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  She said nothing, and after a second he dropped his hands, sighed in anger and rose from the sofa. "Dammit, Joey, I'm not your father, and I'm not Ted. I'm not going to betray you. But I guess it's too much to ask you to believe that, hmm?"

  He started toward the hall, then down it, and Joey lunged off the sofa after him. The pain in her thigh screamed, but she forced herself to run, and she gripped his arm just as he reached for the doorknob. She jerked him back.

  "Don't! Don't leave, Ash, you can't..."

  He stood motionless, not even turning to face her. "Give me one good reason, Joey. And if it's another lie—"

  "The Slasher is going to kill you."

  There was utter silence after she said it. He was going to laugh at her, call her crazy. But it would be better than letting him go out and end up dead.

  He turned slowly and looked down at her. "How do you know that?"

  He was watching her face so damned closely she knew he'd see through any lie she concocted. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and took a single step backward. "I just do."

  "How?" he demanded, advancing. "Do you know the Slasher, Joey? Is that it?"

  She shook her head from side to side, and when he reached for her she took another hasty step backward. But she'd forgotten her injury, and she put too much weight on it, too suddenly. She cried out. Her knee buckled as white-hot pain shot through her leg, and she stumbled.

  Ash swore as he reached for her, caught her around the waist and kept her from falling. He hauled her up and forward, hesitated for an immeasurable instant, then pulled her closer, tight to his chest. His arms closed around her, and Joey pressed her face against the cool fabric of his shirt, inhaling his scent.

  "It's not firsthand information." He murmured the words into her hair and slowly began to rock just slightly back and forth. "It's not that you're a part of this insanity. I know that, Joey. But for God's sake, you have to tell me what it is."

  She nodded, moving her head against his chest even as her arms crept up around his neck and tightened there.

  He turned her slightly and then scooped her up. He carried her down the hall, but didn't stop in the living room this time. He turned left and carried her into his bedroom instead.

  #

  As he lowered her onto his oversize bed, Ash studied her face in the too-bright lights of the bedroom. Tell me the truth this time, Joey. I'm trying to believe in you, but, God, you're making it tough.

  He propped pillows behind her and eased her onto them, then pulled the extra blanket from the foot of the bed, shook it out and covered her, tucking it around her shoulders. The apartment was chilly. He hadn't thought to adjust the thermostat when they'd come in. He hadn't been thinking about much at all lately, except the mystery that was Joey Bradshaw and how he might solve it.

  He looked at her huddled on his bed like a frightened child, at the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and the way her lips were slightly parted and moist and full.

  He'd been thinking about those lips, too, and how they tasted. And those thoughts led to others, until he was surprised he could remember how to breathe, let alone investigate a string of murders. Maybe Radley had been right about that

  He pushed a hand through his hair and turned away. He went to the living room and heard the anxiety, the raw fear, in her voice as she called his name.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he called back. "Just stay put." He stalked to the kitchenette and found a bottle of white zinfandel in the fridge. For a minute he just looked at it, sitting there, unopened, waiting for the notorious Ashville Coye to introduce it to his latest conquest. There was an instant when he was disgusted with himself and his endless search for the perfect woman. Who did he think he was, anyway, that the perfect woman would be interested in him? And where did he get off, listing the standards she had to meet? What did he know?

  Nothing. Not one damn thing. Joey Bradshaw was proof of that. He'd written her off the day he'd met her, and as it turned out, she was probably the closest thing to perfect he'd ever seen.

  He slammed the fridge closed and fumbled in a drawer for a corkscrew. He felt things for Joey. Things he didn't want to feel. Hell, in all his big plans involving the wife of his dreams and the perfect nuclear family, he'd never given much thought to actual emotions being involved. He guessed he'd just assumed some deep, abiding fondness would come with the package.

  What an idiot!

  So he meets a woman who's as far from what he'd thought he wanted as was humanly possible, and starts wishing he could have her—wishing he could always have her. And it has to be a woman who's lying to him every time she opens her mouth. A woman who can't trust him. A woman who gives every indication of being mixed up in murder.

  The cork popped and Ash threw it, corkscrew and all, onto the shiny white counter. "And she thinks she can read minds, to boot. It's crazy." He reached into the cupboard above for two wineglasses, and filled them both. Then he set the bottle aside and just stared into the pinkish liquid, remembering the way she'd known little Brittany had fallen into the river, the way she'd known a lot of things she shouldn't have. The thoughts made him uneasy. He gripped one glass and tipped it to his lips, draining it. He set it down and filled it again.

  "Maybe I'm the one who's crazy."

  "Ash?"

  God, she was so afraid to let him out of her sight! Why?

  "Right here. I'm right here." Maybe now she'd come clean with him, tell him why she'd started this game. Why she was pretending to be his wife, and what she knew about the Slasher.

  He carried the two glasses back to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and handed her one.

  She gave him a wary look and took a sip. Then another. "This is good."

  "Talk to me, Joey."

  She licked her lips and nodded, taking a bigger gulp of wine. "You won't believe me. You'll think I'm a flake." He only watched her, waiting. She cleared her throat. "Sometimes I know things."

  "What kinds of things?" He wasn't going to help her. He needed to know if she would be honest on her own.

  She averted her eyes. "Like when Brit fell in the river."

  "You said you heard the splash."

  "I wasn't...being honest. I didn't hear anything. I just...felt it. In my mind, I saw Brit fall in, and I knew." She licked her lips and rushed on. "That's how I help the companies that hire me as a consultant. If I'm around people, I sometimes sense their dishonesty and I..." Her voice trailed off.

  "So you're a psychic."

  She closed her eyes. "Don't laugh at me, Ash."

  He took the wineglass from her hand and set it on the bedside stand, placing his beside it. "I wouldn't do that."

  "I can't control it. I'm not sure I want to."

  He wasn't sure he believed it, even now. "Is that how you knew someone had been in the house? You just felt it?"

  She lifted her head and nodded

  "And what you said about the gloves—"

  "I saw the hands...the gloves."

  He sighed, licked his lips. "What else have you...seen?"

  Her eyes widened and took on an intensity he hadn't witnessed before. "Ash, you're in danger. You have to believe that. The Slasher wants you dead, and I can't let it happen."

  "Because I'm your husband?"

  Tears gathered until her emerald eyes glittered. "Because... I care about you. I don't want to lose you, and that's nothing but the truth."

  It was some kind of pain that twisted inside him when she said that. Some kind of excruciating, wonderful pain. She was telling part of the truth, at least. Or what she believed to be the truth. But it was difficult to swallow. He'd never put much stock in farfetched claims of extraterrestrials, or Elvis sightings, or ESP.

  "You don't believe any of it, do you?"

  He reached toward her, brushing a single tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I believe you care." He shook his head. "Can't imagine why, but you do. And I think you're convinced of this...this mind-reading thing. I just..."
His hand fell away from her face. He got up and reached for his wine, then paced the room, carrying it. "It's damned hard to buy into, Joey." He took a huge gulp and went on. "Maybe if you could show me—"

  "I'm not a magician, Ash, and this isn't some parlor trick."

  He turned to face her, seeing the anger rising in red blotches on her cheeks. "I didn't mean—"

  "Yes, you did. You were going to ask me to read your mind, tell you what you were thinking while you evoked some unlikely image. It doesn't work that way. I told you, I can't control it. I can't just look inside your head and read your thoughts as if I was reading a book. God knows I've tried."

  He felt his brows shoot up as her anger ran its course. "You have?"

  She nodded, looking miserable.

  "And you couldn't read me, huh?"

  She shook her head, then paused. "Well, except..." She bit her lip and didn't finish the thought.

  “Except what?'' Why did his voice sound so eager? Was he actually hoping she could prove her claims?

  She sighed, reaching for her wine and finishing it. "You had a nightmare one night A bad one. One you have a lot."

  He stiffened, suddenly feeling as if someone was invading his most private hell. But it was silly. He'd probably tossed and turned, broken into a sweat, maybe muttered in his sleep. Anyone would know he'd been dreaming.

  "I did, huh? I don’t remember."

  She looked at him, her anger vanishing like mist "You were alone, in a very small, very dark place. You felt like you were suffocating, you couldn't breathe, and you—"

  "All right." He didn't mean to snap, but she was picking at an old wound. More gently he said, "All right, I believe you."

  "I'm sorry." She got out of the bed and limped toward him. "I know it still hurts—"

  "Well, your ESP is flawed, because it doesn't"

  She stopped two feet from him. "You can tell me about it, talk it out—"

  "It's not something I talk about." He finished his wine and looked down into the empty glass.

  "Maybe that's the problem."

  "My only problem is that my wife won't let me out of the apartment to buy food, and my stomach is empty."

  She lowered her head, and he knew that she would let the topic slide.

  "Help yourself to the bathroom, Joey, and something to wear to bed. I'm gonna call a deli that delivers." He turned to go, then turned back. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be sensing any great hoagie joints that are still open, would you?"

  His attempt at humor worked, he thought. She smiled, reaching back to the bed for the pillow and throwing it at him. "I suppose I'll be pummeled with ESP jokes for the rest of the night now?"

  "You read my mind."

  Chapter Nine

  She couldn't eat. But he didn't seem to have any trouble. Nor was his sleep disturbed in any visible way. He'd been snoring loudly when she'd slipped out of his bed. He had to know she was lying, keeping things from him. It was in his eyes whenever he looked at her. But she'd told him as much as she could. If he knew she wasn't his wife, he'd probably send her packing...and she couldn't protect him if she wasn't with him.

  She stood on the balcony and stared down into the twinkling lights below. The warm summer breeze played with the shirt she wore. His shirt. It held his scent, wrapped it all around her, and she found she liked that sensation. Maybe too much.

  She drank the wine she'd helped herself to, and told herself she was stupid to get so attached to him. It wouldn't last. It couldn't, because his memory was coming back.

  It hadn't hit her at first. Only as she lay in the bed beside him, watching him as he slept, wishing she had the nerve to reach for him, to kiss him, had the suspicion taken root. He remembered his nightmare, remembered its source. And he hadn't seemed at all unfamiliar with his apartment. His memory was returning, and when it did he would know she was lying about their marriage.

  And then she would lose him. Even if she managed to keep up the charade long enough to save him from the Slasher, in the end she would lose him to her own lies.

  Why did it hurt so much to know that? Why was she standing on a balcony, in the dark, sipping wine and crying like a little girl?

  "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

  She stiffened, but didn't turn around. She didn't want him to see her foolish tears. "No."

  "Neither could I." He moved up to the rail beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He wore a short terry robe, untied, over the briefs he'd slept in.

  "Liar. You were sawing timbers when I left"

  "Until you left." He turned her to face him, and looked down at her. "Hey, what's this?" He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his fingertips.

  "Stress, I suppose." She reached for the wineglass. He did, too, bumping her hand with his and sloshing the wine onto her wrist. She drew her hand away, but he caught and lifted it. He brought it close to his face, his lips. Then he kissed it, drinking the wine from her skin, his mouth moving slowly over her wrist and forearm.

  She trembled, and he straightened.

  "Cold?"

  She shook her head, unable to speak. She wanted him so much, wanted this make-believe marriage to be real...just for tonight And she knew he wanted it too. His eyes glimmered in the darkness, with desire...for her.

  She averted her gaze. This was insane. "The shirt will stain," she said to break the tension.

  Then his fingertips were at her neck, and she realized he was releasing the buttons. And she stood there, not moving, with neither the will nor the desire to stop him.

  He reached the lowest button and stopped. He looked into her eyes, not touching her, waiting for her to say no. She didn't. Instead she caught the front of the shirt in her trembling hands, parted it and let it slide down her shoulders to fall in soft folds at her feet.

  And there, in the moonlight, he looked at her...the way a mother must look at her own newborn child the first time it's placed in her arms. Awe, sheer adoration, glowing from his face, he looked at her from head to toe. He blinked, and met her gaze again, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.

  "Ah, God, Joey." It was a whisper, hoarse, as if he were in some kind of pain. His hand drifted downward, over her chin, her throat. His fingertips skimmed her breast, then his palm closed over it.

  She closed her eyes and let her head fall back in reaction to his touch. His hand slid over the curve of her waist, around to the small of her back, and he drew her to him. Free hand driving into her hair, he brought her face level again, and then he kissed her.

  It was slow, almost reverent in its tenderness, that kiss. As if it were the first one, as if he wanted to learn the shape and taste of her mouth, memorize it, savor it. She felt the roughness of a day's growth of whiskers razing her skin. She tasted the wine on his tongue as he lazily licked at the inside of her mouth. And his fingers, flexing in her hair in time with those spread at the base of her spine, were hypnotic and wonderful.

  She brought her hands up between them and pushed his robe open, wanting more, needing the brush of his chest hair over her breasts and the feel of his taut skin under her hands. He released her with only one hand at a time to shrug the robe off, never breaking the sweet, erotic rhythm of his kiss.

  His head angled. His lips slid over her face, and he nibbled at her jaw, then moved lower, the damp warmth of his mouth bathing her neck and the hollow below her ear. Her heart raced, drowning out the sounds of traffic below. Her senses filled with him, with wanting him, needing him.

  He bent her backward and took one breast into his mouth. Her hands on his shoulders tightened, and she felt the shudder that ran through him. He suckled her, making her gasp for breaths that wouldn't seem to come.

  "Ash...we should go...inside," she managed, her voice sounding weak and shaky.

  He kissed a trail back to her mouth, pausing in between as he spoke, not lifting his mouth from her skin, so that his words were warm caresses against it. "No, Joey. There have...been others...in there." His fingers tangled in her hair an
d he lifted his face slightly from hers, staring into her eyes. "This is different. You're different. I want you here, where there's never been anyone else."

  Tears burned her eyes, but she nodded, and twined her arms around his neck to bring his lips to hers. He lowered her to the floor, on a rumpled bed made by the shirt she'd worn and his robe. And he came down with her, his arm pillowing her head as his lips moved over her body. His mouth moistened her throat and chest, her breasts and her belly. His free hand roamed downward, and he gently parted her thighs to explore the valley between them. He caressed her, then probed, and her hips rose of their own will. She was damp, trembling, and her desire encompassed her mind and soul.

  When he paused and turned away, she cried out his name, but he came back to her in a moment, smoothing her hair, kissing her mouth. "I'm right here...not going anywhere." He touched her again, his thumb finding and then fondling the center of her need. And then he nudged her thighs wider with his knee and settled between them.

  When she felt his hardness touch her softness, she closed her eyes and gripped his buttocks, pulling him into her. Her eyes widened at the sensation as her body stretched around him. Then his hands slid beneath her to hold her to him, and he pushed still deeper.

  "Tight," he said between kisses. "So tight...so good." He withdrew and moved in again, slowly, so slowly she wanted to scream. And then again, and again, keeping to that torturous pace, no matter how she arched against him or twisted beneath him in desire.

  Over and over his steely strength caressed her from within, and all the while he kissed her and whispered softly against her skin. Words that had no meaning for her then, in her frenzied state. Words like "You're safe, Joey... always safe with me."

  He pushed her, and he pulled her. Played with her as if she were a puppet on a string, driving her to the edge of madness only to let her hang there, begging for fulfillment in the language of her body. She writhed beneath him, longing for it, mindless in her need.