest of my kids." "She’s all right?" Connor ran a finger under his collar. "She’s sleeping and eating and..." "Yes and yes, but not much. It’s my understanding that she was in the apartment when..." The older woman broke off at a subtle signal from the social worker. "Well, you’d not be wanting to hear about that now. The den’s to the left. Why don’t you go see Michelle?" Tory didn’t wait for a second invitation. She hurried down the hall. There were younger children in the den, squabbling over a board game, and a sullen-eyed teenager watching TV. Tory paused in the doorway, looking for a familiar head of blond curls. Michelle was huddled, head down, in a corner, apart from the cheerful ruckus. A ragged- looking stuffed giraffe was cuddled under her arm.

Tory’s heart broke. She turned her face into Connor’s chest and whispered, "Sharon gave her that giraffe when she was born." Connor squeezed her hand painfully tightly. "Go see her." She never had a chance to. Michelle’s blond head tilted up at the sound of their voices. "Aun’ Tee?" Big blue eyes widened. "Aun’ Tee!" Shoving herself to her feet, giraffe still firmly in hand, the toddler pelted toward her kneeling aunt. "Aun’ Tee!" Tory grabbed her up and hugged her as if she’d never let go. Connor felt a painful lump grow in his throat. A sniffle from somewhere behind him - Mrs. Kimmer, most likely - told him he wasn’t the only one affected. Neither Mrs. Kimmer nor the social worker who’d come with them objected when he strode over to his wife and his child - his child - and wrapped his arms around both of them. Michelle was crying noisily, Tory a great deal more quietly, and a fierce urge to protect them both surged up in him. His. They were both his. To love and protect until the day he died. After a few moments, Michelle’s tears tapered off. She dropped her head on Tory’s shoulder, hiccupped, and turned big blue woebegone eyes on Connor. He melted all over again. "Hello, wee lassie." He touched a lean finger to her soft, tearstained cheek. "Remember me?" "Con." Michelle popped a thumb in her mouth. And smiled. ***

Half an hour later, Connor escorted Tory from Mrs. Kimmer’s house. "We have a few days to get Michelle’s room ready, lass." "I wish we could have taken her now." He opened the car door for her. "I know. But there are procedures, mo mna." "And they’re there for a reason. I know. I know. I just wish..." Connor slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The Mercedes started up with a purr. "Be patient, Tory. She’ll be ours soon, and forever." Sighing, Tory leaned her head back against the seat. "You know just the right thing to say, as usual, Connor." "I try," he murmured modestly. Tory laughed softly, then quieted. "Con? Do we have anything really pressing to do right away?" He had calls to make, to his office and his lawyer. "No," he replied unhesitatingly. "What did you want to do?"

Tory hesitated a moment. This was something she had to do. "I want to go to Sharon’s funeral." Grave blue eyes met hers. "Are you sure? You arranged it for her, but you don’t have to go." "Sharon didn’t have any family but me." She set her chin. "I have to go." "As you wish, lass." ***

A raw wind sliced its way around the marble monuments. Late January was a lousy time of year for a funeral, especially when you were the only mourner there. Tory’s eyes were as dry and hard as the ground as she brushed her hand over the coffin lid. "I’m going to keep this short, OK? You’ll understand. You usually understood me, even when I wouldn’t admit it." She swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned up her collar against the cold. "You know something, Sharon? I miss you. I’ll probably miss you the rest of my life. I know Michelle will. I’ll take care of her, I promise." She glanced back at Connor, waiting patiently a few feet away. "We both will." She brushed her fingers over the gleaming wood one last time. "And that’s a promise." The tears rose up again, and this time Tory didn’t bother to stop them. "Bye, Sharon." ***

Connor waited as long as he could stand before he said something. "Don’t be sad, love." "Sorry." She tucked her hand in his as he sent the Mercedes slinking along the cemetery’s winding drive. "I think I’ll be sad for a while." She dug her hands into her hair, scattering pins. "Oh, gosh, Connor, we’ve got so much to do." "Aye." On impulse, Connor made a left hand turn into a snowswept parking lot. "Let’s start here." Tory sat up straighter. "Connor? What are we doing at a toy store?" He cut the motor. "We’re about to have a child. And children," he popped open the door, letting in a blast of frigid winter air, "need toys." "Fine." She opened her own door, taking a moment to make sure her cloak was fastened against the wind. "But you can’t play with all the toy guns. And don’t set off all the noise- making toys." "Aw, but Tory..." A shadow of her familiar, impish grin crossed her face and lit a small sparkle in her eyes. "Unless I can, too." ***

Two hours later, they staggered in the front door. "You bought out the store," Connor’s voice accused

from somewhere behind a giant stuffed bear. "I did?" She tried, unsuccessfully, to blow her bangs out of her eyes. Unfortunately, her arms were full of packages. "Look who’s talking." "Right now, it probably looks like this bear is talking," he grumbled. "Well..." "Quiet, woman. And tell me when I get to the stairs." Tory giggled. Connor grinned behind the bear’s pink, fuzzy head. It had taken the rest of the day, but he’d finally gotten his lass to smile again. It was worth buying this damn fool bear, he decided. "You’re at the stairs," she said helpfully. He knew; he’d already stumbled over the first one. "Thanks." They unloaded their loot in the room that would be Michelle’s. "Furniture tomorrow," Tory decided, fishing in one of the bags they’d just put down. "Furniture," Connor agreed distractedly, admiring the way her skirt tightened over her lovely bottom. "A bed or a crib?" "A crib. And dressers and a rocker..." She yelped, because he’d come up behind her and run a loving palm over her derrierre. "Connor!" "Yes, a graidh?" He wrapped his arms around her and spun her around, but the romantic move was a little spoiled by the stuffed animal she was clutching. "Tory?" "This one’s for me." Tory clutched the silly yellow dragon to her breasts. "He makes me grin." "Well then, he’s definitely all yours." Connor scooped her into his arms, dragon and all. "Bet I know how to put a wider smile on your pretty face." "Connor!" The first real grin of the day appeared on Tory’s face as her husband masterfully carried her down the darkened hall to their bedroom. "Not in front of the dragon!" Ruthlessly, he dropped the dragon on the floor and plopped a pillow over its head before tossing Tory on the bed. "There. Any other objections?" "No." And Tory wreathed her arms around his neck so she could pull him close for an equally ruthless kiss. "You?" "Hell, no. You’re a wicked woman, Tory MacCallum." "And you wouldn’t have me any other way." ***

Two days later, Tory stood in the newly-finished nursery and gave one last flick to the brightly-flowered drapes. The sheer material fluttered against the freshly-hung cloud-patterned wallpaper. Everything that could possibly be ready was. She heaved a small sigh. All the room needed now was an occupant. "Such a solemn look, Tory," her husband's deep voice chided. His arms wrapped around her from behind. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." "You never worry for nothing, mo mna." She leaned back against him, comforted by his nearness and touched by his quiet concern. "It's just that I never thought life would turn out like this. I feel like I'm living in a soap opera. I marry Prince Charming, go off to live in a castle - okay, so it’s a mansion - my best friend is murdered, and by tomorrow I'll be a mother." What could he say to that? he wondered. "I'm not Prince Charming." In spite of her mood, Tory giggled. "Good. I always thought he was sort of bloodless, anyway." "You," Connor opinioned calmly, swinging her up into his arms, "would drive a bloodless man to drink in a week. Aren't you glad that I'm made of sterner stuff?" "MacCallum! What are you doing?" "Taking you downstairs, lass." He strode out of the nursery. "I brought home Chinese food and rented movies and sent Mrs. Jones home early." The housekeeper must've been grinning her head off. "These movies aren't XXX rated, are they?" Connor gave her an offended look, secretly delighted by the return of Tory's cockeyed sense of humor. He’d missed it in the last few days. "D'you really think we need to spice up our sex life?" Tory nearly choked. "Lord, no!" She slanted a glance up at him and saw one corner of his mouth quirk ever so slightly. "So, what kind of movies did you get? No, let me guess. The Highlander series." "Am I getting predictable, a graidh?" "Let's just say that I know how you think." "And what am I thinkin' now?" Tory pressed a kiss on his stubbled chin, nearly making him trip down the stairs. "That you love me. And that everything will be all right in time." "Wise woman." He reached the first floor and kissed her quickly. "I adore you." Tory wasn’t so befuddled by the kiss and his smile that she couldn’t notice that Connor was carrying her

down the hall. "Connor? The den is the other way." "I know. I have something to show you in the greenhouse." "What?" "You’ll see." There was a small, smug smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. The soft, fragrant warmth of the conservatory was a sharp contrast to the snow-swept expanse of lawn outside the glass walls. Tory inhaled the familiar scents of moist earth and green growing things. There was the sweetness of roses, the earthier scent of ferns and moss and... Paint? Oil? Tory sniffed again, just to be sure. "What the - " And then Connor shouldered aside a drooping willow branch and reached the center of the garden. "Oh... my..." Her carousel. Gaily painted and gleaming with brass and gilt, and standing in the middle of the garden as if it belonged there. It wasn’t easy, given her present position, but she managed to throw her arms around Connor’s neck. "Oh, Connor." He hid his smug smile in the soft, scented curve of her neck. "I couldn’t let it rot away in the park." "Thank you. It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever seen." Connor felt his chest puff up with pride. "You’re welcome, a graidh." He couldn’t wait to see her on it. He couldn’t wait to see Michelle on it, he realized. He grinned more. Then cleared his throat. "Mrs. Jones’s gone for the evening." Wise brown eyes met his. Tory smiled very slowly. "Want to christen it?" She nodded over her shoulder at the carousel. His kiss sizzled on her lips. "What do you think? ***

The house was silent when Connor walked in the door the following night, still grumpy from being called in to an emergency meeting. Nathan had been distant, almost disassociated from the meeting going on around him. Not the sort of behavior he expected or tolerated from an executive, much less a vice president, but he’d been too busy to do more than shoot the other man a glower or two across the table. And the investigation into Sharon’s murder had as yet turned up nothing. Dammit. He’d wanted to bring Tory some news. Rationally, Connor knew he was being unreasonable; the police were doing their best. There were simply no leads. The knowledge didn’t help his mood any. The lights were still burning in the den and living room, but there was an unmistakable feeling of emptiness to the entire first floor. Scowling a little, Connor threw his briefcase and overcoat onto the nearest chair. Where were Tory and Michelle? They wouldn't have gone out, Connor thought as he

worked his tie off. Michelle had just come home today and Tory didn't like going out at night by herself. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was late, nine o' clock. Michelle should be in bed by now. She'd be exhausted by everything that had happened that day. Still scowling, he took the stairs two at a time. Come to think on it, Tory would be tired, too. He'd check the bedroom first, in case she had gone to bed early. He hoped that was the case - she'd been having those dreams again, about red shadows and pain. And Sharon. Nothing he did seemed to help, either. It was irritating the hell out of him. Connor snapped out of his thoughts when he reached the master bedroom. The king- size bed was neatly made up, and empty. Not even the faint drift of her perfume lingered in the air. A short, ugly memory of that aborted kidnapping attempt flashed through his mind, and a tiny muscle working in his jaw, Connor turned toward the nursery. She’ll be there, with Michelle. If she isna there, I’ll... He stepped into the nursery. A nightlight burned in one corner, casting just enough light for him to see Tory curled up in the oversized rocker in the corner. Both she and the child she held were sound asleep. Connor's racing heart slowed a little, then took up a painfully stuttered beat when he saw the dried tears marking Tory's face. "Ah, a gràidh." The aching whisper barely cut the silence. "I wish there was something I could do to ease your grief." But all he could think of at the moment was getting her into a comfortable bed and holding her. She stirred when he eased Michelle away from her, her arms automatically tightening around the toddler. "No." "Shh, Tory-love. I'm only putting her to bed." She made a sound of protest but let him take Michelle and settle her in the crib. He heard the chair creak as she got up, smelled the subtle waft of her perfume as she glided over to the crib. She reached into the crib and smoothed the blanket over Michelle's tiny back. "Tory, don't." The faint light caught the glimmer of fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Groaning, Connor swept her into his arms and carried her out into the hallway. "'Tis all right, a gràidh." "Nothing's all right," she whispered, so softly that he almost didn't hear her. "Connor, did you see how scared she was when they brought her to us?" The stark despair in her voice made him want to cringe. "Aye." And he knew that her gift was causing those echoes of fear to sweep through her as if they were fresh. "What can I do?" He strode into their bedroom and settled on the edge of the bed with her in his lap. Her lips quirked into a limp smile. "A hug would be nice." He held her so tightly that she squeaked. "Connor! Breathing would be nice, too." "Sorry, lass." His hold on her loosened, but not by much. "Better?" Tory took a deep breath, then sniffled. "Mmm hmm. You know," she sniffled again and wished vaguely for a tissue, "for a sword-slinging Highlander, you're a teddy bear when it comes to women." Connor hid his grin in her hair. "You never stay upset for long, do you, Tory?"

"I distinctly remember warning you about my mood swings before we got married. They're part of the package, remember?" She coughed delicately. "So is m'overprotectiveness." Connor deposited her on the bed. "I'll be gettin' you hot chocolate and cold medicine. Be in bed by the time I get back." Tory arched a regal brow. "I beg your pardon?" "Please." He followed the plea with a kiss and quickly left the room. Tory had just enough time to wash her face and change into her old blue flannel gown - and grab a box of tissue - before she heard Connor's heavy footsteps on the stairs. She dove for the bed. Her husband stuck his head into the room. "Are you decent?" Tory flipped the covers over her legs. "Yes." "Damn." He walked in, bearing the promised hot chocolate, medicine and the day's mail. "Here you go, lass." Tory reached for the chocolate. Connor held up a warning finger. "Medicine first, mo mna." "What are you, MacCallum, my mother?" She made a face as he stuck the spoon in her mouth and the syrup went down. "Your mother wouldn't do this, lass." He kissed her, bathing the traces of medicine from her lips with the tip of his tongue. "I should say not. I took your medicine, now give me my hot chocolate." He handed her the mug without a word. "Thank you, darling." She sipped, eager to taste something other than the medication. "Is there anything interesting in the mail?" "Aye." He fished out an envelope. "This is addressed to you, a gràidh." Tory looked at the return address and felt a slow curl of excitement start to tickle the pit of her stomach. Carefully, she set her mug on the bedside table. "Connor, I think this is from the publisher." "You sent your manuscript to a publisher and didna tell me?" "I was being superstitious. You know, never tell anyone you're submitting a book, just in case you jinx yourself." Tory ran her fingertips along the sharply folded edge of the envelope. "I'm almost afraid to open it." Connor kept his burgeoning grin hidden. "Shall I do it, a gràidh?"

"No. No, I'll do it." She slit open the envelope with her finger and carefully unfolded the paper inside. Tory only got as far as the name of the publishing company before she shut her eyes. Connor's hand engulfed hers, and he raised her fingers to his lips. "Read it, lass." Taking a deep breath, Tory scanned the letter. Connor watched her face intently, aware of the quiet tension sitting in his chest like a lead ball. Then she was grinning, a mixture of disbelief and elation sweeping across her face. "They like it! Connor, they want to buy my story!" Abruptly, she fell back across the pillows, eyes blank with shock. "Omigod." The smile lines at the corners of Connor's eyes deepened. "Congratulations, Tory!" He slid up to catch her mouth in a kiss. "I knew you could do it." "Well, I'm glad one of us felt that way," she mumbled on a yawn. "Why am I so tired all of a sudden?" "Well," Connor removed the precious acceptance letter from her fingers and set it and everything else aside, "'tis most likely the medicine." "MacCallum, if you slipped me a spiked drink, I'm going to have to kill you." "I didn’t slip you a thing, a gràidh. 'Twas only that the medicine has alcohol in it." "If I wasn't so tired, I'd strangle you." Her huge yawn spoiled the threat. "You can strangle me in the morning if you've a mind to." He slid up on the bed to pull her into his arms, blankets and all, not giving a thought to the fact that he was still fully dressed. "This is becoming a habit, MacCallum." "I know," he said ruefully, wishing that he'd at least stopped to take off his shoes. Oh, well. "Sleep now. Everything will be better come morning." "Promise?" She asked it very softly. "Promise." Connor had the niggling feeling that he was tempting Fate, but he ignored it. "You'll see, lass. Everything will all come out right in time." ***

Two weeks, Tory thought, staring at the carnage around her. After two weeks, I'm finally getting the hang of this motherhood business. God, I wonder how Sharon managed it. The phone on the kitchen wall shrilled. Tory grabbed for it with sticky fingers. "Hello?" "I miss you," Connor said without preamble. Tory's low, liquid chuckle poured into the receiver. "MacCallum, you just left half an hour ago!"

"I know. I don't think I can stand it." "Poor baby," she purred sympathetically. "Lass, I'm no baby." Tory rolled her eyes. "Believe me, MacCallum, I know that. So, you call for a quickie over the phone or do you have a legitimate reason to bug me?" "Tory, have you ever known me to indulge in phone sex?" "Not during the day, no." Her voice faded for a minute. "Michelle! Don't drop that bowl on the floor, sweetie..." There was a muted crash at the other end of the line. "Too late." Connor prudently stifled a laugh, but his voice was rich with amusement. "Should I ask how the wee lassie is doing?" "If you dare laugh, MacCallum, I swear I will murder you in your sleep," Tory threatened, but she was chuckling, too. "She's just finished her dinner. I'm still trying to figure out how much food she actually ate as opposed to how much she plastered the kitchen with." "Sounds like fun." "If you think it's so great, I'll leave it for you to clean up." "Best not to, a gràidh. I don't know when I'll be home tonight." "Another late night?" Her voice took on the slightest edge of disappointment. His chagrin vibrated over the phone line. "I'm sorry, m'love. This merger is taking up more time than I like." "I know that. Don't worry. I'll be waiting for you when you get home." "In bed? Wearing that wee blue thing?" "MacCallum, if I wear that 'wee blue thing' to a lonely bed, the teddy won't be the only thing that's blue by the time you get home. I'll freeze!" "I'd still love you if you were frozen," he said generously. Tory giggled. "You would. Hurry home?" "I'll try, lass. But I canna promise anything. I'll bring you a present, shall I?" She groaned; he pictured her rolling her eyes. "MacCallum, if you bring home more flowers..." He laughed. "All right, no flowers." "Thank you. Michelle, sweetheart..." Connor heard another crash. "Okay, you can get out of the high

chair. Why don't you go play with your blocks, hmmm? No, not Aunt Tory's papers. Blocks." "Tory?" he ventured cautiously. "No problem. This motherhood thing is a cakewalk once you get used to it." "Oh? And are you used to it?" "Well, let's just say that after all this time, I'm pretty much shockproof." "Good for you. Oh, did I leave any papers at home?" Tory laughed a little. "Again? Yep. I rescued them from the grasping little blond terror not an hour ago before she could do more than leave little hand prints all over them, I might add. They're on the table in the foyer. Does anyone suspect that you're purposely leaving things here so you can have an excuse to come home for an hour in the afternoon?" "After two weeks of the same trick? I should hope so. My people are picked for their brains." He sounded so smug that she had to laugh at him again. "Are you coming home this afternoon or not?" "I'm not sure, but I'll certainly try. I love you, Tory MacCallum." "I love you, too, Connor MacCallum. 'Bye." She hung up, laughing quietly to herself. Michelle clapped her hands gleefully. "Me! Phone. Me!" "Yes, I've noticed it’s you." Tory scooped the little girl up, heedless of the pancake smears which decorated her rosebud-print overalls. "Want to go play with your phone? The red one?" "No." Michelle shook her head, sending wheat-blonde curls tumbling into her eyes. "No, no." She tugged at her ear with a chubby, sticky hand. "Gana?." "Uh uh, kiddo." Tory pressed a smacking kiss to a syrupy cheek. There was a wary truce going on between the little girl and the kitten. "Morgana would never forgive me if I gave away her hiding place under the leather chair in the library, and it’s getting on to bedtime, anyway. How about we get you cleaned up instead, and then we'll help Mrs. Jones clean up the kitchen." "Don't be silly, Miss Tory." A sturdy matron of fifty-eight, Gwen Jones bustled into the kitchen, lace decorating the collar of her neon-pink sweatshirt and rap music spilling from the earphones of the Walkman that Tory was beginning to think was permanently attached to her waist. "You take care of the little darling and I'll deal with the kitchen." Tory bit her lower lip uncertainly. "Are you sure?" "You just let me do my job, sweetie." Mrs. Jones plopped her hands on her ample hips, gray eyes twinkling behind her granny glasses. "You obviously don't have a clue about proper etiquette for the filthy rich, do you?" "And I'm not planning on learning, either. Yell if you need help, Gwen."

"Fat chance." The older woman shooed Tory from her kitchen. "Out. Out. And stay out." Tory sighed. "Looks like we've been dismissed from the royal kitchen, huh?" She set the squirming Michelle down in the floor. "Come on, short stuff, I'll race you to the bathroom."

Michelle loved the water. With enthusiasm. It would be a lot easier to dry off the little girl, Tory decided, looking around the huge marble master bathroom, than everything else. "Michelle, sweetie, come on out. It’s getting past your bedtime and, horror of horrors, the water’s getting cold." Tory shivered. Splash. "Duckie." Blue eyes dancing, Michelle held up her rubber duck. "Squeak!" She made little squawking noises and plowed the hapless animal beak first into the tub. "Mmm hmm. The duckie does say squeak. And what does Michelle say?" "Splash!" The toddler slapped the water for emphasis. Tory laughed. She was too happy to see the child return to her normal, bouncy self to scold. It had been a week since Michelle had arrived, and only in the last few days had she started to run and play and laugh again. "That’s right, splash." Tory dribbled warm water down the baby’s chest to tickle her. Michelle giggled and splashed more. "Again!" By the time she’d managed to extricate Michelle from the tub, the emerald rug, walls, and Tory were about as wet as the little girl. "Next time," Tory promised the baby, fresh and clean and wrapped in the one dry towel left out of five, "I’ll just jump in there with you. How’s that?" Michelle giggled and stuck a finger in her mouth. "Splash?" she asked hopefully. "Next time, honey." Tory bumped open the bathroom door with her hip. "Sound good to you?" "That sounds perfect." The man standing at the top of the stairs smiled a feverish, empty smile that didn’t reach his glittery eyes. "Oh my God...." Tory tightened her grip on Michelle, who’d begun to cry and wriggle. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. She’d never seen him before, but she knew him. "Hans?" "Hello, liebchen."

Chapter Twelve

Connor's head jerked up. "Tory?" From her position on the other side of the paper-laden desk, Anne looked at him. "Mr. MacCallum?" He ignored her. One moment he'd been studying revenue charts and the next he'd been overwhelmed

with a feeling of absolute dread. And he'd swear he’d heard Tory's voice echo in his mind. "Sir?" "Excuse me," he muttered, snatching up the phone and punching in his home number. A busy signal buzzed in his ear. "Dammit." Connor slammed down the receiver and bolted from his chair, driven by the sudden need to see his wife. "Go home, Annie. Just leave everything and go home." Anne rose to her feet, twisting her hands as she studied her employer's suddenly pale face. "Is everything all right?" "I don't know." The feeling of dread only grew as Connor raced down to the parking garage and peeled out into traffic with complete disregard for the icy roads. A busy signal and a bad feeling didn't actually mean that there was anything wrong - or so he tried to tell himself. But rationalizing didn't help. Nothing would help but that he would see Tory, safe and well, with his own eyes. It wasn't until he was actually in the front door that the feeling hit. Connor staggered slightly, clutching at the doorjamb for support as a feeling of utter terror slammed into him like a freight train. "Tory!" Her name ripped from him on a hoarse, surging shout. He took the stairs two at a time. He barely heard a frightened Michelle set up a fretful wail. "Where are you?" "In the bedroom." Tory had a lively, musical voice. It was never dull, never lifeless. Connor braced himself and walked as quickly as he dared to the master suite. His wife was sitting on the bed. Michelle, wrapped in an emerald bath towel, clung to her like a monkey. The man with them was only visible from the back... and was somehow familiar. The neat, Saville Row suite, the perfectly groomed hair... The adrenaline rush cooled slightly. Until Connor caught the glint of light off metal. The bastard had a gun on his wife and child. "What the hell are you doing, Nathan?" The other man turned and smiled at him, but his gun hand remained steady. Connor caught a hard breath. It was Nathan’s face, Nathan’s body... but those weren’t Nathan’s eyes. "Welcome home, " said Hans. "Did he harm you, Tory?" He asked it without taking his eyes off the other man. "No." "We have been through this before," Hans said crisply. "Must you always ask the same question? It is tiresome." "As is your timing." Connor tried to close out his awareness of everything other than Hans, but he could almost feel Tory’s fear. For him. "Why cannae you leave us alone?"

Hans cocked his head to one side. "You were always a fool, British. Magda is the reason I am here. She is mine." "No." Hans smiled thinly. "Did you forget? She was before. She will be again." "No." Michelle sniffled and tried to burrow more deeply into Tory’s side. "Silence the child, if you please, liebchen. I have no desire to shoot her, any more than I did before." "Bastard," Connor growled softly, realization biting into him. "You killed her mother." "A regrettable incident. She would not tell me where to find you, Madga. She was... remarkably stubborn." The mad eyes slewed back to Connor. "Much like you. So stubborn. So noble. Do you think you are a hero, British?" Spittle dribbled in a thin line down Hans’ chin. "Do you think she will admire your courage? Your bravery." He spat at Connor’s feet. "You were the reason she died before! Do you imagine she thanked you for that?" "As a matter of fact," Tory got slowly to her feet, "I did." A muscle twitched in Hans’ jaw. "Sit down, please. I do not wish to shoot you, either." "No." Gently, she set Michelle on her feet. "Go on, honey. Go find Morgana." She eyed Hans grimly. "Michelle is no use to you. She’ll only get in the way." He appeared to consider this. "Go." He stood aside to let the child run past. "Thank you, liebchen. Now, get your coat. We will be leaving as soon as I dispatch your fine British pig." "I’m not leaving Connor." She didn’t, as Connor feared, move to stand beside him. He didn’t think he could bear it she had. Too much of the past had already repeated itself. Now he just had to make sure the rest of it didn’t. Even if that meant sacrificing himself... "How did you come back?" Hans turned to face him. His black eyes glittered. "Your man, this Nathan. He had business in Germany. He was petty, greedy, but brilliant. It was a simple thing to take over his body, to give myself substance. And even more simple to take my place in your organization." He favored Connor with a smug look, enjoying the Scotsman’s simmering rage. "You were too busy wooing our little Magda to notice that your vice president was avoiding meeting face to face with you." "I was a fool." "Yes, you were." Calmly, Hans pointed the gun at him. The shot sounded abnormally loud in the confines of the room. Blood bloomed on Connor’s shoulder, and he staggered. Tory screamed. "Connor!" "Please, stay where you are, Magda." Hans swung the gun around to point it at her. "Do you think I did not know? This attempt to keep me talking. To guile me into making a mistake. It will not work. I will not

be a fool like the last time. This time, I will not be the one to die." He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. No. It wasn’t going to happen again. She was damned if she’d let Connor die again while she stood by helplessly. Pressure built to a fever pitch inside Tory, swirling like a tornado. There was fear. Hate. Rage. Most of all, there was rage. "The hell you won’t be the one to die." She threw herself at him, more quickly than she could have imagined she could move. Black nausea shuddered through her the moment her palms landed flat against his chest. Tory bit her lip until blood flowed and then pushed. Everything she was feeling, everything she had felt since Connor had stormed into the house, everything she’d felt since she’d seen Hans’ damned face again, flooded out of her in a single inchoate rush of emotion. There was a neon-bright flash of azure light that felt like burning glass being forced through her skin - and Hans’ screams drowned out her own. Then Connor lunged, slamming into Hans with the impact of a freight train, knocking him clear of Tory. Hans snarled like a rabid animal, met the other man with raking fingers and brutal fists. The fight was short and vicious. Bloody. Connor couldn’t feel the throbbing in his injured shoulder, or the splitting of his own knuckles as he drove his fist into Hans’ face. He didn’t hear his own hoarse snarls of rage as they both scrabbled for the fallen gun. He did hear the gunshot. Hans slumped over him, gaunt face graying slowly. "Bastard." He coughed. Blood- tinged bubbles trickled from his mouth. "I’ll...." A look of infinite surprise crossed his face when he looked down sluggishly at the gaping hole in his chest. "I’ll..." Then, silence. Connor could hear his own hoarse panting, and the thudding of his heart. Pain started throbbing in his arm, but awareness of it was distant. "Tory?" He shoved Hans’ body off him and struggled to his knees. "Tory? Where are - Oh, God." She was so still, he thought, agonized, scrambling over to her as quickly as he could. There was blood on her shirt. Hans’, not hers. He assured himself of that with quick, trembling hands. "Tory? Come on, love. Open your eyes. Tory?" And then he remembered, with sickening clarity, exactly how she’d distracted Hans enough for Connor himself to act. "God, Tory, why? He wasna worth it." He checked her pulse; it was thready, but there. He clung to the knowledge as he dialed the paramedics, although his hands were shaking as he pressed the glowing numbers on the phone. She’ll be all right. Connor muttered it to himself like a mantra. She’ll be all right. She was all right before... But this isna like before. It must have been stronger somehow. No, I willna think like that. She’ll be all right. She has to be! It seemed like hours before he heard the sirens come wailing up the drive. "Dinnae you dare die, Tory MacCallum," he ordered in a tone gruff with fear. He was shaking so hard as he wrapped her in the blue comforter and started downstairs to meet the arriving paramedics that he was afraid he'd drop her. "D'you hear me? Dinnae die."

***

Connor had lost track of how long he'd been sitting in the emergency room. He was numb from the shot of painkiller the doctor had given him before stitching up his shoulder, punchy from adrenaline and exhaustion. Mrs. Jones had taken Michelle home without so much as a murmur at being rousted from her bed in the wee hours of a winter morning. Connor had been grateful for her unquestioning help. He couldn't think straight right now. Hell, he was just barely controlling his urge to smash his fists through something. "Connor?" His head came up sluggishly. "Arran? How - Why are you here?" The other man walked slowly into the curtained cubicle, eyeing Connor as warily as he would a coiled rattlesnake. "The how is easy. Mrs. Jones called Mrs. McKinnon. I caught the first flight I could. As to the why -you’re family. Tory’s family." he said simply. "Is there any news?" "None. Not yet." Connor looked blearily at his cousin. "I'm afraid she's going to die." "Do the doctors know what's wrong with her?" Connor shook his head. "No. And they won’t. It’s not... it’s not medical." Arran could read between the lines as well as anyone, even though he knew of only the barest hints of Tory’s talents. "And you?" The concern in his cousin’s eyes touched him. "I’ll live. Most of the blood isna mine." "But that shoulder is. You’ll not tell me it’s just a flesh wound, will you?" Arran asked curiously. Connor laughed, swore as his bruised ribs protested. "No." "Mr. MacCallum?" Connor's head came up, his eyes lasering in on the new doctor. He rose slowly to his feet. "Who are you?" "David Matthews." The older man eyed the bloody, battered figure with the bandaged shoulder and suppressed the urge to take a step back. "I’m Mrs. MacCallum’s attending physician." The blue eyes sharpened. "How is she?" Dr. Matthews shoved his hands into the pockets of his rumpled white coat. "She's comatose." Connor drew in a breath and went white beneath his tan. He fixed his raw eyes on Matthews while Arran swore under his breath. "Will she recover?" Connor's voice was ragged with pain. "Mr. MacCallum, there’s nothing obviously physically wrong with your wife. She just isn’t waking up. Now, I’ve ordered tests, but offhand, I’d say any recovery was up to her."

Connor sank back onto the examining table; his legs were too weak to hold him. He was vaguely aware, through the haze of anguish that cocooned him, that the doctor had left, that Arran was looking at him with concern. "Con? Con, are you all right? Do you want me to get you something?" "No." He scrubbed both hands over his face. "No, there’s nothing. Just waiting." The privacy curtain slid back again to admit two rumpled-looking, weary-eyed detectives. They flashed their badges. "Mr. MacCallum?" the shorter one said. "If we might have a word with you?" "In a moment." Connor turned to Arran. "Could you go back to the house? Watch Michelle? The housekeeper is with her now, but..." "Aye, I’ll go." The ginger-haired giant caught his cousin in a hard hug. "T’will all come out right, laddie. Ye’ll see." ***

A stone-faced Dr. Matthews was just coming out of Tory's room as Connor stalked back down the hall. His heart faltered in his chest. "Doctor? Matthews' voice didn't give anything away. "You can go in and sit with her, if you like. Although I doubt she’ll know you’re even there." Connor touched his wedding ring. The gold was cold and smooth to the touch. "Is she....?" "Still in the coma? Yes. But it's been less than a day. Give her time, Mr. MacCallum. She may come out of it in a few days or weeks..." Or never. Without a word, Connor shouldered past Matthews and went into Tory's room. The ICU room was sterile, dim, and quiet except for the monotonous mechanical beep of monitors. Tory looked terrifying fragile lying in that antiseptic white bed, her dark chestnut hair the only spot of color in sight. There was an IV line in one slender arm. "Tory." He breathed her name quietly, as if he were afraid that he'd wake her up. "Dinnae open your eyes and see where you are, a gràidh. You'd hate this place. There's nae color, just as you said. Nae... life." The plastic chair squeaked beneath his weight as he settled into it. Both his hands crept out to take one of hers. He half-expected to see tendrils of glistening blue light bloom when he touched her, but Tory's slender, clever fingers only curled limply against his calloused palm. "I don't know if you can hear me, mo mna, but... I need to talk." Connor dragged in a deep, labored breath. "Hans is dead. You beat him. We beat him. About time, too." He tried for a rusty chuckle that died in his throat. "It took us two lifetimes to get it right, but we did it. Together. And he won’t be comin’ back this time." There was a pain in his chest, as if his heart were trying to claw its way out through his ribs. "You have to wake up. If you don’t he’ll have won. He’ll have kept us apart again. Don’t let him do that to us again,

a gràidh. I’ve waited two lifetimes for you. I’ll wait more, if that’s what it takes. But I don’t want to. And I don’t want to raise our daughter alone." He reached out to touch her cheek and encountered the cold plastic of the oxygen line instead. "So... I need you to wake up. You promised me forever, Tory. Remember?" He cradled her slack hand against his cheek, acid tears sliding down to wet her skin. "Keep that promise, dammit. Come back to me." ***

At first he thought it was only another one of the endless series of dreams that he'd been having for days, but the voice didn't fade as he half-heartedly swam toward wakefulness. "Connor." Connor's eyes shot open and he bolted upright, not even noticing the myriad aches that zinged from his shoulder, and came from sleeping in a chair that definitely hadn't been designed to accommodate a man his size. "Tory!" The big, dark eyes shut briefly. "Don't yell, MacCallum," she whispered. " I've got a killer headache." Connor jabbed at the call button beside the bed with shaking fingers. "I'm sorry, a gràidh." He took a shuddering breath, knuckled his gritty eyes. "God, Tory, I thought..." She closed her eyes briefly against the pain in his. Strange. Why couldn’t she feel his pain? She could see it... "He shot you?" Connor flexed his injured shoulder and winced, automatically readjusting his arm in the sling. "As I’ve told Arran, I’ll live." Tory licked cracked lips. "Hans?" "Will not trouble us again. And Michelle is fine." He kissed her hand very gently. "All you have to do is worry about getting strong again." It was so hard to keep her eyes open. Tory didn’t know why she was fighting it. "I worry about you. How long...?" "A week." A weak smile tried to fight its way through the beard hugging his strong jaw. "An entire horrible week." "Sorry." She smiled softly, her eyelids fluttering closed again. "But I do like the beard." The smile grew a touch more genuine, but it didn't stop him from watching her as if he were afraid that she'd vanish into thin air if he looked away. "I’d forgotten I had it." Both of them looked up as a nurse and Dr. Matthews burst into the room. "What is it? She's awake?" Connor looked at the doctor. "Aye." Wavy frown lines appeared on Matthews' forehead. "Mr. MacCallum, you're going to have to leave so we can run some tests." "No." The flat syllable seemed to clatter to the floor.

"Connor." All eyes turned toward Tory; she blushed faintly. "It's all right. Go home to Michelle." "Tory..." He held her hand more tightly. She squeezed his fingers as best she could. "I'll be here when you get back. I promise." He kissed the backs of her fingers. "I'll hold you to that." ***

A few days after Tory came out of the coma, Michelle was gleefully bouncing herself on her mother's hospital bed. "Aun' Tee! Aun' Tee!" "Calm down, short stuff," Tory protested on a wince. "I'm not up to bouncing yet." "'Tis only been a few days since you awoke, lass. Not quite a week." "I know. Not a moment of that week has gone by when I haven't been poked and prodded and - " She broke off, eyeing her husband. "You don't have to find this so amusing, you know." "I'm sorry, lass. 'Tis only that I'm so glad I’m not the only one suffering under the doctor’s whip." She suppressed the urge to stick her tongue out at him. "And I'm glad to see you looking like a member of the human race again." Actually, he looked better; what MacCallum did for a faded green sweatshirt and worn jeans was probably criminal. The sling added a certain rakish appeal. "Stress really doesn't become you, Connor." He kissed her quickly, then kissed her again. "So I’ve been told." "Con?" Arran's copper head appeared from behind the door. "The nurses said I'd find you here." Connor half-turned to face the newcomer, but didn't move away from Tory. "Arran. What is it brings you here?" "I came to visit Sleeping Beauty." Arran's grin widened when he saw Michelle cuddled on Tory's lap. "Well, hello there, wee lassie." "Arran!" The little girl held up both her arms and pouted until he’d picked her up. The big man’s grin threatened to crack his face in two. "She likes me," he murmured foolishly, and let her tug on his beard. Tory tried not to laugh; it still hurt. "Arran, you shouldn't have brought flowers now. I'm fine. In fact, I'll be going home in a few days." She propped herself up a little higher on the pillows and accepted the colorful, obviously expensive bouquet Arran handed to her. "I wanted to bring them." He turned a thousand-megawatt smile on her. Connor shook his head. "Forget it. She’s mine."

The other man smiled and kissed Tory's cheek quickly. "Then I’ll settle for Michelle. Come with me, darlin’. Uncle Arran will bring you home while your parents do dull grownup things. Get well soon," he added to Tory before he sauntered out, Michelle perched on one shoulder like a small blonde parrot. Connor turned to his wife. Frowned. "Tory? What is it?" She took a deep breath. "Nothing. It’s just... nothing." "You’ve never lied to me before." The quiet words cut deep. "There’s nothing you can do. I didn’t want to worry you." "What is it?" He watched, horrified, as silent tears started to roll down Tory’s pale cheeks. "Tory, please tell me." "It’s gone." She touched a thin hand to his. "You’re worried and upset and scared, and I should be able to feel that as if your emotions were my own and were tearing at me. But I can’t. I can’t feel anything but me. It’s like... like seeing the world in two dimensions instead of three." Connor threaded his fingers through hers. "You’ve been very sick, a graidh. Surely you will heal..." "It’s been days, Connor. I just was too scared to say anything." She bit her lip to cut off a little sob. "I burned it out. It’s not coming back." Connor cursed Hans to hell and back. Several times and with great zeal. "You’re sure?" She laughed, a little bitterly. "Sure? I don’t know. It’s just that.... All my life, I was different. Set apart. I wanted to be normal so badly sometimes... And now I am, and I feel... I don’t know, empty, somehow. Like a part of me is missing. Like I’m not myself anymore." "You are yourself." Careful of the IV, Connor gathered her into his arms. "You are Tory MacCallum, and no matter what else, you will always be magic to me." She huddled into him. "Connor, I’m scared." "I know, m’love. I know."

Epilogue

The conservatory was full of the scents and colors of spring. Snow drifted against the panes outside, misting the warm glass. Tory was leaning comfortably against the pile of pillows banked up behind her and watching Michelle contentedly stack blocks a few feet away. It should have been a peaceful scene of domestic bliss. It wasn't. Tory traced idle patterns on the thick blue quilt she was lying on with the tip of her finger and tried to curb the urge to smack her husband. I've only been home a day and he's already driving me nuts! "MacCallum..."

"Aye, lass?" The delicious silk and velvet voice came from less than an inch away. Tory tipped her head back to look at him. "You don't need to feed me." He stroked her hair and popped another chocolate drop into her mouth. "I like feeding you." "So I'd noticed. You're also hovering." "Aye." "You're giving me chocolate." "Dr. Matthews said 'twas all right." "MacCallum!" She turned on her side so that she was facing him. There were new lines in that austere face, a new darkness in his changeable eyes. Her soft, unpainted mouth twisted in a small grimace. "It's been a week, Connor," she ventured quietly. He shook his head, stubbornness scrawled across his face. "'Tis not been long enough." "How did I know you were going to say that?" Tory muttered. He shook his head, his face stilling into a stubborn mask. "You're doing it again," she sighed, rubbing at a sudden, insistent ache between her brows. "Aye," he said shortly. "I'm going to the cemetery tomorrow." Connor went from belligerent to shocked. "What? Tory..." "I said I'm going to the cemetery." "Lass, you canna - " The dark eyes shot sparks. "You know better than to tell me what I can and can't do, MacCallum." "Wee, stubborn, impossible lass." He heaved a burning sigh and muttered something Gaelic and dire under his breath. "Damn right I am. "I have... to see the grave. I have to prove to myself that they put him into the ground so I can come to terms with the fact that he's really dead. That he's not coming back." "There's no way for him to come back, Tory." Connor forced surety into his voice. Tory stuck to her guns with her usual tenacity. "We both have to go. For Michelle's sake. And for ours.

I want us to have a happy ending this time, Connor. Don't let him spoil it for us." Damn it, she's right. 'Tis time to let go of the past. "All right, m'love. For you. But don’t ask me to forgive him. Or forget what he did to all of us. 'T’would take a miracle." On a whim, Connor reached into the picnic basket and brought out the gem-studded wand and vial of fairy dust he'd given to her at Christmas. God, it seemed like a lifetime ago! He studied them for a moment, then looked at her. "Do you remember when I gave you this?" "You said it was to help me cast my spells." Whimsically, she traced a finger over the glass, the gems. "I wish it really was magic. Then it could fix me." He silenced her with a brush of a finger across her unpainted lips. "Magic comes when you least expect it." The rough pad of his thumb brushed her lips in another minute caress. "You’re the one who taught me that." "I know." The beguiling half-smile grew into a full-blown grin just before she raised herself up to kiss him. Connor's hard lips sipped at hers, then - for the first time since she’d woken in the hospital - turned ravenous. Tory felt herself slide into bonelessness, felt herself begin to tingle from her toes on up. Then, distantly, energy began to thrum in her blood like the beat of pagan drums. The thrumming grew louder, closer, faster. Almost orgasmic in its flow. She sensed more than heard Connor's muted gasp of pleasure and realized that he must be able to feel it, too. The thought brought an exquisite thrill of happiness. She loved feeling him like this, loved knowing that the cobalt force inside her had done more than cocoon them both; it was binding them together until they were joined halves of the same soul - the way they had been a lifetime ago. It was back. "Aun' Tee!" A fascinated Michelle had scampered over to the adults and was reaching curiously for the blue fire. Tendrils of it tickled her tiny palm. She giggled. "Look! Pretty!" Connor pulled back a bare fraction of an inch. His eyes were glowing more blue than she'd ever seen them, as if there was a part of her magic sparkling through his veins. And he was grinning. "Look, Tory, The magic." "It’s there. I can feel it." She threw her arms around his neck. "I can feel it!" 'I love you, Tory." Tory carelessly dropped the wand to the quilt and beamed up at him. "I know." Her dark eyes glimmered with blue fire and laughter. "Tha gradh agam ort, MacCallum." "Tory! You learned Gaelic?" "Only the bedroom phrases," she murmured demurely, watching Michelle go back to her blocks out of the corner of her eye. "Oh?" His already-deep voice had taken on the consistency of raw honey.

"Yes, oh. Want a sample?" She whispered something into his ear. "Lass!" He stared at her, shock and heat dancing in his eyes. "D'you know what that means?" "No, but judging by the glazed look on your face, it's something real good." "Ma wee siren," he growled, his narrowed, scorching eyes intent on her face. "Not in front of the lassie." "No?" Tory sighed and bit her lip. "I guess we'll just have to wait, then." "I hate waiting." His hand slipped down to cup the soft, ripe curve of her breast. "Connor..." It was more a breath tinted with the merest trace of sound than a word. He growled a curse that she didn't even try to translate and pulled back slightly. "All right, I'll wait. Impatiently. Verra impatiently." Tory nipped at his chin, then wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don’t worry\ m'laird. This time, we've got all the time in the world." "Promise?" he asked huskily, nuzzling her lips with his. Fey knowledge gleamed in the velvet darkness of her smiling eyes. "Promise."

The End If you liked this book, be sure to watch for these titles!

THE LADY AND THE ROGUE by Kelly Caddell When folklorist Carolina York returned home to New Orleans, she hadn’t counted on fate throwing her a curve ball by the name of Gabriel, a cajun rogue who sweeps her off her feet. A steamy paranormal

coming in May of 1998.

HEART OF THE HERO by Rickey Mallory After losing his memory in a space station accident, Danny White returns home to find a family he doesn’t remember. Can he and his wife learn to love again, or will the past overshadow their future? ***** Affaire de Coeur. Now available.

CHANGING SEASONS by Judith Harris In this time travel set in Normandy France, professor Danielle Dumont must save an 18th century Marquis from the guillotine. Now available.