From the Heart

of her own. They tangled and untangled in a wildly choreographed dance of passion. The light wasn’t white now, but red; the fire flamed blue.
    She heard her name rip from his lips before they crushed down on hers. Whatever madness he spoke was muffled against her in his urgency. Desire spun into delirium as they came together. There was speed and strength and desperation. Faster and faster they climbed while his mouth clung to hers, swallowing her gasps, mixing them with his own.
    Spent, she lay beneath him. His mouth was pressed to her throat, his hands tangled in her hair. The rain drummed against the windows now, hurled by the wind. His body was warm and damp and heavy on hers. A feeling of security drifted over her, followed by a weariness that reached her bones. Slade lifted his head to see her eyes glazed over with fatigue.
    “You’ll sleep now.” It wasn’t a question. He tempered the command with a kiss.
    “You’ll stay?” The words were thick as she fought off sleep long enough to hear his answer.
    “I’ll start the fire.” Rising, Slade walked to the white brick hearth and added paper to the kindling. The long match hissed as he struck it. Crouched, he watched the flames lick, then catch.
    Minutes passed, but he remained, staring steadily at the fire without seeing it. He knew what was happening to him. No, what had happened to him, Slade corrected. He was in love with a woman he should never have touched. A woman he had no business loving. A woman, he reminded himself grimly, whose life depended on him. Until she was out of danger, he couldn’t afford to think of his own feelings, or of their consequences. For her sake, the cop had to come first, the man second.
    Straightening, he turned back to her. The shock of the morning had taken its toll in exhaustion, he noted. She lay on her stomach, one hand balled loosely on the pillow. Her hair fanned out, dry now, her face pale beneath its disorder. Her eyes were shadowed, her breathing heavy. The fire brought flickers of light into the room to play over her skin.
    She was too small, he thought, too slender, to deal with what had happened; to deal with the threat of what could happen. And how much good would he do her? he asked himself as his eyes passed over her. Love clouded his judgment, slowed his reflexes. If he’d been an instant slower that morning . . . Shaking his head, Slade began to dress. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d keep her in the house if he had to chain her. He’d see her through this, keep her safe, and then . . .
    Then he’d get out of her life, he promised himself. And get her out of his.
    He drew the sheet over her, allowing his hand to linger on her hair briefly before he left the room.

7
    L ate, late in the morning, while Jessica slept, Slade stood at the library window that faced the garden. Watery sunlight struggled through the clouds to fall on the wet shrubs and grass. Rosebushes were naked and thorny. Fall flowers hung heavy-headed and dripping, their petals scattered. The storm had stripped the leaves away from the trees so that they lay soggy and dull on the ground. The wind had died.
    Someone had let Ulysses out. The dog lumbered along on the wet ground, sniffing here and there without any apparent interest. Finding a likely branch, he clamped it between his teeth, then trotted off toward the beach. Hell of a watchdog, Slade thought in disgust. But then, who could blame the dog for not barking at someone he knew—someone he’d seen in the house for years?
    Scrubbing his face with his hands, Slade turned away from the window. The waiting was eating at him—another sign that he was losing his objectivity. By rights he should have taken this part of the assignment in his stride. As long as Jessica did what she was told, there was virtually no way for anyone on the outside to get to her. The man who had been in the parlor the night before was running scared and for that reason wouldn’t test his luck during the day in a house full of active servants. If everything went according to plan, it was simply a matter of holding tight until the FBI made its move. If, Slade thought tightly, everything went according to plan.Plans had a way of veering off course when the human element was involved.
    A glance at his watch told him that Jessica had been asleep for half an hour. With luck, she’d sleep through the day. When she slept, she was safe—and every hour that she was safe brought them closer to the