had them. The potent mix included awe, intense curiosity and rampant doubts and fears. She was also attracted to him—what woman wouldn’t be struck by his dark, poetic mop of hair and deep-water eyes? How could she not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers? But sex was not part of their arrangement, and if that wasn’t entirely satisfactory to her, it should have been. She’d insisted the relationship be platonic. She’d been as adamant about that as he had, but her reasons had probably been different than his.
Of course, she hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, or that he would suddenly turn into the white knight who would protect her from her big, bad family. She was appreciative, and that was the problem. Positive feelings were starting to outweigh the negative ones, which made it hard to keep the feelings in check.
Attracted? Yes. Wildly.
She touched her face and felt the familiar heat creeping up her throat. Thank God it was dark. No one could see this. No one could hear the blood rushing through her heart or see how difficult it was for her to swallow.
No one knew her pathetic little secrets.
They both slept restlessly, and perhaps it was inevitable that they would come into physical contact. Sometime before dawn, Alison brushed his arm with her hand. It was an accident, but he rolled toward her, and their eyes came open at the same time.
She knew instantly what was happening. And by the hitch in his breathing, he did, too. It was the dark of night and no one would know. Maybe they would pretend not to know themselves that they were about to take this further than a touch, much further.
It was dark. A dream. It didn’t count.
He moved over her and she rose toward him. His hand slid beneath her and his mouth came down on hers. She was engulfed by that one act, a kiss. It was softness, warmth and dinner wine. It was their first.
What changed everything was the sigh in his throat. There was no return from that sigh. Was it pleasure or anguish?
His thigh brushed hers. His hand was on her breast. Every touch was new and terrifying. She was torn between conflict and yearnings. She wanted to be taken, possessed. Penetrated. Please.
Her stomach clenched with anticipation. She saw herself raking his flesh with her nails and pulling his hair. She wanted to be the object of his awe, as he was hers. But she didn’t trust him—or anything about the situation they were in. This wasn’t just a kiss in the dark. It was an act of sweet desperation, of surrender, and he already had too much power.
He bent to her again. She could feel the heat of his breath, hear his noisy heartbeat, but somehow, he stopped before their lips met.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
His voice dropped low. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “It won’t again.”
He turned and sat on the side of the bed. Alison was dizzy with disappointment. She couldn’t pretend it was anything else. Where did he get that kind of willpower? And who had he been kissing? The woman he married or the one transformed by plastic surgery? She wanted urgently to know, but told herself it was better that they weren’t intimately involved, safer. There was too much conflict and confusion between them.
She was well aware that there were times he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, perhaps like right now. And there were times when she wished he wouldn’t look at her, because he couldn’t hide the suspicion, even revulsion, in his eyes. When had he begun to hate her? she wondered. Had he always felt this way?
She rolled over, away from him. The wall between them was so high it couldn’t be scaled, and yet she knew she wouldn’t sleep. There would be no peace. Thank God she’d brought the pills with her. She had to do something to obliterate this new and painful awareness of her bed partner.
Alison heard chimes ringing as she stole through the beach house, wondering where everyone was on this hazy July morning. Andrew had left earlier for a walk on the beach. He hadn’t asked her to come with him, and she would never have suggested it. She was still reeling from last night’s rejection. There’d been no discussion of what he’d done, except in the privacy of her own mind, where she had come to a decision regarding Andrew.
He had preyed on her vulnerabilities for the last time.
Aware that the chimes were still ringing, she lifted her head and sniffed the air. Was that coffee she smelled? After dinner last night, Julia had taken her and Andrew on a tour of Sea Clouds, including the new family room downstairs. She’d told them Rebecca, who had her own room on the third floor, set out a continental breakfast in the family room each morning.
Alison realized that must be where everyone was now. But she was lost in the huge house—and those damn bells wouldn’t stop! She couldn’t tell if it was the phone or the door, but the chimes crescendoed as she entered the foyer. A dark form was silhouetted against the etched glass of the front doors, and she assumed it was Andrew, back from his walk.
She opened the door, exasperated. “You don’t have to ring,” she said. “You’re part of the family.”
But it wasn’t Andrew standing there.
“Oh, sorry.” The man’s tigerish hazel eyes and predatory stare brought a flutter of recognition to Alison’s stomach. He hadn’t changed at all. His fine features had always made him look sinister rather than sensitive. No pretty boy, this one. “Tony Bogart?”
He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her hair. “I’ve never thought of you as anything but a blonde,” he said.
Alison felt like a lab specimen the way he was scrutinizing her. She’d slipped on a cotton sundress this morning that was quick, easy and cool, but it showed some skin, and already he was making her regret her choice.
“This is my natural color,” she said, deciding not to explain any further. He must have heard about her accident, but she doubted that was why he was here. She fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the secret past that she and Tony Bogart had shared over a decade ago. Against her parents’ wishes, they’d hung out together during her family’s stays in Mirage Bay. They’d been teenagers at the time, but their rich girl/poor boy relationship had probably been doomed from the start. It had ended for good when Tony discovered there was another man in her life. He’d actually been trying to propose to her in a local restaurant when Andrew walked in on them. Alison could only imagine how humiliating that had been for Tony. Shortly after that, Tony had packed up and left town, and that was the last contact they’d had.
“Have you moved back home?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I live in Virginia now,” he said, “near Quantico. I’m back in Mirage Bay on personal business.”
“Quantico? That’s—”
He nodded. “FBI headquarters. I’m a special agent.”
Of all the careers she’d imagined for Tony Bogart, FBI agent wasn’t one of them. Right now he was standing on the porch in ripped blue jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt, looking more like the rebel he’d been when they were younger than a lawman. He was holding something in his hand that looked like an eight-by-ten photograph, but she could only see the back.
“Are you visiting your father?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously, you’re not gifted with second sight. I’m here because of Butch’s murder. You must have heard about that?”
Alison prayed her skin wouldn’t catch fire again. She knew about Butch’s case in detail. She’d gone through Andrew’s office when he was away on a business trip, trying to find out more about her mysterious husband and the life he led apart from her, and she’d found issues of the Mirage Bay newspaper that had dated back to her accident.
The discovery hadn’t surprised her, after she’d thought about it. Andrew had a personal interest in the yachting accident and its investigation. Butch Bogart’s murder had occurred the same day, so it was heavily covered, too. But Alison had