The house stood as it had for more than a century, a grand tribute to

man's vanity and brilliance, near the dark shadows of the forest of live

oaks, where the river flowed in murky silence.

Within the shelter of trees, fireflies blinked gold, and night creatures

stirred, braced to hunt or be hunted. Wild things bred there in

shadows, in secret.

There were no lights to brighten the tall, narrow windows of Sanctuary.

No lights to spread welcome over its graceful porches, its grand doors.

Night was deep, and the breath of it moist from the sea. The only sound

to disturb it was of wind rustling through the leaves of the great oaks

and the dry clicking-like bony fingers-of the palm fronds. The white

columns stood like soldiers guarding the wide veranda, but no one opened

the enormous front door to greet her.

As she walked closer, she could hear the crunch of sand and shells on

the road under her feet. Wind chimes tinkled, little notes of song. The

porch swing creaked on its chain, but no one lazed upon it to enjoy the

moon and the night.

The smell of jasmine and musk roses played on the air, underscored by

the salty scent of the sea. she began to hear that too, the low and

steady thunder of water spilling over sand and sucking back into its own

heart.

The beat of it, that steady and patient pulse, reminded all who

inhabited the island of lost Desire that the sea could reclaim the land

and all on it at its whim.

Still, her mood lifted at the sound of it, the music of home and

childhood. Once she had run as free and wild through that forest as a

deer, had scouted its marshes, raced along its sandy beaches with the

careless privilege of youth.

Now, no longer a child, she was home again.

she walked quickly, hurrying up the steps, across the veranda, closing

her hand over the big brass handle that glinted like a lost treasure.

The door was locked.

she twisted it right, then left, shoved against the thick mahogany

panel. Let me in, she thought as her heart began to thud in her chest.

I've come home. I've come back.

But the door remained shut and locked. When she pressed her face

against the glass of the tall windows flanking it, she could see nothing

but darkness within.

And was afraid.

she ran now, around the side of the house, over the terrace, where

flowers streamed out of pots and lilies danced in chorus lines of bright

color. The music of the wind chimes became harsh and discordant, the

fluttering of fronds was a hiss of warning. she struggled with the next

door, weeping as she beat her fists against it.

Please, please, don't shut me out. I want to come home.

she sobbed as she stumbled down the garden path. she would go to the

back, in through the screened porch. It was never locked-Mama said a

kitchen should always be open to company.

But she couldn't find it. The trees sprang up, thick and close, the

branches and draping moss barred her way.

she was lost, tripping over roots in her confusion, fighting to see

through the dark as the canopy of trees closed out the moon. The wind

rose up and howled and slapped at her in flat-handed, punishing blows.

Spears of saw palms struck out like swords. she turned, but where the

path had been was now the river, cutting her off from Sanctuary. The

high grass along its slippery banks waved madly.

It was then she saw herself, standing alone and weeping on the other

bank.

It was then she knew she was dead.

Jo fought her way out of the dream, all but felt the sharp edges of it

scraping her skin as she dragged herself to the surface of the tunnel of

sleep. Her lungs burned, and her face was wet with sweat and tears.

With a trembling hand, she fumbled for the bedside lamp, knocking both a

book and an overfilled ashtray to the floor in her hurry to break out of

the dark.

When the light shot on, she drew her knees up close to her chest,

wrapped her arms around them, and rocked herself calm.

It was just a dream, she told herself just a bad dream.

she was home, in her own bed, in her apartment and miles from the island

where Sanctuary stood. A grown woman of twenty-seven had no business

being spooked by a silly dream.

But she was still shaking when she reached for a cigarette. It took her

three tries to manage to light a match.

Three-fifteen, she noted by the clock on the nightstand. That was

becoming typical. There was nothing worse than the three A.M. jitters.

she swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent down to pick up the

overturned ashtray. she told herself she'd clean up the mess in the

morning. she sat there, her oversized T-shirt bunched over her thighs,

and ordered herself to get a grip.

she didn't know why her dreams were taking her back to the island of

lost Desire and the home she'd escaped from at eighteen. But Jo figured

any first-year psych student could translate the rest of the symbolism.

The house was locked because she doubted anyone would welcome her if she

did return home. just lately, she'd given some thought to it but had

wondered if she'd lost the way back.

And she was nearing the age her mother had been when she had left the

island. Disappeared, abandoning her husband and three children without

a second glance.

Had Annabelle ever dreamed of coming home, Jo wondered, and dreamed the

door was locked to her?

she didn't want to think about that, didn't want to remember the woman

who had broken her heart twenty years before. Jo reminded herself that

she should be long over such things by now. she'd lived without her

mother, and without Sanctuary and her family. she had thrived-at least

professionally.

Tapping her cigarette absently, Jo glanced around the bedroom. she kept

it simple, practical. Though she'd traveled widely, there were few

mementos. Except the photographs. she'd matted and framed the

black-and-white prints, choosing the ones among her work that she found

the most restful to decorate the walls of the room where she slept.

There, an empty park bench, the black wrought iron all fluid curves. And

there, a single willow, its lacy leaves dipping low over a small, glassy

pool. A moonlit garden was a study in shadow and texture and

contrasting shapes. The lonely beach with the sun just breaking the

horizon tempted the viewer to step inside the photo and feel the sand

rough underfoot.

she'd hung that seascape only the week before, after returning from an

assignment on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Perhaps that was one

reason she'd begun to think about home, Jo decided. she'd been very

close. she could have traveled a bit south down to Georgia and ferried

from the mainland to the island.

There were no roads to Desire, no bridges spanning its sound.

But she hadn't gone south. she'd completed her assignment and come back

to Charlotte to bury herself in her work.

And her nightmares.

she crushed out the cigarette and stood. There would be no more sleep,

she knew, so she pulled on a pair of sweatpants. she would do some

darkroom work, take her mind off things.

It was probably the book deal that was making her nervous, she decided,

as she padded out of the bedroom. It was a huge step in her career.

Though she knew her work was good, the offer from a major publishing

house to create an art book from a collection of her photographs had

been unexpected and thrilling.

Natural studies, by Jo Ellen Hathaway, she thought as she turned into

the small galley kitchen to make coffee. No, that sounded like a

science project. Glimpses of Life? Pompous.

she smiled a little, pushing back her smoky red hair and yawning. she

should just take the pictures and leave the title selection to the

experts.

she knew when to step back and when to take a stand, after all. she'd

been doing one or the other most of her life. Maybe she would send a

copy of the book home. What would her family think of it?

Would it end up gracing one of the coffee tables where an overnight

guest could page through it and wonder if Jo Ellen Hathaway was related

to the Hathaways who ran the Inn at Sanctuary?

Would her father even open it at all and see what she had learned to do?

Or would he simply shrug, leave it untouched, and go out to walk his

island? Annabelle's island.

It was doubtful he would take an interest in his oldest daughter now.

And it was foolish for that daughter to care.

Jo shrugged the thought away, took a plain blue mug from a hook. While

she waited for the coffee to brew, she leaned on the counter and looked

out her tiny window.

There were some advantages to being up and awake at three in the

morning, she decided. The phone wouldn't ring. No one would call or

fax or expect anything of her. For a few hours she didn't have to be

anyone, or do anything. If her stomach was jittery and her head ached,

no one knew the weakness but herself.

Below her kitchen window, the streets were dark and empty, slicked by

late-winter rain. A streetlamp spread a small pool of light-lonely

fight, Jo thought. There was no one to bask in it. Aloneness had such

mystery, she mused. Such endless possibilities.

It pulled at her, as such scenes often did, and she found herself

leaving the scent of coffee, grabbing her Nikon, and rushing out

barefoot into the chilly night to photograph the deserted street.

It soothed her as nothing could. With a camera in her hand and an

image in her mind, she could forget everything else. Her long feet

splashed through chilly puddles as she experimented with angles. With

absent annoyance she flicked at her hair. It wouldn't be falling in her

face if she'd had it trimmed. But she'd had no time, so it swung

heavily forward in a tousled wave and made her wish for an elastic band.

she took nearly a dozen shots before she was satisfied. When she

turned, her gaze was drawn upward. she'd left the lights on, she mused.

she hadn't even been aware she'd turned on so many on the trip from

bedroom to kitchen.

Lips pursed, she crossed the street and focused her camera again.

Calculating, she crouched, shot at an upward angle, and captured those

lighted windows in the dark building. Den of the Insomniac, she felt

dead. Then with a half laugh that echoed eerily enough to make her

shudder, she lowered the camera again.

God, maybe she was losing her mind. Would a sane woman be out at three

in the morning, half dressed and shivering, while she took pictures of

her own windows?

she pressed her fingers against her eyes and wished more than anything

else for the single thing that had always seemed to elude her.

Normality.

You needed sleep to be normal, she thought. she hadn't had a full

night's sleep in more than a month. You needed regular meals. she'd

lost ten pounds in the last few weeks and had watched her long, rangy

frame go bony. You needed peace of mind. she couldn't remember if she

had ever laid claim to that. Friends? Certainly she had friends, but

no one close enough to call in the middle of the night to console her.

Family. Well, she had family, of sorts. A brother and sister whose

lives no longer marched with hers. A father who was almost a stranger.

A mother she hadn't seen or heard from in twenty years.

Not my fault, Jo reminded herself as she started back across the street.

It was Annabelle's fault. Everything had changed when Annabelle had run

from Sanctuary and left her baffled family crushed and heartbroken. The

trouble, as Jo saw it, was that the rest of them hadn't gotten over it.

she had.

she hadn't stayed on the island guarding every grain of sand like her

father did. she hadn't dedicated her life to running and caring for

Sanctuary like her brother, Brian. And she hadn't escaped into foolish

fantasies or the next thrill the way her sister, Lexy, had.

Instead she had studied, and she had worked, and she had made a life for

herself If she was a little shaky just now, it was only because she'd

overextended, was letting the pressure get to her. she was a little

run-down, that was all. she'd just add some vitamins to her regiment

and get back in shape.

of her pocket. It had been three years-no, four-since she had last

taken a trip without a specific assignment. Maybe Mexico, the West In

dies. Someplace where the pace was slow and the sun hot. Slowing down

and clearing her mind. That was the way to get past this little blip in

her life. - manila envelope that lay on the floor. For a moment she

simply stood, one hand on the door, the other holding her camera, and

stared at it.

Had it been there when she left? Why was it there in the first place?

The first one had come a month before, had been waiting in her stack of

mail, with only her name carefully printed across it.

Her hands began to shake again as she ordered herself to close the door,

to lock it. Her breath hitched, but she leaned over, picked it up.

Carefully, she set the camera aside, then unscaled the flap.

she tapped out the contents, the sound she made was a long, low moan.

The photograph was very professionally done, perfectly cropped. just as

the other three had been. A woman's eyes, heavy-lidded, almond-shaped,

with thick lashes and delicately arched brows. Jo knew their color

would be blue, deep blue, because the eyes were her own. In them was

stark terror.

When was it taken? How and why? she pressed a hand to her mouth,

staring down at the photo, knowing her eyes mirrored the shot perfectly.

Terror swept through her, had her rushing through the apartment into the

small second bedroom she'd converted to a darkroom. Frantically she

yanked open a drawer, pawed through the contents, and found the

envelopes she'd buried there. In each was another black-and-white

photo, cropped to two by six inches.

Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears as she lined them up. In the

first the eyes were closed, as if she'd been photographed while

sleeping. The others followed the waking process. Lashes barely

lifted, showing only a hint of iris. In the third the eyes were open

but unfocused and clouded with confusion.

They had disturbed her, yes, unsettled her, certainly, when she found

them tucked in her mall. But they hadn't frightened her.

Now the last shot, centered on her eyes, frilly awake and bright with

fear.

Stepping back, shivering, Jo struggled to be calm. Why only the eyes?

she asked herself How had someone gotten close enough to take these

pictures without her being aware of it? Now, whoever it was had been as

close as the other side of her front door.

Propelled by fresh panic, she ran into the living room, frantically

checked the locks. Her heart was battering against her ribs when she

fell back against the door. Then the anger kicked in.

Bastard, she thought. He wanted her to be terrorized. He wanted her to

hide inside those rooms, jumping at shadows, afraid to step outside for

fear he'd be there watching. she who had always been fearless was

playing right into his hands.

she had wandered alone through foreign cities, walked mean streets and

empty ones, she'd climbed mountains and hacked through jungles. With

the camera as her shield, she'd never given a thought to fear. And now,

because of a handful of photos, her legs were jellied with it.

The fear had been building, she admitted now. Growing and spiking over

the weeks, level by level. It made her feel helpless, so exposed, so

brutally alone.

Jo pushed herself away from the door. she couldn't and wouldn't live

this way. she would ignore it, put it aside. Bury it deep. God knew

she was an expert at burying traumas, small and large. This was just

one more.

she was going to drink her coerce and go to work.

By eight she had come till circle-sliding through fatigue, arcing

through nervous energy, creative calm, then back to fatigue.

she couldn't work mechanically, not even on the most basic aspect of

darkroom chores. she insisted on giving every step her full attention.

To do so, she'd had to calm down, ditch both the anger and the fear.

Over her first cup of coffee, she'd convinced herself she had figured

out the reasoning behind the photos she'd been receiving. Someone

admired her work and was trying to get her attention, engage her

influence for their own.

That made sense.

Occasionally she lectured or gave workshops. In addition, she'd had

three major shows in the last three years. It wasn't that difficult or

that extraordinary for someone to have taken her picture-several

pictures, for that matter.

That was certainly reasonable.

Whoever it was had gotten creative, that was all. They'd enlarged the

area, cropped it, and were sending the photos to her in a kind of

series. Though the photos appeared to have been printed recently, there

was no telling when or where they'd been taken. The negatives might be

a year old. Or two. Or five.

They had certainly gotten her attention, but she'd overreacted, taken it

too personally.

Over the last couple of years, she had received samples of work from

admirers of hers. Usually there was a letter attached, praising her own

photographs before the sender went into a pitch about wanting her advice

or her help, or in a few cases, suggesting that they collaborate on a

project.

The success she was enjoying professionally was still relatively new.

she wasn't yet used to the pressures that went along with commercial

success, or the expectations, which could become burdensome.

And, Jo admitted as she ignored her unsteady stomach and sipped coffee

that had gone stone cold, she wasn't handling that success as well as

she might.

she would handle it better, she thought, rolling her aching head on her

aching shoulders, if everyone would just leave her alone to do what she

did best.

Completed prints hung drying on the wet side of her darkroom. Her last

batch of negatives had been developed and, sitting on a stool at her

work counter, she slid a contact sheet onto her light board, then

studied it, frame by frame, through her loupe.

For a moment she felt a flash of panic and despair. Every print she

looked at was out of focus, blurry. Goddamn it, goddamn it, how could

that be? Was it the whole roll? she shifted, blinked, and watched the

magnified image of rising dunes and oat grass pop clear.

With a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh she sat back, rolled

her tensed shoulders. "It's not the prints that are blurry and out of

focus, you idiot," she muttered aloud. "It's you."

she set the loupe aside and closed her eyes to rest them. she lacked

the energy to get up and make more coffee. she knew she should go eat,

get something solid into her system. And she knew she should sleep.

Stretch out on the bed, close everything off and crash.

But she was afraid to. In sleep she would lose this shaky control.

she was beginning to think she should see a doctor, get something for

her nerves before they frayed beyond repair. But that idea made her

think of psychiatrists. Undoubtedly they would want to poke and pry

inside her brain and dig up matters she was determined to forget.

she would handle it. she was good at handling herself Or, as Brian had

always said, she was good at elbowing everyone out of her way so she

could handle everything herself.

What choice had she had-had any of them had when they'd been left alone

to flounder on that damned spit of land miles from nowhere?

The rage that erupted inside her jolted her, it was so sudden, so

powerful. she trembled with it, clenched her fists in her lap, and had

to bite back the hot words she wanted to spit out at the brother who

wasn't even there.

Tired, she told herself she was just tired, that was all. she needed to

put work aside, take one of those over-the-counter sleeping aids she'd

bought and had yet to try, turn off the phone and get some sleep. she

would be steadier then, stronger.

When a hand fell on her shoulder, she ripped off a scream and sent her

coffee mug flying.

"Jesus! Jesus, Jo!" Bobby Banes scrambled back, scattering the mail he

carried on the floor.

"What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?" she bolted off the

stool and sent it crashing, as he gaped at her.

"I- you said you wanted to get started at eight. I'm only a few minutes

late."

Jo fought for breath, gripped the edge of her worktable to keep herself

upright. "Eight?"

Her student assistant nodded cautiously. He swallowed hard and kept his

distance. To his eye she still looked wild and ready to attack. It was

his second semester working with her, and he thought he'd learned how to

anticipate her orders, gauge her moods, and avoid her temper. But he

didn't have a clue how to handle that hot fear in her eyes.

"Why the hell didn't you knock?" she snapped at him.

"I did. When you didn't answer, I figured you must be in here, so I

used the key you gave me when you went on the last assignment."

"Give it back. Now."

"Sure. Okay, Jo." Keeping his eyes on hers, he dug into the front

pocket of his fashionably faded jeans. "I didn't mean to spook you."

Jo bit down on control and took the key he held out. There was as much

embarrassment now, she realized, as fear. To give herself a moment, she

bent down and righted her stool. "Sorry, Bobby. You did spook me. I

didn't hear you knock."

"It's okay. Want me to get you another cup of coffee?"

she shook her head and gave in to her knocking knees. As she slid onto

the stool, she worked up a smile for him. He was a good student, she

thought-a little pompous about his work yet, but he was only twenty-one.

she thought he was going for the artist-as-college-student look, with

his (dark blond hair in a shoulder-length ponytail, the single gold hoop

earring accenting his long, narrow face. His teeth were perfect. His

parents had believed in braces, she thought, running her tongue over her

own slight overbite.

He had a good eye, she mused. And a great deal of potential. That was

why he was here, after all. Jo was always willing to pay back what had

been given to her.

Because his big brown eyes were still watching her warily, she put more

effort into the smile. "I had a rough night."

"You look like it." He tried a smile of his own when she lifted a brow.

"The art is in seeing what's really there, right? And you look whipped.

Couldn't sleep, huh?"

Vain was one thing Jo wasn't. she shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her

tired eyes. "Not much."

"You ought to try that melatonin. My mother swears by it." He crouched

to pick up the broken shards of the mug. "And maybe you could cut back

on the coffee."

He glanced up but saw she wasn't listening. she'd gone on a side trip

again, Bobby thought. A new habit of hers. He'd just about given up on

getting his mentor into a healthier lifestyle. But he decided to give

it one more shot.

"You've been living on coffee and cigarettes again."

"Yeah." she was drifting, half asleep where she sat.

"That stuff'll kill you. And you need an exercise program. You've

dropped about ten pounds in the last few weeks. With your height you

need to carry more weight. And you've got small bones-you're courting

osteoporosis. Gotta build up those bones and muscles."

"Uh-huh."

"You ought to see a doctor. You ask me, you're anemic. You got no

color, and you could pack half your equipment in the bags under your

eyes."

"So nice of you to notice."

He scooped up the biggest shards, dumped them in her waste can. Of

course he'd noticed. she had a face that drew attention. It didn't

matter that she seemed to work overtime to fade into the background.

He'd never seen her wear makeup, and she kept her hair pulled back, but

anyone with an eye could see it should be framing that oval face with

its delicate bones and exotic eyes and sexy mouth.

Bobby caught himself, felt heat rise to his cheeks. she would laugh at

him if she knew he'd had a little crush on her when she first took him

on. That, he figured, had been as much professional admiration as

physical attraction. And he'd gotten over the attraction part. Mostly.

But there was no doubt that if she would do the minimum to enhance that

magnolia skin, dab some color on that top-heavy mouth and smudge up

those long-lidded eyes, she'd be a knockout.

"I could fix you breakfast," he began. "If you've got something besides

candy bars and moldy bread."

Taking a long breath, Jo tuned in. "No, that's okay. Maybe we'll stop

somewhere and grab something. I'm already running behind."

she slid off the stool and crouched to pick up the mail.

"You know, it wouldn't hurt you to take a few days off, focus on

yourself My mom goes to this spa down in &Eami."

His words were only a buzzing in her ear now. she picked up the manila

envelope with her name printed neatly on it in block letters. she had

to wipe a film of sweat from her brow. In the pit of her stomach was a

sick ball that went beyond dread into fear.

The envelope was thicker than the others had been, weightier. Throw it

away, her mind screamed out. Don't open it. Don't look inside.

But her fingers were already scraping along the flap. Low whimpering

sounds escaped her as she tore at the little metal clasp. This time an

avalanche of photos spilled out onto the floor. she snatched one up. It

was a well-produced five-by-seven black-and-white.

Not just her eyes this time, but all of her. she recognized the

background-a park near her building where she often walked. Another was

of her in downtown Charlotte, standing on a curb with her camera bag

over her shoulder.

"Hey, that's a pretty good shot of you."

As Bobby leaned down to select one of the prints, she slapped at his

hand and snarled at him, "Keep away. Keep back. Don't touch me."

"jo, I..."

"Stay the hell away from me." Panting, she dropped on all fours to paw

frantically through the prints. There was picture after picture of her

doing ordinary, everyday things. Coming out of the market with a bag of

groceries, getting in or out of her car.

He's everywhere, he's watching me. Wherever I go, whatever I do.

He's hunting me, she thought, as her teeth began to chatter. He's

hunting me and there's nothing I can do. Nothing, until ...

Then everything inside her clicked off. The photograph in her hand

shook as if a brisk breeze had kicked up inside the room. she couldn't

scream. There seemed to be no air inside her.

she simply couldn't feel her body any longer.

The photograph was brilliantly produced, the lighting and use of shadows

and textures masterful. she was naked, her skin glowing eerily. Her

body was arranged in a restful pose, the fragile chin dipped down, the

head gently angled. One arm draped across her midriff, the other was

flung up over her head in a position of dreaming sleep.

But the eyes were open and staring. A doll's eyes. Dead eyes.

For a moment, she was thrown helplessly back into her nightmare, staring

at herself and unable to fight her way out of the dark.

But even through terror she could see the differences. The woman in the

photo had a waving mass of hair that fanned out from her face. And the

face was softer, the body riper than her own.

"Mama?" she whispered and gripped the picture with both hands. "Mama?"

"What is it, Jo?" Shaken, Bobby listened to his own voice hitch and dip

as he stared into Jo's glazed eyes. "What the hell is it?"

"Where are her clothes?" Jo tilted her head, began to rock herself. Her

head was full of sounds, rushing, thundering sounds. "Where is she? "

"Take it easy." Bobby took a step forward, started to reach down to take

the photo from her.

Her head snapped up. "Stay away." The color flashed back into her

cheeks, riding high. Something not quite sane danced in her eyes.

"Don't touch me. Don't touch her."

Frightened, baffled, he straightened again, held both hands palms out.

"Okay. Okay, Jo."

"I don't want you to touch her." she was cold, so cold. she looked down

at the photo again. It was Annabelle. Young, eerily beautiful, and

cold as death. "she shouldn't have left us. she shouldn't have gone

away. Why did she go?"

"Maybe she had to," Bobby said quietly.

"No, she belonged with us. We needed her, but she didn't want us. she's

so pretty." Tears rolled down Jo's cheeks, and the picture trembled in

her hand. "she's so beautiful. Like a fairy princess. I used to think

she was a princess. she left us. she left us and went away. Now she's

dead."

Her vision wavered, her skin went hot. Pressing the photo against her

breasts, Jo curled into a ball and wept.

"Come on, Jo." Gently, Bobby reached down. "Come on with me now. We'll

get some help."

"I'm so tired," she murmured, letting him pick her up as if she were a

child. "I want to go home."

"Okay. just close your eyes now."

The photo fluttered silently to the floor, facedown atop all the other

faces. she saw writing on the back. Large bold letters.

DEATH OF AN ANGEL

Her last thought, as the dark closed in, was Sanctuary.

At first light the air was misty, like a dream just about to vanish.

Beams of light stabbed through the canopy of live oaks and glittered on

the dew. The warblers and buntings that nested in the sprays of moss

were waking, chirping out a morning song. A cock cardinal, a red bullet

of color, shot through the trees without a sound.

It was his favorite time of day. At dawn, when the demands on his time

and energy were still to come, he could be alone, he could think his

thoughts. Or simply be.

Brian Hathaway had never lived anywhere but Desire. He'd never wanted

to. He'd seen the mainland and visited big cities. He'd even taken an

impulsive vacation to Mexico once, so it could be said he'd visited a

foreign land.

But Desire, with all its virtues and flaws, was his. He'd been born

there on a gale-tossed night in September thirty years before. Born in

the big oak tester bed he now slept in, delivered by his own father and

an old black woman who had smoked a corncob pipe and whose parents had

been house slaves, owned by his ancestors.

The old woman's name was Miss Ellie, and when he was very young she

often told him the story of his birth. How the wind had howled and the

seas had tossed, and inside the great house, in that grand bed, his

mother had borne down like a warrior and shot him out of her womb and

into his father's waiting arms with a scream.

It was a good story. Brian had once been able to imagine his mother

laughing and his father waiting, wanting to catch him.

Now his mother was long gone and old Miss Ellie long dead. It had been

a long, long time since his father had wanted to catch him.

Brian walked through the thinning mists, through huge trees with lichen

vivid in pinks and red on their trunks, through the cool, shady light

that fostered the ferns and shrubby palmettos. He was a tall, lanky

man, very much his father's son in build. His hair was dark and shaggy,

his skin tawny, and his eyes cool blue. He had a long face that women

found melancholy and appealing. His mouth was firm and tended to brood

more than smile.

That was something else women found appealing-the challenge of making

those lips curve.

The slight change of light signaled him that it was time to start back

to Sanctuary. He had to prepare the morning meal for the guests.

Brian was as contented in the kitchen as he was in the forest. That was

something else his father found odd about him. And Brian knew with some

amusement-that Sam Hathaway wondered if his son might be gay. After

all, if a man liked to cook for a living, there must be some thing

wrong with him.

If they'd been the Type to discuss such matters openly, Brian would have

told him that he could enjoy creating a perfect meringue and still

prefer women for sex. He simply wasn't inclined toward intimacy.

And wasn't that tendency toward distance from others a Hathaway family

trait?

Brian moved through the forest, as quietly as the deer that walked

there. Suiting himself, he took the long way around, detouring by Half

Moon Creek, where the mists were rising up from the water like white

smoke and a trio of does sipped contentedly in the shimmering and utter

silence.

There was time yet, Brian thought. There was always time on Desire. He

indulged himself by taking a seat on a fallen log to watch the morning

bloom.

The island was only two miles across at its widest, less than thirteen

from point to point. Brian knew every inch of it, the sun-bleached sand

of the beaches, the cool, shady marshes with their ancient and patient

alligators. He loved the dune swales, the wonderful wet, undulating

grassy meadows banked by young pines and majestic live oaks.

But most of all, he loved the forest, with its dark pockets and its

mysteries.

He knew the history of his home, that once cotton and indigo had been

grown there, worked by slaves. Fortunes had been reaped by his

ancestors. The rich had come to play in this isolated little paradise,

hunting the deer and the feral hogs, gathering shells, fishing both

river and surf.

They'd held lively dances in the ballroom under the candle glow of

crystal chandeliers, gambled carelessly at cards in the game room while

drinking good southern bourbon and smoking fat Cuban cigars. They had

lazed on the veranda on hot summer afternoons while slaves brought them

cold glasses of lemonade.

Sanctuary had been an enclave for privilege, and a testament to a way of

life that was doomed to failure.

More fi)rtuncs still had gone in and out of the hands of the steel and

shipping magnate who had turned Sanctuary into his Private retreat.

Though the money wasn't what it had been, Sanctuary still stood. And the

island was still in the hands of the descendants of those cotton kings

and emperors of steel. The cottages that were scattered over it, rising

up behind the dunes, tucked into the shade of the trees, facing the wide

swath of Pelican Sound, passed from generation to generation, ensuring

that only a handful of families could claim Desire as home.

So it would remain.

His father fought developers and environmentalists with equal fervor.

There would be no resorts on Desire, and no well-recalling government

would convince Sam Hathaway to make his island a national preserve.

It was, Brian thought, his father's monument to a faithless wife. His

blessing and his curse.

Visitors came now, despite the solitude, or perhaps because of it. To

keep the house, the island, the trust, the Hathaways had turned part of

their home into an inn.

Brian knew Sam detested it, resented every footfall on the island from

an outsider. It was the only thing he could remember his parents

arguing over. Annabelle had wanted to open the island to more tourists,

to draw people to it, to establish the kind of social whirl her

ancestors had once enjoyed. Sam had insisted on keeping it unchanged,

untouched, monitoring the number of visitors and overnight guests like a

miser doling out pennies. It was, in the end, what Brian believed had

driven his mother away-that need for people, for faces, for voices.

But however much his father tried, he couldn't hold off change any more

than the island could hold back the sea.

Adjustments, Brian thought as the deer turned as a unit and bounded into

the concealing trees. He didn't care for adjustments himself, but in

the case of the inn they had been necessary. And the fact was, he

enjoyed the running of it, the planning, the implementing, the routine.

He liked the visitors, the voices of strangers, observing their varying

habits and expectations, listening to the occasional stories of their

worlds.

He didn't mind people in his life-as long as they didn't intend to stay.

In any case, he didn't believe people stayed in the long run.

Annabelle hadn't.

Brian rose, vaguely irritated that a twenty-year-old scar had

unexpectedly throbbed. Ignoring it, he turned away and took the winding

upward path toward Sanctuary.

When he came out of the trees, the light was dazzling. It struck the

spray of a fountain and turned each individual drop into a rainbow. He

looked at the back end of the garden. The tulips were rioting

dependably. The sea pinks looked a little shaggy, and the ... what the

hell was that purple thing anyway? he asked himself. He was a mediocre

gardener at best, struggling constantly to keep up the grounds. Paying

guests expected tended gardens as much as they expected gleaming

antiques and fine meals.

Sanctuary had to be kept in tiptop shape to lure them, and that meant

endless hours of work. Without paying guests, there would be no means

for upkeep on Sanctuary at all. So, Brian thought, scowling down at the

flowers, it was an endless cycle, a snake swallowing its own tail. A

trap without a key.

"Ageratum."

Brian's head came up. He had to squint against the sunlight to bring

the woman into focus. But he recognized the voice. It irritated him

that she'd been able to walk up behind him that way. Then again, he

always viewed Dr. Kirby Fitzsimmons as a minor irritation.

"Ageratum," she repeated, and smiled. she knew she annoyed him, and

considered it progress. It had taken nearly a year before she'd been

able to get even that much of a reaction from him. "The flower you're

glaring at. Your gardens need some work, Brian."

"I'll get to it," he said and fell back on his best weapon. Silence.

He never felt completely easy around Y,,Yirby. It wasn't just her

looks, though she was attractive enough if you went for the delicate

blond Type. Brian figured it was her manner, which was the direct

opposite of delicate. she was efficient, competent, and seemed to know

a little about every damn thing.

Her voice carried what he thought of as high-society New England. Or,

he was feeling less charitable, damn Yankee. she had those Yankee

cheekbones, too. They set off sea-green eyes and a slightly turned-up

nose. Her mouth was full-not too wide, not too small. It was just one

more irritatingly perfect thing about her.

He kept expecting to hear that she'd gong back to the mainland, closed

up the little cottage she'd inherited from her granny and given up on

the notion of running a clinic on the island. But month after month she

stayed, slowly weaving herself into the fabric of the place.

And getting under his skin.

she kept smiling at him, with that mocking look in her eyes, as she

pushed back a soft wave of the wheat-colored hair that fell smoothly to

her shoulders. "Beautiful morning."

"It's early." He stuck his hands in his pockets. He never knew quite

what to do with them around her.

"Not too early for you." she angled her head. Lord, he was tin to look

at. she'd been hoping to do more than look for months, but Brian

Hathaway was one of the natives of this little spit of land that she was

having trouble winning over. "I guess breakfast isn't ready yet."

"I suppose I can wait. What's the special this morning?"

"Haven't decided." Since there was no shaking her off, he re stretched,

linking her fingers as she lifted her arms overhead.

He did his best not to notice the way her cotton shirt strained over

small, firm breasts. Not noticing Kirby Fitzsimmons had become a full

time job. He wound around the side of the house, through the spring

blooms that lined the path of crushed shells. "You can wait in the

guest parlor, or the dining room."

"I'd rather sit in the kitchen. I like watching you cook." Before he

could think of a way around it, she'd stepped up into the rear screened

porch and through the kitchen door.

As usual, it was neat as a pin. Kirby appreciated tidiness in a man,

the same way she appreciated good muscle tone and a well-exercised

brain. Brian had all three qualities, which was why she was interested

in what kind of lover he'd make.

she figured she would find out eventually. Yirby always worked her way

toward a goal. All she had to do was keep chipping away at that armor

of his.

It wasn't disinterest. she'd seen the way he watched her on the rare

occasions when his guard was down. It was sheer stubbornness. she

appreciated that as well. And the contrasts of him were such fran.

she knew as she settled on a stool at the breakfast bar that he would

have little to say unless she prodded. That was the distance he kept

between himself and others. And she knew he would pour her a cup of his

really remarkable coffee, and remember that she drank it light.

That was his innate hospitality.

Yirby let him have his quiet for a moment as she sipped the coffee from

the steaming mug he'd set before her. she hadn't been teasing when

she'd said she liked to watch him cook.

A kitchen might have been a traditionally female domain, but this

kitchen was all male.. just like its overseer, Kirby thought, with his

big hands, shaggy hair, and tough face.

she knew-because there was little that one person on the island didn't

know about the others-that Brian had had the kitchen redone about eight

years before. And he'd created the design, chosen the colors and

materials. Had made it a working man's room, with long granite-colored

counters and glittering stainless steel.

There were three wide -windows, framed only by curved and carved wood

trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals,

though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The

floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy

work for Brian.

Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from

hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique

kitchen tools. she imagined he thought of them as practical rather than

homey, but they warmed the room.

He'd left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a

time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for

gathering, for lingering. she liked it in the winter when he lighted a

fire there and the scent of wood burning mixed pleasurably with that of

spicy stews or soups bubbling.

To her, the huge commercial range looked like something that required an

engineering degree to operate. Then again, her idea of cooking was

taking a package from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave.

"I love this room," she said. He was whipping something in a large blue

bowl and only grunted. Taking that as a response, Kirby slid off the

stool to help herself to a second cup of coffee. she leaned in, just

brushing his arm, and grinned at the batter in the bowl. "Waffles?"

He shifted slightly. Her scent was in his way. "That was what you

wanted, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Lifting her cup, she smiled at him over the rim. "It's nice to

get what You want. Don't you think?"

she had the damnedest eyes, he thought. He'd believed in mermaids as a

child. All of them had had eyes like Yirby's. "It's easy enough to get

it if all you want is waffles."

He stepped back, around her, and took a waffle iron out of a lower

cabinet. After he'd plugged it in, he turned, and bumped into her.

Automatically he lifted a hand to her arm to steady her. And left it

there.

"You're underfoot."

she eased forward, just a little, pleased by the quick flutter in her

stomach. "I thought I could help."

"With what?"

she smiled, let her gaze wander down to his mouth, then back. "With

whatever." What the hell, she thought, and laid her free hand on his

chest. "Need anything?"

His blood began to pump faster. His fingers tightened on her arm before

he could prevent it. He thought about it, oh, he thought about it. What

would it be like to push her back against the counter and take what she

kept insisting on patting under his nose?

That would wipe the smirk off her face.

"You're in my way, Yirby."

He had yet to let her go. That, she thought, was definite progress.

Beneath her hand his heartbeat was accelerated. "I've been in your way

the best part of a year, Brian. When are you going to do something

about it?"

she saw his eyes flicker before they narrowed. Her breathing took on an

anticipatory hitch. Finally, she thought and leaned toward him.

He dropped her arm and stepped back, the move so unexpected and abrupt

that this time she did nearly stumble. "Drink your coffee," he said.

"I've got work to do here."

He had the satisfaction of seeing that he'd pushed one of her buttons

for a change. The smirk was gone, all right. Her delicate brows were

knit, and under them her eyes had gone dark and hot.

"Damn it, Brian. What's the problem?"

Delly, he ladled batter onto the heated waffle iron. "I don't have a

problem." He slanted a look at her as he closed the lid. Her color was

up and her mouth was thinned. Spitting mad, he thought. Good.

"What do I have to do?" she slammed her coffee cup down, sloshing the

hot liquid onto his spotless counter. "Do I have to stroll in here

naked?"

His lips twitched. "Well, now, that's a thought, isn't it? I could

raise the rates around here after that." He cocked his head. "That is,

if you look good naked."

"I look great naked, and I've given you numerous opportunities to find

that out for yourself."

"I guess I like to make my own opportunities." He opened the

refrigerator. "You want eggs with those waffles?"

Yirby clenched her fists, reminded herself that she'd taken a vow to

heal, not harm, then spun on her heel. "Oh, stuff your waffles," she

muttered and stalked out the back door.

Brian waited until he heard the door slam before he grinned. He figured

he had come out on top of that little tussle of wills and decided to

treat himself to her waffles. He was just flipping them onto a plate

when the door swung open.

Lexy posed for a moment, which both she and Brian knew was out of habit

rather than an attempt to impress her brother. Her hair was a tousled

mass of spiraling curls that flowed over her shoulders in her current

favorite shade, Renaissance Red.

she liked the Titian influence and considered it an improvement over the

Bombshell Blonde she'd worn the last few years. That was, she'd

discovered, a bitch to maintain.

The color was only a few shades lighter and brighter than what God had

given her, and it suited her skin tones, which were milky with a hint of

rose beneath. she'd inherited her father's changeable hazel eyes. This

morning they were heavy, the color of cloudy seas, and already carefully

accented with mascara and liner.

"Waffles," she said. Her voice was a feline purr she'd practiced

religiously and made her own. "Yum."

Unimpressed, Brian cut the first bite as he stood, and shoveled it into

his mouth. "Mine."

Lexy tossed back her gypsy mane of hair, strolled over to the breakfast

bar and pouted prettily. she fluttered her lashes and smiled when Brian

set the plate in front of her. "Thanks, sweetie." she laid a hand on

his cheek and kissed the other.

Lexy had the very un-Hathaway like habit of touchinG , kissing, hugging.

Brian remembered that after their mother had left, Lexy had been like a

puppy, always leaping into someone's arms, looking for a snuggle. Hell,

he thought, she'd only been four. He gave her hair a tug and handed her

the syrup.

"Anyone else up?"

"Mmm. The couPle in the blue room are stirring. Cousin Kate was in the

shower."

"I thought you were handling the breakfast shift this morning."

"I am," she told him with her mouth frill.

He lifted a brow, skimmed his gaze over her short, thin, wildly

patterned robe. "Is that your new waitress uniform?"

she crossed long legs and slipped another bite of waffle between her

lips. "Like it?"

"You'll be able to retire on the tips."

"Yeah." she gave a half laugh and pushed at the waffles on her plate.

"That's been my lifelong dream-serving food to strangers and clearing

away their dirty plates, saving the pocket change they give me so I can

retire in splendor."

"We all have our little fantasies," Brian said lightly and set a cup of

coffee, loaded with cream and sugar, beside her. He understood her

bitterness and disappointment, even if he didn't agree with it. Because

he loved her, he cocked his head and said, "Want to hear mine?"

"Probably has something to do with winning the Betty Crocker recipe

contest."

"Hey, it could happen."

"I was going to be somebody, Bri."

"You are somebody. Alexs Hathaway, Island Princess."

she rolled her eyes before she picked up her coffee. "I didn't last a

year in New York. Not a damn year."

"Who wants to?" The very idea gave him the creeps. Crowded streets,

crowded smells, crowded air.

"It's a little tough to be an actress on Desire."

"Honey, you ask me, you're doing a hell of a job of it. And if you're

going to sulk, take the waffles up to your room. You're spoiling my

mood."

"It's easy for you." she shoved the waffles away. Brian nabbed the

plate before it slid off the counter. "You've got what you want. Living

in nowhere day after day, year after year. Doing the same thing over

and over again. Daddy's practically given the house over to you so he

can tromp around the island all day to make sure nobody moves so much as

one grain of his precious sand."

she pushed herself up from the stool, flung out her arms. "And Jo's got

what she wants. Big-fucking-deal photographer, traveling all over the

world to snap her pictures. But what do I have? just what do I have? A

pathetic rdsumd with a couple of commercials, a handful of walk-ons, and

a Icad in a three-act play that closed in Pittsburgh on opening night.

Now I'm stuck here again, waiting tables, changing other people's

sheets. And I hate it."

He waited a moment, then applauded. "Hell of a speech, Lex. And you

know just what words to punch. You might want to work on the staging,

though. The gestures lean toward grandiose."

Her lips trembled, then firmed. "Damn you, Bri." she jerked her chin up

before stalking out.

Brian picked up her fork. Looked like he was two for two that morning,

he thought, and decided to finish off her breakfast as well.

I Within an hour Lexy was all smiles and southern sugared charm. she

was a skilled waitress-which had saved her from total poverty during her

stint in New York-and served her tables with every appearance of

pleasure and unhurried grace.

she wore a trim skirt just short enough to irritate Brian, which had

been her intention, and a cap-sleeved sweater that she thought showed

off her figure to best advantage. she had a good one and worked hard to

keep it that way.

It was a tool of the trade whether waitressing or acting. As was her

quick, sunny smile.

"Why don't I warm that coffee up for you, Mr. Benson? How's your

omelette? Brian's an absolute wonder in the kitchen, isn't he?

Since Mr. Benson seemed so appreciative of her breasts, she leaned over

a bit further to give him frill bang for his buck before moving to the

next table.

"You're leaving us today, aren't you?" she beamed at the newlyweds

cuddling at a corner table. "I hope y'all come back and see us again."

she sailed through the room, gauging when a customer wanted to chat,

when another wanted to be left alone. As usual on a weekday morning,

business was light and she had plenty of opportunity to play the room.

What she wanted to play was packed houses, those grand theaters of New

York. Instead, she thought, keeping that summer-sun smile firmly in

place, she was cast in the role of waitress in a house that never

changed, on an island that never changed.

It had all been the same for hundreds of years, she thought. Lexy

wasn't a woman who appreciated history. As far as she was concerned,

the past was boring and as tediously carved in stone as Desire and its

scattering of families.

Pendletons married Fitzsimmonses or Brodies or Verdons. The island's

Main Four. Occasionally one of the sons or daughters took a detour and

married a mainlander. Some even moved away, but almost invariably they

remained, living in the same cottages generation after generation,

sprinkling a few more names among the permanent residents.

It was all so ... predictable, she thought, as she flipped her order

pad brightly and beamed down at her next table.

Her mother had married a mainlander, and now the Hathaways reigned over

Sanctuary. It was the Hathaways who had lived there, worked there,

sweated time and blood over the keeping of the house and the protection

of the island for more than thirty years now.

But Sanctuary still was, and always would be, the Pendleton house, high

on the hill.

And there seemed to be no escaping from it.

she stuffed tips into her pocket and carried dirty plates away. The

minute she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes went frigid. she shed her

charm like a snake sheds its skin. It only infuriated her more that

Brian was impervious to the cold shoulder she jammed in his face.

she dumped the dishes, snagged the fresh pot of coffee, then swung back

into the dining room.

For two hours she served and cleared and replaced setups-and dreamed of

where she wanted to be.

Broadway. she'd been so sure she could make it. Everyone had told her

she had a natural talent. Of course, that was before she went to New

York and found herself up against hundreds of other young women who'd

been told the same thing.

she wanted to be a serious actress, not some airheaded bimbo who posed

for lingerie ads and billed herself as an actress-model. she'd fully

expected to start at the top. After all, she had brains and looks and

talent.

Her first sight of Manhattan had filled her with a sense of purpose and

energy. It was as if it had been waiting for her, she thought, as she

calculated the tab for table six. All those people, and that noise and

vitality. And, oh, the stores with those gorgeous clothes, the

sophisticated restaurants, and the overwhelming sense that everyone had

something to do, somewhere to go in a hurry.

she had something to do and somewhere to go too.

Of course, she'd rented an apartment that had cost far too much. But she

hadn't been willing to settle for some cramped little room. she treated

herself to new clothes at Bendel's, and a full day at Elizabeth Arden.

That ate a large chunk out of her budget, but she considered it an

investment. she wanted to look her best when she answered casting

calls.

Her first month was one rude awakening after another. she'd never

expected so much competition, or such desperation on the faces of those

who lined up with her to audition for part after part.

And she did get a few offers-but most of them involved her aditioning on

her back. she had too much pride and too much selfconfidence for that.

Now that pride and self-confidence and, she was forced to admit, her own

nafvetd, had brought her full circle.

But it was only temporary, Lexy reminded herself In a little less than a

year she would turn twenty-five and then she'd come into her

inheritance. What there was of it. she was going to take it back to

New York, and this time she'd be smarter, more cautious, and more

clever.

she wasn't beaten, she decided. she was taking a sabbatical. One day

she would stand on stage and feel all that love and admiration from the

audience roll over her. Then she would be someone.

Someone other than Annabelle's younger daughter.

she carried the last of the plates into the kitchen. Brian was already

putting the place back into shape. No dirty pots and pans cluttered his

sink, no spills and smears spoiled his counter. Knowing it was nasty,

Lexy turned her wrist so that the cup stacked on top of the plates

tipped, spilling the dregs of coffee before it shattered on the tile.

"oops," she said and grinned wickedly when Brian turned his head.

"You must enjoy being a fool, Lex," he said coolly. "You're so good at

it."

"Really?" Before she could stop herself, she let the rest of the dishes

drop. They hit ' and crashed, scattering food and fragments of

stoneware all over. "How's that?"

"Goddamn it, what are you trying to prove? That you're as destructive

as ever? That somebody will always come behind you to clean up your

mess?" He stomped to a closet, pulled out a broom. "Do it yourself " He

shoved the broom at her.

"I won't." Though she already regretted the impulsive act, she shoved

the broom back at him. The colorful Fiestaware was like a ruined

carnival at their feet. "They're your precious dishes. You clean them

up."

"You're going to clean it up, or I swear I'll use this broom on your

backside."

"just try it, Bri." she went toe to toe with him. Knowing she'd been

wrong was only a catalyst for standing her ground. "just try it and

I'll scratch your damn eyes out. I'm sick to death of you telling me

what to do. This is my house as much as it is yours."

"Well, I see nothing's changed around here."

Their faces still dark with temper, both Brian and Lexy turned and

stared. Jo stood at the back door, her two suitcases at her feet and

exhaustion in her eyes.

"I knew I was home when I heard the crash followed by the happy voices."

In an abrupt and deliberate shift of mood, Lexy slid her arm through

Brian's, uniting them. "Look here, Brian, another prodigal's returned.

I hope we have some of that fatted calf left."

"I'll settle for coffee," Jo said, and closed the door behind her.

Jo stood at the window in the bedroom of her childhood. The view was

the same. Pretty gardens patiently waiting to be weeded and fed.

Mounds of alyssum were already golden and bluebells were waving. Violas

were sunning their sassy little faces, guarded by the tall spears of

purple iris and cheerful yellow tulips. Impatiens and dianthus bloomed

reliably.

There were the palms, cabbage and saw, and beyond them the shady oaks

where lacy ferns and indifferent wildflowers thrived.

The light was so lovely, gilded and pearly as the clouds drifted,

casting soft shadows. The image was one of peace, solitude, and

storybook perfection. If she'd had the energy, she'd have gone out now,

captured it on film and made it her own.

ought, to realize only now that she'd missed the view from the window of

the room where she'd spent nearly every night of the first eighteen

years of her life.

she'd whiled away many hours gardening with her mother, learning the

names of the flowers, their needs and habits, enjoying the feel of soil

under her fingers and the sun on her back. Birds and butterflies, the

tinkle of wind chimes, the drift of puffy clouds overhead in a soft blue

sky were treasured memories from her early childhood.

Apparently she'd forgotten to hold on to them, Jo decided, as she turned

wearily from the window. Any pictures she'd taken of the scene, with

her mind or with her camera, had been tucked away for a very long time.

Her room had changed little as well. The family wing in Sanctuany still

glowed with Annabelle's style and taste. For her older daughter she'd

chosen a gleaming brass half-tester bed with a lacy canopy and a complex

and fluid design of cornices and knobs. The spread was antique Irish

lace, a Pendleton heirloom that Jo had always loved because of its

pattern and texture. And because it seemed so sturdy and ageless.

On the wallpaper, bluebells bloomed in cheerful riot over the ivory

background, and the trim was honey-toned and warm.

Annabelle had selected the antiques-the globe lamps and maple tables,

the dainty chairs and vases that had always held fresh flowers. she'd

wanted her children to learn early to live with the precious and care

for it. On the mantel over the little marble fireplace were cadlcs and

seashells. On the shelves on the opposite wall were books rather than

dolls.

Even as a child, Jo had had little use for dolls.

Annabelle was dead. No matter how much of her stubbornly remained in

this room, in this house, on this island, she was dead. Sometime in the

last twenty years she had died, made her desertion complete and

irrevocable.

Dear God, why had someone immortalized that death on film? Jo wondered,

as she buried her face in her hands. And why had they sent that

immortalization to Annabelle's daughter?

DEATH OF AN ANGEL

Those words had been printed on the back of the photograph. Jo

remembered them vividly. Now she rubbed the heel of her hand hard

between her breasts to try to calm her heart. What kind of sickness was

that? she asked herself. What kind of threat? And how much of it was

aimed at herself?

It had been there, it had been real. It didn't matter that when she got

out of the hospital and returned to her apartment, the print was gone.

she couldn't let it matter. If she admitted she'd imagined it, that

she'd been hallucinating, she would have to admit that she'd lost her

mind.

How could she face that?

But the print hadn't been there when she returned. All the others were,

all those everyday images of herself, still scattered on the darkroom

floor where she'd dropped them in shock and panic.

But though she searched, spent hours going over every inch of the

apartment, she didn't find the print that had broken her.

If it had never been there ... Closing her eyes, she rested her

forehead on the window glass. If she'd fabricated it, if she'd somehow

wanted that terrible image to be fact, for her mother to be exposed that

way, and dead-what did that make her?

Which could she accept? Her own mental instability, or her mother's

death?

Don't think about it now. she pressed a hand to her mouth as her breath

began to catch in her throat. Put it away, just like you put the

photographs away. Lock it up until you're stronger. Don't break down

again, Jo Ellen, she ordered herself. You'll end up back in the

hospital, with doctors poking into both body and mind.

Handle it. she drew a deep, steadying breath. Handle it until you can

ask whatever questions have to be asked, find whatever answers there are

to be found.

she would do something practical, she decided, something ordinary,

attempt the pretense, at least, of a normal visit home.

she'd already lowered the front of the slant-top desk and set one of her

cameras on it. But as she stared at it she realized that was as much

unpacking as she could handle. Jo looked at the suitcases lying on the

lovely bedspread. The thought of opening them, of taking clothes out

and hanging them in the armoire, folding them into drawers was simply

overwhelming. Instead she sat down in a chair and closed her eyes.

What she needed to do was think and plan. she worked best with a list

of goals and tasks, recorded in the order that would be the most

practical and efficient. Coming home had been the only solution, so it

was practical and efficient. It was, she promised herself, the first

step.

she just had to clear her mind, somehow-clear it and latch on to the

next step.

But she drifted, nearly dreaming.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when someone knocked, but Jo

found herself jerked awake and disoriented. she sprang to her feet,

feeling ridiculously embarrassed to have nearly been caught napping in

the middle of the day. Before she could reach the door, it opened and

Cousin Kate poked her head in.

"Well, there you are. Goodness, Jo, you look like three days of death.

Sit down and drink this tea and tell me what's going on with you."

It was so Kate, Jo thought, that frank, no-nonsense, bossy attitude. she

found herself smiling as she watched Kate march in with the tea tray.

"You look wonderful."

"I take care of myself." Kate set the tray on the low table in the

sitting area and waved one hand at a chair. "Which, from the looks of

you, you haven't been doing. You're too thin, too pale, and your hair's

a disaster of major proportions. But we'll fix that."

Briskly she poured tea from a porcelain teapot decked with sprigs of ivy

into two matching cups. "Now, then." she sat back, sipped, then angled

her head.

"I'm taking some time off," Jo told her. she'd driven down from

Charlotte for the express purpose of giving herself time to rehearse her

reasons and excuses for coming home. "A few weeks."

"Jo Ellen, you can't snow me."

They'd never been able to, Jo thought, not any of them, not from the

moment Kate had set foot in Sanctuary. she'd come days after

A.nnabelle's desertion to spend a week and was still there twenty years

later.

They'd needed her, God knew, Jo thought, as she tried to calculate just

how little she could get away with telling Katherine Pedleton. she

sipped her tea, stalling.

Ic-ate was Annabelle's cousin, and the family resemblance was marked in

the eyes, the coloring, the physical build. But where Annabelle, in

Jo's memory, had always seemed soft and innately feminine, Kate was

sharp-angled and precise.

Yes, Kate did take care of herself, Jo agreed. she wore her hair

boyishly short, a russet cap that suited her fox-at-alert face and

practical style. Her wardrobe leaned toward the casual but never the

sloppy.

jeans were always pressed, cotton shirts crisp. Her nails were neat and

short and never without three coats of clear polish. Though she was

fifty, she kept herself trim and from the back could have been mistaken

for a teenage boy.

she had come into their lives at their lowest ebb and had never

faltered. Had simply been there, managing details, pushing each of them

to do whatever needed to be done next, and, in her no-nonsense way,

bullying and loving them into at least an illusion of normality.

"I've missed you, Kate," Jo murmured. "I really have."

Kate stared at her a moment, and something flickered over her face. "You

won't soften me up, Jo Ellen. You're in trouble, and you can choose to

tell me or you can make me pry it out of you. Either way, I'll have

it."

"I needed some time off."

That, Kate mused, was undoubtedly true; she could tell just from the

looks of the girl. Knowing Jo, she doubted very much if it was a man

who'd put that wounded look in her eyes. So that left work. Work that

took Jo to strange and faraway places, Kate thought. Often dangerous

places of war and disaster. Work that she knew her young cousin had

deliberately put ahead of a life and a family.

Little girl, Kate thought, my poor, sweet little girl. What have you

done to yourself.?

Kate tightened her fingers on the handle of her cup to keep them from

trembling. "Were you hurt?"

"No. No," Jo repeated and set her tea down to press her fingers to her

aching eyes. "just overwork, stress. I guess I overextended myself in

the last couple of months. The pressure, that's all."

The photographs. Mama.

Kate drew her brows together. The line that formed between them was

known, not so affectionately, as the Pendleton Fault Line. "What kind

of pressure eats the weight off of you, Jo Ellen, and makes your hands

shake?"

Defensively, Jo clasped those unsteady hands together in her lap.

"I guess you could say I haven't been taking care of myself." Jo smiled

a little. "I'm going to do better."

Tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair, Kate studied Jo's face. The

trouble there went too deep to be only professional concerns. "Have you

been sick?"

"No." The lie slid off her tongue nearly as smoothly as planned. Very

deliberately she blocked out the thought of a hospital room, almost

certain that Kate would be able to see it in her mind. "just a little

run-down. I haven't been sleeping well lately." Edgy under Kate's

steady gaze, Jo rose to dig cigarettes out of the pocket of the jacket

she'd tossed over a chair. "I've got that book deal-I wrote you about

it. I guess it's got me stressed out." she flicked on her lighter.

"It's new territory for me."

"You should be proud of yourself, not making yourself sick over it."

"You're right. Absolutely." Jo blew out smoke and fought back the image

of Annabelle, the photographs. "I'm taking some time off."

It wasn't all, Kate calculated, but it was enough for now. "It's good

you've come home. A couple of weeks of Brian's cooking will put some

fat on you again. And God knows we could use some help around here.

Most of the rooms, and the cottages, are booked straight through the

summer."

"So business is good?" Jo asked without much interest.

"People need to get away from their own routings and pick up someone

else's. Most that come here are looking for quiet and solitude or

they'd be in Hilton Head or on Jekyll. Still, they want clean linen and

fresh towels."

Kate tapped her fingers, thinking briefly of the work stretched out

before her that afternoon. "Lexy's been lending a hand," she continued,

"but she's no more dependable than she ever was. just as likely to run

off for the day as to do what chores need doing. she's dealing with

some disappointments herself, and some growing-up pains."

"Lex is twenty-four, Kate. she should be grown up by now."

"Some take longer than others. It's not a fault, it's a fact." Kate

rose, always ready to defend one of her chicks, even if it was against

the pecks of another.

"And some never learn to face reality," Jo put in. "And spend their

lives blaming everyone else for their failures and disappointments."

"Alexs is not a failure. You were never patient enough with her any

more than she was with you. That's a fact as well."

"I never asked her to be patient with me." Old resentments surfaced like

hot grease on tainted water. "I never asked her, or any of them, for

anything."

"No, you never asked, Jo," Kate said evenly. "You might have to give

something back if you ask. You might have to admit you need them if you

let them need you. Well, it's time you all faced up to a few things.

It's been two years since the three of you have been in this house

together."

"I know how long it's been," Jo said bitterly. "And I didn't get any

more of a welcome from Brian and Lexy than I'd expected."

"Maybe you'd have gotten more if you'd expected more." Kate set her jaw.

"You haven't even asked about your father."

Annoyed, Jo stabbed out her cigarette. "What would you like me to ask?"

"Don't take that snippy tone with me, young lady. If you're going to be

under this roof, you'll show some respect for those who provide it. And

you'll do your part while you're here. Your brother's had too much of

the running of this place on his shoulders these last few years. It's

time the family pitched in. It's time you were a family."

"I'm not an innkeeper, Kate, and I can't imagine that Brian wants me

poking my fingers into his business."

"You don't have to be an innkeeper to do laundry or polish furniture or

sweep the sand off the veranda."

At the ice in her long, Jo responded in defense and defiance. "I didn't

say I wouldn't do my part, I just meant-"

"I know exactly what you meant, and I'm telling you, young lady, I'm

sick to death of that kind of attitude. Every one of you children would

rather sink over your heads in the marsh than ask one of your siblings

for a helping hand. And you'd strangle on your tongue before you asked

your daddy. I don't know whether you're competing or just being ornery,

but I want you to put it aside while you're here. This is home. By

God, it's time it felt like one."

"Kate," Jo began as Kate headed for the door.

"No, I'm too mad to talk to you now."

"I only meant . . . " When the door shut smartly, Jo let the air out

of her lungs on a long sigh.

Her head was achy, her stomach knotted, and guilt was smothering her

like a soaked blanket.

Kate was wrong, she decided. It felt exactly like home.

From the fringes of the marsh, Sam Hathaway watched a hawk soar over its

hunting ground. Sam had hiked over to the landward side of the island

that morning, leaving the house just before dawn. He knew Brian had

gone out at nearly the same hour, but they hadn't spoken. Each had his

own way, and his own route.

Sometimes Sam took a jeep, but more often he walked. Some days he would

head to the dunes and watch the sun rise over the water, turning it

bloody red, then golden, then blue. When the beach was all space and

light and brilliance, he might walk for miles, his eyes keenly 'lldgfo

ing erosion, looking r any fresh buildup of sand.

He left shells where the water had tossed them.

He rarely ventured onto the meadows. They were fragile, and every

footfall caused damage and change. Sam fought bitterly against change.

There were days he preferred to wander to the edge of the forest, behind

the dunes, where the lakes and sloughs were full of life and music.

There were mornings he needed the stillness and dim light there rather

than the thunder of waves and the rising sun. He could, like the

patient heron waiting for a careless fish, stand motionless as minutes

ticked by.

There were times among the ponds and stands of willow and thick film of

duckweed that he could forget that any world existed beyond this, his

own. Here, the alligator hidden in the reeds while it digested its last

meal and the turtle sunning on the log, likely to become gator bait

'i-,self, were more real to him than people.

But it was a rare, rare thing for Sam to go beyond the ponds and into

the shadows of the forest. Annabelle had loved the forest best.

Other days he was drawn here, to the marsh and its mysteries. Here was

a cycle he could understand-growth and decay, life and death.

This was nature and could be accepted. No man caused this or-as long as

Sam was in control-would interfere with it.

At the edges he could watch the fiddler crabs scurrying, so busy in the

mud that they made quiet popping sounds, like soapsuds. Sam knew that

when he left, raccoons and other predators would creep along the mud,

scrape out those busy crabs, and feast.

That was all part of the cycle.

Now, as spring came brilliantly into its own, the waving cordgrass was

turning from tawny gold to green and the turf was beginning to bloom

with the colors of sea lavender and oxeye. He had seen more than thirty

springs come to Desire, and he never tired of it.

The land had been his wife's, passed through her family from generation

to generation. But it had become his the moment he'd set foot on it.

just as Annabelle had become his the moment he'd set eyes on her.

He hadn't kept the woman, but through her desertion he had kept the

land.

Sam was a fatalist-or had become one. There was no avoiding destiny.

The land had come to him from Annabelle, and he tended it carefully,

protected it fiercely, and left it never.

Though it had been years since he'd turned in the night reaching out for

the ghost of his wife, he could find her anywhere and every where he

looked on Desire.

It was both his pain and his comfort.

Sam could see the exposed roots of trees where the river was eating away

at the fringe of the marsh. Some said it was best to take steps to

protect those fringes. But Sam believed that nature found its way.

If man, whether with good intent or ill, set his own hand to changing

that river's course, what repercussions would it have in other areas?

No, he would leave it be and let the land and the sea, the wind and the

rain fight it out.

From a few feet away, Kate studied him. He was a tall, wiry man with

skin tanned and ruddy and dark hair silvering. His firm mouth was slow

to smile, and slower yet were those changeable hazel eyes. Lines fanned

out from those eyes, deeply scored and, in that oddity of masculinity,

only enhancing his face.

He had large hands and feet, both of which he'd passed on to his son.

Yet Kate knew Sam could move with an uncanny and soundless grace that no

city dweller could ever master.

In Twenty years he had never welcomed her nor expected her to leave. she

had simply come and stayed and fulfilled a purpose. In weak moments,

Kate allowed herself to wonder what he would think or do or say if she

simply packed up and left.

But she didn't leave, doubted she ever would.

she'd been in love with Sam Hathaway nearly every moment of those twenty

years.

l(ate squared her shoulders, set her chin. Though she suspected he

already knew she was there, she knew he wouldn't speak to her unless she

spoke first.

"Jo Ellen canic in on the morning ferry."

Sam continued to watch the hawk circle. Yes, he'd known Kate was there,

just as he'd known she had some reason she thought important that would

have brought her to the marsh. Kate wasn't one for mud and gators.

"Why?" was all he said, and extracted an impatient sigh from l(ate.

"It's her home, isn't it?"

His voice was slow, as if the words were formed reluctantly. "Don't

figure she thinks of it that way. Hasn't for a long time."

"VAiatever she thinks, it is her home. You're her father and you'll

want to welcome her back."

He got a picture of his older daughter in his mind. And saw his wife

with a clarity that brought both despair and outrage. But only

disinterest showed in his voice. "I'll be up to the house later on."

"It's been nearly two years since she's been home, Sam. For Lord's

sake, go see your daughter."

He shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. Kate had a way of drawing out

those reactions in him. "There's time, unless she's planning on taking

the ferry back to the mainland this afternoon. Never could stay in one

place for long, as I recall. And she couldn't wait to get shed of

Desire."

"Going off to college and making a career and a life for herself isn't

desertion."

Though he didn't move or make a sound, Kate knew the shaft had hit home,

and was sorry she'd felt it necessary to hurl it. "she's back now, Sam.

I don't think she's up to going anywhere for a while, and that's not the

point."

Kate marched up, took a firm hold on his arm, and turned him to face

her. There were times you had to shove an obvious point in Sam's face

to make him see it, she thought. And that was just what she intended to

do now.

"she's hurting. she doesn't look well, Sam. she's lost weight and

she's pale as a sheet. she says she hasn't been ill, but she's lying.

she looks like you could knock her down with a hard thought."

For the first time a shadow of worry moved into his eyes. "Did she get

hurt on her job?"

There, finally, Kate thought, but was careful not to show the

satisfaction. "It's not that kind of hurt," she said more gently. "It's

an inside hurt. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there. she needs

her home, her family. she needs her father."

"If Jo's got a problem, she'll deal with it. she always has."

"You mean she's always had to," Kate tossed back. she wanted to shake

him until she'd loosened the lock he had snapped on his heart. "Damn it,

Sam, be there for her."

He looked beyond Kate, to the marshes. "she's past the point where she

needs me to bandage up her bumps and scratches."

"No, she's not." Kate dropped her hand from his arm. "she's still your

daughter. she always will be. Belle wasn't the only one who went away,

Sam." she watched his face close in as she said it and shook her head

fiercely. "Brian and Jo and Lexy lost her, too. But they shouldn't

have had to lose you."

His chest had tightened, and he turned away to stare out over the marsh,

knowing that the pressure inside him would ease again if he was left

alone. "I said I'd be up to the house later on. Jo Ellen has something

to say to me, she can say it then."

"One of these days you're going to realize you've got something to say

to her, to all of them."

she left him alone, hoping he would realize it soon.

Brian stood in the doorway of the west terrace and studied his sister.

she looked frail, he noted, skittish. lost somehow, he thought, amid

the sunlight and flowers. she still wore the baggy trousers and

oversized lightweight sweater that she'd arrived in, and had added a

pair of round wire-framed sunglasses. Brian imagined that Jo wore just

such a uniform when she hunted her photographs, but at the moment it

served only to add to the overall impression of an invalid.

Yet she'd always been the tough one, he remembered. Even as a child

she'd insisted on doing everyffung herself, on finding the answers,

solving the puzzles, fighting the fights.

she'd been fearless, climbing higher in any tree, swimming farther

beyond the waves, running faster through the forest. just to prove she

could, Brian mused. It seemed to him Jo Ellen had always had something

to prove.

And after their mother had gone, Jo had seemed hell-bent on proving she

needed no one and nothing but herself Well, Brian decided, she needed

something now. He stepped out, saying nothing as she turned her head

and looked at him from behind the tinted lenses. Then he sat down on

the glider beside her and put the plate he'd brought out in her lap.

"Eat," was all he said.

Jo looked down at the fried chicken, the fresh slaw, the golden hiscult.

"Is this the lunch special?"

,,Most of the guests went for the box lunch today. Too nice to eat

inside."

"Cousin Kate said you've been busy."

"Busy enough." Out of habit, he pushed off with his foot and set the

glider in motion. "What are you doing here, Jo?"

"Seemed like the thing to do at the time." she lifted a drumstick, bit

in. Her stomach did a quick pitch and roll as if debating whether to

accept food. Jo persisted and swallowed. "I'll do my share, and I

won't get in your way."

Brian listened to the squeak of the glider for a moment, thought about

oiling the hinges. "I haven't said you were in my way, as I recollect,"

he said mildly.

"In Lexy's way, then." Jo took another bite of chicken, scowled at the

soft-pink ivy geraniums spilling over the edges of a concrete jardiniere

carved with chubby cherubs. "You can tell her I'm not here to cramp her

style."

"Tell her yourself." Brian opened the thermos he'd brought along and

poured freshly squeezed lemonade into the lid. "I'm not stepping

between the two of you so I can get my ass kicked from both sides."

"Bri, stay out of it, then." Her head was beginning to ache, but she

took the cup and sipped. "I don't know why the hell she resents me so

much."

"Can't imagine." Brian drawled it before he lifted the thermos and drank

straight from the lip. "You're successful, famous, financially

independent, a rising star in your field. All the things she wants for

herself." He picked up the biscuit and broke it in half, handing a

portion to Jo as the steam burst out. "I can't think why that'd put her

nose out of joint."

"I did it by myself for myself. I didn't work my butt off to get to

this point to show her up." Without thinking, she stuffed a bite of

biscuit in her mouth. "It's not my fault she's got some childish

fantasy about seeing her name in lights and having people throw roses at

her feet."

"Your seeing it as childish doesn't make the desire any less real for

her." He held up a hand before Jo could speak. "And I'm not getting in

the middle. The two of you are welcome to rip the hide off each other

in your own good time. But I'd say right now she could take you without

breaking a sweat."

"I don't want to fight with her," Jo said wearily. she could smell the

wisteria that rioted over the nearby arched iron trellis-another vivid

memory of childhood. "I didn't come here to fight with anyone."

"That'll be a change."

That lured a ghost of a smile to her lips. "Maybe I've mellowed."

"Miracles happen. Eat your slaw."

"I don't remember you being so bossy."

"I've cut back on mellow."

With what passed as a chuckle, Jo picked up her fork and poked at the

slaw. "Tell me what's new around here, Bri, and what's the same."

Bring me home, she thought, but couldn't say it. Bring me back.

"Let's see, Gaff Verdon built on another room to the Verdon cottage."

"Stop the presses." Then Jo's brow furrowed. "Young Giff, the scrawny

kid with the cowlick. The one who was always mooning over Lex?

"That's the one. Filled out some, Gaff has, and he's right handy with a

hammer and saw. Does all our repair work now. Still moons over Lexy,

but I'd say he knows what he wants to do about it now."

Jo snorted and, without thinking, shoveled in more slaw. "she'll eat

him alive."

Brian shrugged. "Maybe, but I think she'll find him tougher to chew up

than she might expect. The Sanders girl, Rachel, she got herself

engaged to some college boy in Atlanta. Going to move there come

September."

"Rachel Sanders." Jo tried to conjure up a mental image. "Was she the

one with the lisp or the one with the giggle?"

"The giggle-sharp enough to make the ears bleed." Satisfied that Jo was

eating, Brian stretched an arm over the back of the glider and relaxed.

"Old Mrs. Fitzsimmons passed on more than a year back."

"Old Mrs. Fitzsimmons," Jo murmured. "she used to shuck oysters on her

porch, with that lazy hound of hers sleeping at her feet beside the

rocker."

"The hound passed, too, right after. Guess he didn't see much point in

living without her."

"she let me take pictures of her," Jo remembered. "When I was a kid,

just learning. I still have them. A couple weren't bad. Mr. David

helped me develop them. I must have been such a pest, but she just sat

there in her rocker and let me practice on her."

Sitting back, Jo fell into the rhythm of the glider, as slow and

monotionous as the rhythm of the island. "I hope it was quick and

painless."

"she died in her sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Can't do much

better than that."

"No." Jo closed her eyes, the food forgotten. "What was wrong with her

cottage?"

"Passed down. The Pendletons bought most of the Fitzslmmons land back

in 1923, but she owned her house and the little spit of land it sits on.

Went to her granddaughter." Brian lifted the thermos again, drank deeply

this time. "A doctor. she's set up a practice here on the island."

"We have a doctor on Desire?" Jo opened her eyes, lifted her brows.

"Well, well. How civilized. Are people actually going to her?"

"Seems they are, little by little, anyway. she's dug her toes in."

"she must be the first new permanent resident here in what, ten years? "

:,Thereabouts."

'I can't imagine why . Jo trailed off as it struck her. "It's not

Kirby, is it? Kirby Fitzsimmons? she spent summers here a couple of

years running when we were kids."

"I guess she liked it well enough to come back."

"I'll be damned. Yirby Fitzsimmons, and a doctor, of all things."

Pleasure bloomed, a surprising sensation she nearly didn't recognize.

"We used to pal around together some. I remember the summer Mr. David

came to take photographs of the island and brought his family. It

cheered her to think of it, the young friend with the quick northern

voice, the adventures they'd shared or imagined together.

"You would run off with his boys and wouldn't give me the time of day,"

Jo continued. "When I wasn't pestering Mr. David to let me take

pictures with his camera, I'd go off with Yirby and look for trouble.

Christ, that was twenty years ago if it was a day. It was the summer

that . .

Brian nodded, then finished the thought. "The summer that Mama left."

"It's all out of focus," Jo murmured, and the pleasure died out of her

voice. "Hot sun, long days, steamy nights so full of sound. All the

faces." she slipped her fingers under her glasses to rub at her eyes.

"Getting up at sunrise so I could follow Mr. David around. Bolting

down cold ham sandwiches and cooling off in the river. Mama dug out

that old camera for me-that ancient box Brownie-and I would run over to

the Fitzsimmons cottage and take pictures until Mrs. Fitzsimmons told

Yirby and me to scoot. There were hours and hours, so many hours, until

the sun went down and Mama called us home for supper."

she closed her eyes tight. "So much, so many images, yet I can't bring

any one of them really clear. Then she was gone. One morning I woke up

ready to do all the things a long summer day called for, and she was

just gone. And there was nothing to do at all."

"Summer was over," Brian said quietly. "For all of us."

"Yeah." Her hands had gone trembly again. Jo reached in her pockets for

cigarettes. "Do you ever think about her?"

"Why would I?"

"Don't you ever wonder where she went? What she did?" Jo took a jerky

drag. In her mind she saw long-lidded eyes empty of life. "Or why?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with me." Brian rose, took the plate.

"Or you. Or any of us anymore. It's twenty years past that summer, Jo

Ellen, and a little late to worry about it now."

she opened her mouth, then shut it again when Brian turned and walked

back into the house. But she was worried about it, she thought. And she

was terrified.

Lexy was still steaming as she climbed over the dunes toward the beach.

Jo had come back, she was sure, to flaunt her success and her snazzy

life. And the fact that she'd arrived at Sanctuary hard on the heels of

Lexy's own failure didn't strike Lexy as coincidence.

Jo would flap her wings and crow in triumph, while Lexy would have to

settle for eating crow. The thought of it made her blood boil as she

raced along the tramped-down sand through the dunes, sending sand flying

from her sandals.

Not this time, she promised herself This time she would hold her head

up, refuse to be cast as inferior in the face of Jo's latest triumph,

latest trip, latest wonder. she wasn't going to play the hotshot's baby

sister any longer. she'd outgrown that role, Lexy assured herself And

it was high time everyone realized it.

There was a scattering of people on the wide crescent of beach. They had

staked their claims with their blankets and colorful umbrellas. Slic

noted several with the brightly striped box lunches from Sanctuary.

The scents of sea and lotions and fried chicken assaulted her nostrils.

A toddler shoveled sand into a red bucket while his mother read a

paperback novel in the shade of a portable awning. A man was slowly

turning into a lobster under the merciless sun. Two couples she had

served that morning were sharing a picnic and laughing together over the

clever voice of Annie Lennox on their portable stereo.

she didn't want them-any of them-to be there. On her beach, in her

personal crisis. To dismiss them, she turned and walked away from the

temporary development, down the curve of beach.

she saw the figure out in the water, the gleam of tanned, wet shoulders,

the glint of sun-bleached hair. Gaff was a reliable creature of habit,

she thought, and he was just exactly what the doctor called for. He

invariably took a quick swim during his afternoon break. And, Lexy

knew, he had his eye on her.

He hadn't made a secret of it, she mused, and she wasn't one to resent

the attentions of an attractive man. Particularly when she needed her

ego soothed. she thought a little flirtation, and the possibility of

mindless sex, might put the day back on track.

People said her mother had been a flirt. Lexy hadn't been old enough to

remember anything more than vague images and soft scents when it came to

Annabelle, but she believed she'd come by her skill at flirtation

naturally. Her mother had enjoyed looking her best, smiling at men. And

if the theory of a secret lover was fact, Annabelle had more than smile

at at least one man.

In any case, that's what the police had concluded after months of

investigation.

Lexy thought she was good at sex; she had been told so often enough to

consider it a fine personal skill. As far as she was concerned, there

was little else that compared to it for shouldering away tension and

being the focus of someone's complete attention.

And she liked it, all the hot, slick sensations that went with it. It

hardly mattered that most men didn't have a clue whether a woman was

thinking about them or the latest Hollywood pretty boy while it was

going on. As long as she performed well and remembered the right lings.

Lexy considered herself born to perform.

And she decided it was time to open that velvet curtain for GiffVerdon.

she dropped the towel she'd brought with her onto the packed sand. she

didn't have a doubt that he was watching her. Men did. As if on stage,

Lexy put her heart into the performance. Standing near the edge of the

water, she slipped off her sunglasses, let them fall lifelessly onto the

towel. Slowly, she stepped out of her sandals, then, taking the hem of

the short-skirted sundress she wore, she lifted it, making the movements

a lazy striptease. The bikini underneath covered little more than a

stripper's G-string and pasties would have.

Dropping the thin cotton, she shook her head, skimmed her hair back with

both hands, then walked with a siren's swagger of hips into the sea.

Gaff let the next wave roll over him. He knew that every movement,

every gesture Lexy made was deliberate. It didn't seem to make any

difference. He couldn't take his eyes off her, couldn't prevent his

body from going tight and hard and needy as she stood there, all

Iuscious curves and pale gold skin, with her hair spiraling down like

sunkissed flames.

As she walked into the water, and it moved up her body, he imagined what

it would be like to rock himself inside her to the rhythm of the waves.

she was watching him too, he noted, her eyes picking up the green of the

sea, and laughing.

she dipped down, rose up again with her hair shiny and wet, water

sliding off her skin. And she laughed out loud.

"Water's cold today," she called out. "And a little rough."

"You don't usually come in till June."

"Maybe I wanted it cold today." she let the wave carry her closer.

"And rough."

"It'll be colder and rougher tomorrow," he told her. "Rain's coming."

"Mmm." she floated on her back a moment, studying the pale blue sky.

"Maybe I'll come back." Letting her feet sink, she began to tread water

as she watched him.

she'd grown accustomed to his dark brown eyes watching her like a puppy

when they were teenagers. They were the same age, had grown up all but

shoulder to shoulder, but she noticed there had been a few changes in

him during her year in New York.

His face had fined down, and his mouth seemed firmer and more confident.

The long lashes that had caused the boys to tease him mercilessly in his

youth no longer seemed feminine. His light brown hair el was

needle-straight and streaked from the sun. When he smiled at her,

dimples-another curse of his youth-dented his cheeks.

"See something interesting?" he asked her.

"I might." His voice matched his face, she decided. All grown-up and

male. The flutter in her stomach was satisfying, and unexpectedly

strong. "I just might."

"I figure you had a reason for swimming out here mostly naked. Not that

I didn't enjoy the view, but you want to tell me what it is? Or do you

want me to guess?"

she laughed, kicking against the current to keep a teasing distance

between them. "Maybe I just wanted to cool off."

"I imagine so." He smiled back, satisfied that he understood her better

than she could ever imagine. "I heard Jo came in on the morning ferry."

The smile slid away from her face and left her eyes cold. "So what?"

"So, you want to blow off some steam? Want to use me to do it?"

When she hissed at him and started to kick out to swim back to shore, he

merely nipped her by the waist. "I'll oblige you," he said as she tried

to wiggle free. "I've been wanting to anyway."

"Get your hands-" The end of her demand was lost in a surprised grunt

against his mouth. she'd never expected reliable Gaff Verdon to move so

quickly, or so decisively.

she hadn't realized his hands were so big, or so hard, or that his mouth

would be so ... sexy as it crushed down on hers with the cool tang of

the sea clinging to it. For form's sake she shoved against him, but

ruined it with a throaty little moan as her lips parted and invited

more.

she tasted exactly as he'd imagined-hot and ready, the sex kitten mouth

slippery and wet. '1'he fantasies he'd woven for over ten years simply

fell apart and reformed in fresh, wild colors threaded with helpless

love and desperate need.

When she wrapped her legs around his waist, rocked her body against his,

he was lost.

"I want you." He tore his mouth from hers to race it along her throat

while the waves tossed them about and into a tangle of limbs. "Damn you,

Lex, you know I've always wanted you."

Water flowed over her head, filled it with roaring. The sea sucked her

down, made her giddy. Then she was in the dazzling sunlight again with

his mouth fused to hers.

"Now, then. Right now." she panted it out, amazed at how real the need

was, that tight, hot little ball of it. "Right here."

He'd wanted her like this as long as he could remember. Ready and

willing and eager. His body pulsed toward pain with the need to be in

her, and of her. And he knew if he let that need rule, he would take

her and lose her in one flash.

Instead he slid his hands down from her waist to cup and knead her

bottom, used his thumbs to torment her until her eyes went dark and

blind. "I've waited, Lex." And let her go. "So can you."

she struggled to stay above the waves, sputtered out water as she gaped

at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm not interested in scratching your itch and then watching you walk

off purring." He lifted a hand to push back his dripping hair. "When

you're ready for more than that, you know where to find me."

"You son of a bitch."

"You go work off your mad, honey. We'll talk when you've had time to

think it through calm." His hand shot out, grabbed her arm. "When I make

love with you, that's going to be it for both of us. You'll want to

think about that too."

she shoved his hand away. "Don't you touch me again, Gaff Verdon.

"I'm going to do more than touch you," he told her as she dove under to

swim toward shore. "I'm going to marry you," he said, only loud enough

for his own ears. He let out a long breath as he watched her stride out

of the water. "Unless I kill myself first."

To case the throbbing in his system, he sank under the water. But as

the taste of her continued to cling to his mouth, he decided he was

either the smartest man on Desire or the stupidest.

Jo had just drummed up the energy to take a walk and had reached the

edges of the garden when Lexy stormed up the path. she hadn't bothered

to towel off, so the little sundress was plastered against her like

skin. Jo straightened her shoulders, lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, how's the water?"

"Go to hell." Breath heaving, humiliation still stinging, Lexy planted

her feet. "just go straight to hell."

"I'm beginning to think I've already arrived. And so far my welcome's

been pretty much as expected."

"Why should you expect anything? This place means nothing to you ancd

neither do we."

"How do you know what means anything to me, Lexy?"

"T don't see you changing sheets, clearing tables. When's the last time

you scrubbed a toilet or mopped a damn floor?"

"Is that what you've been doing this afternoon?" Jo skimmed her gaze up

Lexy's damp and sandy legs to her dripping hair. "Must have been some

toilet."

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Same goes, Lex." When Jo started to move past, Lexy grabbed her arm and

jerked.

"Why did you come back here?"

Weariness swamped her suddenly, made her want to weep. "I don't know.

But it wasn't to hurt you. It wasn't to hurt anybody. And I'm too

tired to fight with you now."

Baffled, Lexy stared at her. The sister she knew would have waded in

with words, scraped flesh with sarcasm. she'd never known Jo to tremble

and back off. "What happened to you?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out." Jo shook off the hand blocking

her. "Leave me alone, and I'll do the same for you."

she walked quickly down the path, took its curve toward the sea. she

barely glanced at the dune swale with its glistening grasses, never

looked up to follow the flight of the gull that called stridently. she

needed to think, she told herself. just an hour or two of quiet

thought. she would figure out what to do, how to tell them. If she

should tell them at all.

Could she tell them about her breakdown? Could she tell anyone that

she'd spent two weeks in the hospital because her nerves had snapped and

something in her mind had tilted? Would they be sympathetic,

ambivalent, or hostile?

And what did it matter?

How could she tell them about the photograph? No matter how often she

was at sword's point with them, they were her family. How could she put

them through that, dredging up the pain and the past?

And if any of them demanded to see it, she would have to tell them it

was gong.

just like Annabelle.

Or it had never existed.

They would think her mad. Poor Jo Ellen, mad as a hatter.

Could she tell them she'd spent days trembling inside her apartment,

doors locked, after she'd left the hospital? That she would catch

herself searching mindlessly, frantically, for the print that would

prove she wasn't really ill?

And that she had come home, because she'd finally had to accept that she

was ill. That if she had stayed locked in that apartment alone for

another day, she would never have found the courage to leave it again.

Still, the print was so clear in her mind. The texture, the tones, the

composition. Her mother had been young in the photograph. And wasn't

that the way Jo remembered her-young? The long waving hair, the smooth

skin? If she was going to hallucinate about her mother, wouldn't she

have snapped to just that age?

Nearly the same age she herself was now, Jo thought. That was probably

another reason for all the dreams, the fears, the nerves. Had Annabelle

been as restless and as edgy as her daughter was? Had there been a

lover after all? There had been whispers of that, even a child had been

able to hear them. There'd been no hint of one, no suspicion of

infidelity before the desertion. But afterward the rumors had been

rife, and tongues had clucked and wagged.

But then, Annabelle would have been discreet, and clever. she had given

no hint of her plans to leave, yet she had left.

Wouldn't Daddy have known? Jo wondered. Surely a man knew if his wife

was restless and dissatisfied and unhappy. she knew they had argued

over the island. Had that been enough to do it, to make Annabelle so

unhappy that she would turn her back on her home, her husband, her

children? Hadn't he seen it, or had he even then been oblivious to the

feelings of the people around him?

It was so hard to remember if it had ever been different. But surely

there had once been laughter in that house. Echoes of it still lingered

in her mind. Quick snapshots of her parents embracing in the kitchen,

of her mother laughing, of walking on the beach with her father's hand

holding hers.

They were dim pictures, faded with time as if improperly fixed, but they

were there. And they were real. If she had managed to block so many

memories of her mother out of her mind, then she could also bring them

back. And maybe she would begin to understand.

Then she would decide what to do.

The crunch of a footstep made her look up quickly. The sun was .behind

him, casting him in shadow. A cap shielded his eyes. His stride was

loose and leggy.

Another long-forgotten picture snapped into her mind. she saw herself

as a little girl with flyaway hair racing down the path, giggling,

calling, then leaping high. And his arms had reached out to catch her,

to toss her high, then hug her close.

Jo blinked the picture away and the tears that wanted to come with it.

He didn't smile, and she knew that no matter how she worked to negate

it, he saw Annabelle in her.

she lifted her chin and met his eyes. "Hello, Daddy."

"Jo Ellen." He stopped a foot away and took her measure. He saw that

Kate had been right. The girl looked ill, pale, and strained. Because

he didn't know how to touch her, didn't believe she would welcome the

touch in any case, he dipped his hands into his pockets. "Kate told me

you were here."

"I came in on the morning ferry," she said, knowing the information was

unnecessary.

For a difficult moment they stood there, more awkward than strangers.

Sam shifted his feet. "You in trouble?"

"I'm just taking some time off

"You look peaked."

"I've been working too hard."

Frowning, he looked deliberately at the camera hanging from a strap

around her neck. "Doesn't look like you're taking time off to me."

In an absent gesture, she cupped a hand under the camera. "Old habits

are hard to break."

"They are that." He huffed out a breath. "There's a pretty light on the

water today, and the waves are up. Guess it'd make a nice picture."

"I'll check it out. Thanks."

"Take a hat next time. You'll likely burn."

"Yes, you're right. I'll remember."

He could think of nothing else, so he nodded and started up the path,

moving past her. "Mind the sun."

"I will." she turned away quickly, walking blindly now because she had

smelled the island on him, the rich, dark scent of it, and it broke her

heart.

Miles away in the hot red glow of the darkroom light, he slipped paper,

emulsion side up, into a tray of developing fluid. It pleased him to

re-create the moment from so many years before, to watch it form on the

paper, shadow by shadow and line by line.

He was nearly done with this phase and wanted to linger, to draw out all

the pleasure before he moved on.

He had driven her back to Sanctuary. The idea made him chuckle and

preen. Nothing could have been more perfect. It was there that he

wanted her. Otherwise he would have taken her before, half a dozen

times before.

But it had to be perfect. He knew the beauty of perfection and the ki

fu Iy toward creating it.

satisfaction of wor ng care I Not Annabelle, but Annabelle's daughter. A

perfect circle closing. she would be his triumph, his masterpiece.

Claiming her, taking her, killing her.

And every stage of it would be captured on film. Oh, how Jo would

appreciate that. He could barely wait to explain it all to her, the one

person he was certain would understand his ambition and his art.

Her work drew him, and his understanding of it made him feel intimate

with her already. And they would become more intimate yet.

Smiling, he shifted the print from the developing tray to the stop bath,

swishing it through before lifting it into the fixer. Carefully, he

checked the temperature of the wash, waiting patiently until the timer

rang and he could switch on the white light and examine the print.

Beautiful, just beautiful. Lovely composition. Dramatic lighting such

a perfect halo over the hair, such lovely shadows to outline the body

and highlight skin tones. And the subject, he thought. Perfection.

When the print was fully fixed, he lifted it out of the tray and into

the running water of the wash. Now he could allow himself to dream of

what was to come.

He was closer to her than ever, linked to her through the photographs

that reflected each of their lives. He could barely wait to send her

the next. But he knew he must choose the time with great care.

On the worktable beside him a battered journal lay open, its precisely

written words faded from time.

The decisive moment is the ultimate goal in my work. Capturing that

short, passing event where all the elements, all the dynamics of a

subject reach a peak. %%at more decisive moment can there be than

death? And how much more control can the photographer have over the's

moment, over the capturing of it on film, than to plan and stage and

cause that deatb?

Yhat single act)'Or'ns subject and artist, makes him part of the art,

and the image created.

Since I will kill only one woman, manipulate only one deet'si've moment,

I have chosen her with great care.

Her name is Annabelle.

With a quiet sigh, he hung the print to dry and turned on the white

light to better study it.

"Annabelle," he murmured. "So beautiful. And your daughter is the

image of you."

He left Annabelle there, staring, staring, and went out to complete his

plans for his stay on Desire.

The ferry steamed across Pelican Sound, heading east to lost Desire.

Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had done before as a

ten-year-old boy. It wasn't the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy,

but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.

It was cool with the breeze off the water, and the scent of it was raw

and mysterious. It had been warmer before, but then it had been late

May rather than mid-April.

Close enough, he thought, remembering how he and his parents and his

young brother had all crowded together at the starboard rail of another

ferry, eager for their first glimpse of Desire and the start of their

island summer.

He could see little difference. Spearing up from the land were the

majestic live oaks with their lacy moss, cabbage palms, and glossyleaved

magnolias not yet in bloom.

Had they been blooming then? A young boy eager for adventure paid

little attention to flowers.

He lifted the binoculars that hung around his neck. His father had

helped him aim and focus on that long-ago morning so that he could catch

the quick dart of a woodpecker. The expected tussle had followed

because Kyle had demanded the binoculars and Nathan hadn't wanted to

give them up.

He remembered his mother laughing at them, and his father bending down

to tickle Kyle to distract him. In his mind, Nathan could see the

picture they had made. The pretty woman with her hair blowing, her dark

eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. The two young boys,

sturdy and scrubbed, squabbling. And the man, tall and dark, long of

leg and rangy of build.

Now, Nathan thought, he was the only one left. Somehow he had grown up

into his father's body, had gone from sturdy boy to a man with long legs

and narrow hips. He could look in a mirror and see reflections of his

father's face in the hollow cheeks and dark gray eyes. But he had his

mother's mouth, firmly ridged, and her deep brown hair with hints of

gold and red. His father had said it was like aged mahogany.

Nathan wondered if children were really just montages of their parents.

And he shuddered.

Without the binoculars he watched the island take shape. He could see

the wash of color from wildflowers-pinks and violets from lupine and

wood sorrel. A scatter of houses was visible, a few straight or winding

roads, the flash of a creek that disappeared into the trees. Mystery

was added by the dark shadows of the forest where feral pigs and horses

had once lived, the gleam of the marshes and the blades of waving

grasses gold and green in the streaming morning sunlight.

It was all hazed with distance, like a dream.

Then he saw the gleam of white on a rise, the quick wink that was sun

shooting off glass. Sanctuary, he thought, and kept it in his sights

until the ferry turned toward the dock and the house was lost from view.

Nathan turned from the rail and walked back to his Jeep. When he was

settled inside with only the hum of the ferry's engines for company, he

wondered if he was crazy coming back here, exploring the past, in some

ways repeating it.

He'd left New York, packed everything that mattered into the Jeep. It

was surprisingly little. Then again, he'd never had a deep-seated need

for things. That had made his life simpler through the divorce two

years before. Maureen had been the collector, and it saved them both a

great deal of time and temper when he offered to let her strip the West

Side apartment.

Christ knew she'd taken him up on it and had left him with little more

than his own clothes and a mattress.

That chapter of his life was over, and for nearly two years now he'd

devoted himself to his work. Designing buildings was as much a passion

as a career for him, and with New York as no more than a home base, he

had traveled, studying sites, working wherever he could set up his

drawing board and computer. He'd given himself the gift of time to

study other buildings, explore the art of them, from the great

cathedrals in Italy and France to the streamlined desert homes in the

American Southwest.

He'd been free, his work the only demand on his time and on his heart.

Then he had lost his parents, suddenly, irrevocably. And had lost

himself He wondered why he felt he could find the pieces on Desire.

But he was committed to staying at least six months. Nathan took it as

a good sign that he'd been able to book the same cottage his famly had

lived in during that summer. He knew he would listen for the echo of

their voices and would hear them with a man's ear. He would see their

ghosts with a man's eyes.

And he would return to Sanctuary with a man's purpose.

Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle?

He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the

dock.

He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires

of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the

gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island

provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to

sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.

The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that

they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come

quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in

torrents for three endless days when he'd been there before. By day two

he and Kyle had been at each other's throats like young wolves.

It made him smile now and wonder how in God's name his mother had

tolerated it.

He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading

away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully

blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck's radio. Camper Family,

he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He

was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.

He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as

an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of

the Colonial style-wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows.

Even as a child he'd been interested enough to note some of the details.

Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than

detracted from the grand style. He'd scared the piss out of Kyle by

telling him they came alive at night and prowled.

There was a turret, with a widow's walk circling it. Balconies jutting

out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were softhued

stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local

cypress and oak.

There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters

that had been falling to rain, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a

rattler curled in a dark corner.

There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers

of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young

boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.

He passed the western marshlands with their busy mud and thin islands of

trees. The wind had picked up, sending the cordgrass rippling. Along

the edge two egrets were on patrol, their long legs like stilts in the

shallow water.

Then the forest took over, lush and exotic. Nathan slowed, letting the

truck ahead of him rattle out of sight. Here was stillness, and those

dark secrets. His heart began to pound uncomfortably, and his hands

tightened on the wheel. This was something he'd come to face, to

dissect, and eventually to understand.

The shadows were thick, and the moss dripped from the trees like webs of

monstrous spiders. To test himself he turned off the engine. He could

hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the voice of the wind.

Ghosts, he thought. He would have to look for them there. And when he

found them, what then? Would he leave them where they drifted, night

after night, or would they continue to haunt him, muttering to him in

his sleep?

Would he see his mother's face, or Annabelle's? And which one would cry

out the loudest?

He let out a long breath, caught himself reaching for the cigarettes

he'd given up over a year before. Annoyed, he turned the ignition key

but got only a straining rumble in return. He pumped the gas, tried it

again with the same results.

"Well, shit," he muttered. "That's perfect."

Sitting back, he tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel. The thing

to do, of course, was to get out and look under the hood. He knew what

he would see.An engine. Wires and tubes and belts. Nathan figured he

knew as much about engines and wires and tubes as he did about brain

surgery. And being broken down on a deserted road was exactly what he

deserved for letting himself be talked into buying a friend's secondhand

Jeep.

Resigned, he climbed out and popped the hood. Yep, he thought, just as

he'd suspected. An enging. He leaned in, poked at it, and felt the

first fat drop of rain hit his back.

"Now it's even more perfect." He shoved his hands in the front pockets

of his jeans and scowled, continued to scowl while the rain pattered on

his head.

He should have known something was up when his friend had cheerfully

tossed in a box of tools along with the Jeep. Nathan considered hauling

them out and beating on the engine with a wrench. It was unlikely to

work, but it would at least be satisfying.

He stepped back, then froze as the ghost stepped out of the forest

shadows and watched him.

Annabelle.

The name swam through his mind, and his gut clenched in defense. she

stood in the rain, still as a doe, her smoky red hair damp and tangled,

those big blue eyes quiet and sad. His knees threatened to give way,

and he braced a hand on the fender.

Then she moved, pushed back her wet hair. And started toward him. He

saw then that it was no ghost, but a woman. It was not Annabelle, but,

he was sure, it was Annabelle's daughter.

He let out the breath he'd been holding until his heart settled again.

"Car trouble?" Jo tried to keep her voice light. The way he was staring

at her made her wish she'd stayed in the trees and let him fend for

himself "I take it you're not standing here in the rain taking in the

sights.

"No." It pleased him that his voice was normal. If there was all edge

to it, the situation was cause enough to explain it. "It won't start."

'Well, that's a problem. " He looked vaguely familiar, she thought. A

good face, strong and bony and male. Interesting eyes as well, she

mused, pure gray and very direct. If she were inclined to portrait

photography, he'd have been a fine subject. "Did you find the trouble?"

Her voice was honey over cream, gorgeously southern. It helped him

relax. "I found the engine," he said and smiled. "just where I

suspected it would be."

"Uh-huh. And now?"

"I'm deciding how long I should look at it and pretend I know what I'm

looking at before I get back in out of the rain."

"You don't know how to fix your car?" she asked, with such obvious

surprise that he bristled.

"No, I don't. I also own shoes and don't have a clue how to tan

leather." He started to yank down the hood, but she raised a hand to

hold it open.

"I'll take a look."

"What are you, a mechanic?"

"No, but I know the basics." Elbowing him aside, she checked the battery

connections first. "These look all right, but you're going to want to

keep an eye on them for corrosion if you're spending any time on

Desire."

"Six months or so." He leaned in with her. "What am I keeping my eye

on?"

"These. Moisture can play hell with engines around here. You're

crowding me."

"Sorry." He shifted his position. Obviously she didn't remember him,

and he decided to pretend he didn't remember her. "You live on the

'Island?"

"Not anymore. " To keep from bumping it on the jeep, Jo moved the

camera slung around her neck to her back.

Nate stared at it, felt the low jolt. It was a high-end Nikon. Compact,

quieter and more rugged than other designs, it was often a

professional's choice. His father had had one. He had one himself

"Been out taking pictures in the rain?"

"Wasn't raining when I left," she said absently. "Your fan belt's going

to need replacing before long, but that's not your problem now." she

straightened, and though the skies had opened wide, seemed oblivious to

the downpour. "Get in and try it so I can hear what she sounds like."

"You're the boss."

Her lips twitched as he turned and climbed back into the Jeep. No doubt

his male ego was dented, she decided. she cocked her head as the engine

groaned. Lips pursed, she leaned back under the hood. "Again!" she

called out to him, muttering to herself "Carburetor."

"WHat?"

"Carburetor," she repeated and opened the little metal door with her

thumb. "Turn her over again."

This time the engine roared to life. With a satisfied nod, she shut the

hood and walked around to the driver's side window. "It's sticking

closed, that's all. You're going to want to have it looked at. From

the sound of it, you need a tune-up anyway. When's the last time you

had it in?"

"I just bought it a couple of weeks ago. From a former friend."

"Ah. Always a mistake. Well, it should get you where you're going

now."

WHen she started to step back

he reached through the window for her hand. It was narrow, he noted,

long, both elegant and competent.

"Listen, let me give you a lift. It's pouring, and it's the least I can

do."

"It's not necessary. I can-"

"I could break down again." He shot her a smile, charming, easy,

persuasive. "Who'll fix my carburetor?"

It was foolish to refuse, she knew. More foolish to feel trapped just

because he had her hand. she shrugged. "All right, then." she gave her

hand a little tug, was relieved when he immediately released it. she

jogged around the Jeep and climbed dripping into the passenger seat.

"Well, the interior's in good shape."

"My former friend knows me too well." Nathan turned on the wipers and

looked at Jo. "Where to?"

"Up this road, then bear right at the first fork. Sanctuary isn't

farbut then nothing is on Desire."

"That's handy. I'm heading to Sanctuary myself."

"Oh?" The air in the cab was thick and heavy. The driving rain seemed

to cut them off from everything, misting out the trees, muffling all the

sound. Reason enough to be uncomfortable, she told herself, but she was

sufficiently annoyed with her reaction to angle her head and meet his

eyes directly. "Are you staying at the big house?"

"No, just picking up keys for the cottage I'm renting."

"For six months, you said?" It relieved her when he began to drive,

turned those intense gray eyes away from her face and focused on the

road. "That's a long vacation."

"I brought work with me. I wanted a change of scene for a while."

"Desire's a long way from home," she said, then smiled a little when he

glanced at her. "Anyone from Georgia can spot a Yankee. Even if you

keep your mouth shut, you move differently." she pushed her wet hair

back. If she'd walked, Jo thought, she'd have been spared making

conversation. But talk was better than the heavy, rain-drenched

silence. "You've got Little Desire Cottage, by the river."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, everybody knows everything around here. But my family rents the

cottages, runs them and the inn, the restaurant. As it happens I was

assigned Little Desire, stocked the linens and so forth just yesterday

for the Yankee who's coming to stay for six months."

"So you're my mechanic, landlord, and housekeeper. I'm a lucky man. Who

exactly do I call if my sink backs up?"

"You open the closet and take out the plunger. If you need instructions

for use, I'll write them down for you. Here's the fork."

Nathan bore right and climbed. "Let's try that again. If I wanted to

grill a couple of steaks, chill a bottle of wine, and invite you to

dinner, who would I call?"

Jo turned her head and gave him a cool look. "You'd have better luck

with my sister. Her name is Alexa."

"Does she fix carburetors?"

With a half laugh, Jo shook her head. "No, but she's very decorative

and enjoys invitations from men."

'And you don't?"

:,Let's just say I'm more selective than Lexy."

"Ouch." Whistling, Nathan rubbed a hand over his heart. "Direct hit."

,, just saving us both some time. There's Sanctuary," she murmured.

He watched it appear through the curtain of rain, swim out of the thin

mists that curled at its base. It was old and grand, as elegant as a

Southern Belle dressed for company. Definitely feminine, Nate thought,

with those fluid lines all in virginal white. Tall windows were

softened by arched trim, and pretty ironwork adorned balconies where

flowers bloomed out of clay pots of soft red.

Her gardens glowed, the blooms heavy-headed with rain, like bowing

fairies at her feet.

"Stunning," Nathan said, half to himself. "The more recent additions

blend perfectly with the on ginal structure. Accent rather than

modernize. It's a masterful harmony of styles, classically southern

without being typical. It couldn't be more perfect if the island had

been designed for it rather than it being designed for the island."

Nathan stopped at the end of the drive before he noticed that Jo was

staring at him. For the first time there was curiosity in her eyes.

"I'm an architect," he explained. "Buildings like this grab me right by

the throat."

"Well, then, you'll probably want a tour of the inside."

"I'd love one, and I'd owe you at least one steak dinner for that."

"You'll want my cousin Kate to show you around. she's a Pendleton," Jo

added as she opened her door. "Sanctuary came down through the

Pendletons. she knows it best. Come inside. You can dry off some and

pick up the keys."

she hurried up the steps, paused on the veranda to shake her head and

scatter rain from her hair. she waited until he stepped up beside her.

"Jesus, look at this door." Reverently, Nathan ran his fingertips over

the rich, carved wood. Odd that he'd forgotten it, he thought. But

then, he had usually raced in through the screened porch and through the

kitchen.

"Honduran mahogany," Jo told him. "Imported in the early

eighteen-hundreds, long before anyone worried about depicting the rain

forests. But it is beautiful." she turned the heavy brass handle and

stepped with him into Sanctuary.

"The floors are heart of pine," she began and blocked out a una bidden

image of her mother patiently paste-waxing them. "As are the main

stairs, and the banister is oak carved and constructed here on Desire

when it was a plantation, dealing mostly in Sea Island cotton. The

chandelier is more recent, an addition purchased in France by the wife

of Stewart Pendleton, the shipping tycoon who rebuilt the main house and

added the wings. A great deal of the furniture was lost during the War

Between the States, but Stewart and his wife traveled extensively and

selected antiques that suited them and Sanctuary."

"He had a good eye," Nathan commented, scanning the wide, high-ceilinged

foyer with its fluid sweep of glossy stairs, its glittering fountain of

crystal light.

"And a deep pocket," Jo put in. Telling herself to be patient, she

stood where she was and let him wander.

The walls were a soft, pale yellow that would give the illusion of cool

during those viciously hot summer afternoons. They were trimmed in dark

wood that added richness with carved moldings framing the high plaster

ceiling.

The furnishings here were heavy and large in scale, as befitted a grand

entrance way. A pair of George 11 armchairs with shell-shaped backs

flanked a hexagonal credence table that held a towering brass urn filled

with sweetly scented lilies and wild grasses.

Though he didn't collect antiques himself-or anything else, for that

matter-he was a man who studied all aspects of buildings, including what

went inside them. He recognized the Flemish cabineton-stand in carved

oak, the giltwood pier mirror over a marquetry candle stand, the

delicacy of Queen Antic and the flash of Louis XIV. And he found the mix

of periods and styles inspired.

"Incredible." His hands tucked in his back pockets, he turned back to

Jo. "Hell of a place to live, I'd say."

"In more ways than one." Her voice was dry, and just a little bitter. It

had him lifting a brow in question, but she added nothing more. "We do

registration in the front parlor."

she turned down the hallway, stepped into the first room on the right.

Someone had started a fire, she observed, probably in anticipation of

the Yankee, and to keep the guests at the inn cheerful on a rainy day if

they wandered through.

she went to the huge old Chippendale writing desk and opened the top

side drawer, flipped through the paperwork for the rental cottages.

Upstairs in the family wing was an office with a workaday file cabinet

and a computer Kate was still struggling to learn about. But guests

were never subjected to such drearily ordinary details.

"Little Desire Cottage," Jo announced, sliding the contract free. she

noted it had already been stamped to indicate receipt of the deposit and

signed by both Kate and one Nathan Delaney.

Jo laid the paperwork aside and opened another drawer to take out the

keys jingling from a metal clip that held the cottage name. "This one

is for both the front and the rear doors, and the smaller one is for the

storage room under the cottage. I wouldn't store anything important in

there if I were you. Flooding is a hazard that near the river."

"I'll remember that."

"I took care of setting up the telephone yesterday. All calls will be