Chapter One

"Please. Please tell me you brought me here to kill me."

A brief snort and the crinkling of the taxi driver's stained tobacco pouch were the first sounds she'd heard from the front seat of the car. "That's a good 'un. Can't say anybody ever asked for that before."

"Okay--you brought me here to assault and rob me, right?" Camille blinked hard, pressing her forehead against the clammy window of the taxi. Holy hell, she was having a nightmare. "Tell me the truth. I can take it."

"Think so?" The cab driver peeked at her in his rear view mirror. "Make you a little nervous, does it?"

The stress-induced nausea that had been with her for weeks hardened into a sickening lump in her stomach. Squinting hard, she tried to peer through the fog. "It's like a bad dream. You've made a mistake with the address. This wreck of a place cannot be the Price estate."

He lowered his window and spat a ripe, wet plug into the mist. "Yup. That it is."

"But--"

"Listen, young miss. I just brought you here, as told. I got nothin' to do with whether you like the destination. Time to pay up now. I don't hang 'round these here parts. Nobody does. I got other folks to ferry, and this is your stop." His eyes shone like bright new pennies beneath hooded lids. "You did say you wanted Rose Cottage, didn't you?"

The house was exactly as she remembered it.

A small, shingle-encrusted cottage with a chimney that sputtered rather than spewed. Dark drapes drawn against fog-filtered light. A cherubic, winking doorknocker of tarnished brass whose expression was anything but inviting. And roses, roses everywhere, crimson and crowding. Rich with the sweet smell of sex, their heads nodded--no, bowed--to her as she drowned in the overwhelming scent.

Peculiar that the image of this place should be so clear in her mind that she thought of it as a memory. Especially since she'd never seen this house before.

Already she wished she'd waited a little longer, maybe tried to scrape together enough money for a small hotel room--if there were hotels in this God-forsaken place. But the plane ticket and taxi fare had effectively cleaned her out. Rat-trap or not, Rose Cottage was going to be her home for at least a few days.

As the sound of the departing taxi faded, Camille shivered, trying desperately to blame the cold, damp weather. Fog hung like despair over this particular patch of earth and petals from the dilapidated flowers, driven by some recent storm, clung to the walls like leper-shed skin. Still, she lingered near the front door of the cottage, wondering why it all seemed so familiar. Stories her mother had told her about the old homestead, no doubt.

Mom had been wrong about a lot of things.

"Get a grip, girl," she murmured to herself, squaring her shoulders. After all the trouble it took to get here, why hesitate now? It couldn't be because she didn't want to see her aunt. That was part of the reason she'd come. Even family feuds should end with death, and her mother had been gone for over a year.

It was time.

The cherub sneered at her as she rapped out a hearty knock. She winked back at it, making a mental note to dispose of the little bastard whenever she got a chance. She could replace it with a nice dried floral arrangement, or an antique horseshoe, for luck. Maybe even a shrunken head--preferably her ex-husband's. Anything but this refugee from someone's haunted house.

The door swung open with a cutting creak as a pink kimono bloomed in the darkened interior. A pale hand pushed the rusty screen partially open. "Camille, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'm--"

"Well, come in."

The woman's chalky voice sounded more impatient than welcoming. The peculiar urge to hesitate, to turn back, made Camille's skin crawl again, and she glanced over her shoulder at the small gravel road. This, of course, was the moment in every horror flick when the hapless heroine had one last chance to escape.

But the taxi had already gone.

Grabbing her single suitcase, Cam shouldered her way through and paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness.

The smell of decaying roses was all but absent inside.

There was only the strong, musty smell of raw, recent sex.

Ha. One old family mystery solved. She'd always heard that Aunt Roe never left the confines of her estate, and always wondered why. Obviously, there was no need. The party was right here.

Her aunt's slender fingers firmly closed the door and hoisted the martini glass in a salute. "Welcome to Rose Cottage, Cam. I would give you a nice, matronly hug--but we don't want to be hypocritical, now do we?"

Aunt Rosemary was rumored to be forty-five, the youngest of her mother's sisters. Apparently it was true that the Price women had fantastic genes. She could've passed for thirty. Her cheekbones were high and hard, her shape still sleek, her bosom firm.

It was easy to tell. One of her breasts bloomed above the sagging satin lapel of the robe that rode high on her thighs and carelessly parted to reveal no undergarments beneath.

"Would you like a drink?"

Cam set her suitcase down without invitation. She needed a free hand to peel her blouse away from her skin. The inside of the cottage was twice as humid and damn near as foggy as the outside. One picture window and two small ones were closed and covered with heavy drapes. Within these walls dusk or dawn would've seemed the same. "Thanks, no. A little early in the day."

"Is it?" Roe lifted a corner of her mouth, and again Cam wished the taxi from hell had lingered a little longer. "I lose track of time here. Have a seat, dear."

"A seat?"

"Oh. Sorry. The dark doesn't bother me. Eyes of a cat." She pulled the door open again and perched on the arm of a frayed brown sofa in the middle of the room.

Camille spotted a small ottoman near the large window and collapsed there. The joint wasn't just shady--it was deliberately dark. The walls were painted in indigo blue, and the carpet was a maroon, woolen print trapped beneath layers of grime.

Cam swallowed hard. This was the enchanted little kingdom her mother had told stories about? Admittedly, her mother had spoiled her as a child. There'd been the four-poster bed draped in little girl lace, perfectly proportioned dollhouses filled with fine furniture, and bay windows stuffed with pillows, made for dreaming. She believed in living in the here and now, but this was a far cry from the great room in her former home where she always received her guests. With windows that reached from the floor to high, vaulted ceilings, it had been full of light and air, decorated with the purest of pale colors. There had been luncheons and parties, life and laughter there, and no thought of that dream ever ending.

How could anyone live like this? How could anyone even breathe in a place like this?

"Long trip?"

Her aunt seemed drowsy and unsteady as she lit a thin, tapered cigar. Even the flame of the lighter was wan and sickly. Cam rubbed her bare arms, sweating and chilled at the same time. The cottage was like a tomb. "From Washington, D.C. to Obelisk, this bustling metropolis bordering Virginia's Great Dismal Swamp? No, not long." To change from what she had been to what she was now? Yes. It seemed to have taken forever.

Roe pushed her hair, that gloriously lush, blonde mane the Price family was known for, out of her face. "You look like your mother."

So did her aunt. But harder, more weather-beaten. "Thank you."

"But you've got your father's eyes. Charcoal-gray, nearly black. Nothing like the Price family green. And your hair's darker than ours. Coppery. Very attractive. I'm surprised."

"Why surprised?"

"Because I heard your mother rushed you into marriage right after your high school graduation. Guess I had visions of you being some kind of troll she had to unload quickly."

Whatever kind of reception she'd been expecting from her aunt, this certainly wasn't it. Camille blinked, staring at the woman, at a loss for words. What in the world had she done to deserve the attitude?

Rosemary continued, caressing her cheek with her dewy glass. "Your mother and I really didn't keep in touch, but I heard your marriage didn't work out. What was his name? Frank? Heard he really screwed you around. Heard you didn't handle the break-up very well."

As if on cue, her vision melted into threatening tears. No, she hadn't handled it well, not any better than she was handling this tender meeting. But she would not cry, dammit. After all the progress she'd made she wasn't about to fall apart now. "And I heard rumors that you were a bitch." Cam hid her bitterness behind a bland smile. "Nice to know we both heard wrong, isn't it?"

Rosemary laughed and snapped her fingers. "Spirit. Something your mother didn't have. Good for you. You'll need it."

Camille sighed, nervously eyeing the empty glass, wishing she'd accepted the offer. God, she could use a drink or three about now. But she wouldn't give in. She could beat the urge. After what she'd been through, she could beat anything. "Aunt Rosemary, am I mistaken, or didn't you send me a letter asking--no, begging--me to come and visit you? I know I'm a stranger to you, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm not exactly getting the warm fuzzies here."

"Is that what you expected? My God, your mother really did keep you in the dark."

Cam took a deep breath of the damp, thick air. "Aunt Roe, I don't know what this is all about, but I do know I'm tired. I'm tired from the trip. From the taxi ride. From the divorce, the legal battles, the petty squabbling. I'm even tired of being tired. Now, I seem to remember you inviting me here. You said you wanted to get to know me, that you needed some semblance of family in your life. So, what's with the stepchild treatment? If you want me gone, just say the word and--"

"No." Her response was so quick, so sharp, it nearly made Camille jump. "I'm sorry. Really. I don't know what's wrong with me. Too much solitude, too much time alone. I've forgotten how to behave in proper society. Please. Accept my apology."

"Maybe I should find a hotel nearby and stay there."

"A hotel? Around here?" She lazily licked her bottom lip. "Would you have the money for it?"

Camille fisted her hands in her lap. Her aunt wasn't as drunk as she seemed. Cam had no money. No credit. Nothing to fall back on. She had been, as the woman said, royally screwed. "No. No, I don't. But what about the guest houses? I could stay there, well out of the way of whatever ... er, debauchery you might have planned. Aren't there one or two on the property?"

Rosemary's bloodshot eyes flicked wide for the first time. "How do you know that? You've never been here before."

"My mother used to talk about this place. The old homestead. She made it sound like heaven. I think I dreamed about it when I was little, thought of it as some kind of fairy-tale castle."

"You can put that dream to rest. One of the guest houses is occupied by the help, and the other is rat-infested. So I guess you'll be staying here, won't you?"

She considered her options. Rats. Rosemary. Rats...

Rosemary held up a conciliatory hand. "Please don't take everything I say so personally. I'm not accustomed to socializing anymore, so I come off as a little ... blunt. And I'm used to having people kiss my ring. Money makes the taste of ass a delicacy. So you might just make things interesting around here." She butted her cigar in what must have once been a valuable piece of lead crystal. "You're prettier than your mother. Earthier. Stronger. She always seemed so fragile. I'm curious. Did she ever tell you anything about me?"

Very little. She didn't have to. There were always whisperings at family gatherings and across-the-board refusals to answer questions about her aunt. And once, when Camille had the privilege of perusing her great-grandmother's bible, she'd discovered Rosemary's name. It had been very deliberately crossed out. "Yes. She told me that, for all intents and purposes, you were dead."

"And so I am." Her short laugh was husky and sensual. "Just too stubborn to lie down. You know how that is, I think."

Yes. Actually, Cam had a pretty good idea.

"Come on." Rosemary rose briskly, offering a full smile for the first time. "Let me show you why I sent for you."

Chapter Two

The house was as twisted as its owner.

Camille struggled with her heavy bag in an effort to keep up with her aunt's leisurely pace through the labyrinth. The outside had looked deceptively small. Actually, the Price family's idea of a cottage would be an average person's ideal mansion. The living room arched into a small dining area, which led from one short hallway to another and another, well beyond the front-facing facade. Furnishings were sparse. Probably antique. Definitely valuable. And everything was dark with the dust of countless days of disinterest. "Maid's decade off?"

With a demure smile, Roe paused with her hand on the handles of a huge, ivory-colored double door. Camille blinked in surprise. Despite the dim light, she was fairly sure that the elaborate ornamental gilding was soiled but certainly gold.

"No servants to speak of. Just a groundskeeper and one wretch of a girl who comes to cook occasionally. I'm a very private person, and I don't like people meddling in my debauchery. I'm willing to share this much only because you're blood, and ... well, you'll see."

With what seemed a great effort, Roe pulled the doors wide open. A bright light and the overwhelming scent of leather and ancient tomes assailed Cam's senses, and she had to pause before following her aunt into what was, apparently, the library.

Books. There were books everywhere, from floor to vaulted ceiling, in yellowed glass cases, strewn about a desk of tremendous proportions, stacked on the hardwood floor and on the bright brocade of several Queen Anne chairs. A world of knowledge, hidden inside this musty mausoleum. Such a waste.

In the center of the library stood a professorial-looking man of well-trimmed beard and wire-rimmed spectacles who might easily have passed for a librarian, except for the large snifter of brandy in his hand and his warm, bright smile.

"Welcome, Camille. Welcome to Rose Cottage."

She stood still for some time, probably looking very stupid. He was attractive enough, she supposed. A bit pale, a tad on the thin side, with brown hair slicked too severely back from his forehead. His tweed jacket bore artfully-placed patches, and his shoes were polished to perfection. Ivy-league, book-smart, straight arrow, but not terribly affluent. He was not the kind of man she'd finger as her aunt's lover. And despite the strong, bookish smell, even the library carried the subtle scent of sexual fluids in the air--so somebody had been taking care of business. "Hi." She started to reach for his outstretched hand and nearly dropped her suitcase.

"Here, let me help you with that."

Rosemary grabbed the brandy away from him, chuckling as he set the bag on the floor. "Camille, this is David. David Parrish. He's my accountant, business manager, and agent. My personal jack-of-all-trades." She drained half the snifter without flinching. "He's a pretty average fuck, but get him to give you a little head. He excels at that."

Holy Mother of God.

Not a whisper, not a trace of air stirred the tension in the room as Cam watched the stranger's face blanch, then color crimson in embarrassment. If she'd ever had any doubts about the family whispers being true, those doubts had gone the way of the warm welcome she'd expected. Auntie Roe was, to put it bluntly, pure baby-back bitch.

"Well." Parrish coughed, running a hooked finger around his shirt's neckline. "Now that you know everything there is to know about me, maybe I should leave."

"Wait. Let's deal with the business before you go." Carelessly handing back the half-empty snifter, Rosemary padded with bare feet to the far corner of the room and snatched a sheet away from a pile of what Camille had assumed were books.

The face of the Devil himself leered back at her with a dark, shadowy grin that sent waves of prickling ice down her spine.

No horns, no satanic leer, no cloven hooves here. No need for cartoonish augmentation, no introductions necessary. This creature was built like a man--all man. Although his face and most of his features were in shadow, the body was a majestic blend of suntanned sienna and hard-muscled steel, broad and powerful. In the painting before her he stood wide-legged and strong, the thick rope of his manhood lovingly revealed as he wore nothing but a triumphant smile. One fist was raised in exuberant victory as fire played about his body, and disembodied arms and hands sprouted from the flames--begging. Reaching out to him. Worshipping him. Caressing him.

The other paintings were less stunning, but enough to make her squirm. An obelisk in the middle of a rural town square, more than slightly phallic in shape, and surrounded by tombstones and floral offerings, as if all the dead from the town's long history of death had been mass-buried there. An endless field of tulips beneath a powder-blue sky, their interiors shaped like the vulvas of women in heat. A country church, peacefully situated under a starry sky, the cross at its summit unaccountably aflame as the rest of the building remained intact.

"My God." Cam finally breathed, her fingers poised on the pulse at her throat. "What are they? Where'd they come from?"

"They're mine. They came out of me. I've been vomiting them up for the past six months." She let the sheet slip from her hand. "They're also the reason I've decided to leave my money--the Price fortune--to you. If I think you're deserving, that is."

Deserving? "I don't think I understand." She glanced at the accountant in a silent appeal. "Do I?"

"It's partly my fault," he ventured. "I showed photos of Roe's--I mean, Ms. Price's paintings to a few friends on a recent trip to New York. One of them happened to own a gallery, and he went apeshit for them. He's been representing her, and they're selling as fast as she can spew them out."

"That's ... great. Just great." People were actually buying these things? Jesus. It was the stuff of nightmares. The paintings did, however, confirm one of the suspicions she'd formed since entering the house. Dear Auntie Roe was obviously hatter-mad. "But I'm not sure what this has to do with me."

"Let's cut to the chase here. I've decided this is what I want." She waved an unsteady hand, nearly stumbling as she turned. "The paintings. I want to do the paintings. It's become an obsession with me. Can't seem to stop the flow, and I need to paint them, or I feel like ... like I'll incinerate from the inside out, y'know? It's the first thing--the only thing--in my life that's been important enough to lure me away from Rose Cottage. I can finally let it go, live outside these old, crumbling walls. Even give up the money. It's time for me to move on. All I need is the right person to..."

She stared at Cam, her hair waving wickedly over one eye. "The right person to take over here. A proper member of the family. Someone who can handle the responsibility. That means no screw-ups. You don't do as I do, you do as I say. No rocking the boat. No scandals. No gossip. Until I'm gone, you keep your nose clean and behave like the mistress of the manor. This is what I want. It's a simple thing. I want Rose Cottage kept intact. It's a legacy I'd hate to see lost. I want it lived in, cleaned up. Cared for. Otherwise, you're pretty useless to me. Think you can do that, Camille?"

Could she? It was her salvation, more than she'd prayed for. And she'd prayed for it ever since she'd received Roe's letter, ever since she'd realized that if she continued to live as she had been, she wouldn't live for long. "Of course I can. It's a low-key little town, after all. What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?"

Rosemary snorted, her eyes shifting to her paintings and back. "Oh, you'd be surprised. You never know what kind of temptation might crop up where you'd least expect it."

"I'm sure I could manage. Or at least I could try. Do my best."

"You'll have to do better than that. As far as I know, the only challenge you've had in your whole life was your marriage, and we both know how badly you fucked that up."

Cam felt her body stiffen, her eyes lock on the brandy snifter. So this was what she'd have to put up with to get back on top.

Fine. No crutches, no excuses. Born and bred to the elite be damned.

"You're right. I made a mess of it. And that means I've got sense enough to do better now. Leave it to me. I can handle it."

Rosemary studied her for a moment, hand on hip, as Cam held her breath.

God, please. Grant me this one wish, the last I'll ever ask for.

She needed this place right now, needed this security, this legacy that was rightfully hers. It was the only thing she had left.

Rosemary barked a short laugh, her eyes glitter-green. Her fingers slipped slowly into the cut of her robe and she squeezed her thighs together. Cam held her breath, her eyes widening in shock as she watched the slim fingers stroke, the hips begin to circle. Rosemary's lids drifted shut, her breathing becoming harsh and irregular.

She was masturbating right in front of them.

Stunned and embarrassed beyond belief, Cam averted her eyes, stealing a look at David. Apparently he had the same idea. His gaze was fastened on the portrait of the demon, his expression fierce but not surprised.

So this was what folks did for fun in low-key little towns. Whatever happened to hiking and hay rides? Was this sort of behavior standard practice in this house? Holy hell--how was she supposed to bide her time while her estranged aunt jacked off in the middle of the room?

Expelling a silent whistle, she tried to turn her attention elsewhere. Two bejeweled eggs in a dust-covered glass display case--probably Faberge. Fine Turkish carpets kicked carelessly aside on the floor. A leather-bound edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland being ill-used as a coaster for an empty goblet.

Somehow, she felt she could relate. Alice's rabbit hole had nothing on her experience with Rose Cottage so far.

Her gaze slid back to her aunt as Roe's fingers moved faster between her thighs. The other hand roughly squeezed her breast, forcing great, throaty gasps of air from her body as her back bent into the motion. Suddenly, she shuddered, reaching for the nearby desk to steady herself before she lurched, then slowed. With a drawn-out sigh of pleasure followed by a short laugh, she faced Camille once more.

"Sweet Camille. No need to look so shocked. You'll find you feel the same, eventually." Raising her arms above her head, she stretched, groaning with the effort. "Your house, your domain, your rules. Do as you damn well please, and the hell with what anybody else thinks once it's yours. That's what money is for, and that's what freedom's all about. Don't worry. You'll learn what's important and what's bullshit in the long run. And do you know what the most important thing in the world really is, little princess?"

Owning a personal vibrator, so you don't need to do this kinky crap in front of total strangers?

Camille silently shook her head at the pointing finger, which still glistened with her aunt's sex.

"The most important thing in the world is to know what you want. I mean really want. And being willing to sacrifice whatever--or whoever--is necessary to get it."

"I already know what I want. I want my birthright. I want Rose Cottage. I want everything that was taken away from me." Cam wasn't naturally combative, but this wasn't the time to be soft. This woman was a mud wrestler who respected determination and strength. She raised her chin defiantly. "In short, I want your money, Auntie Roe."

The older woman giggled, bouncing on the tips of her toes. "Good. Good answer. Dammit, I was all set to dislike you. You may just impress me after all, Camille Price. David? Champagne."

"Oh no, no, I don't--"

"Of course you do. Today you do. If only a taste. This is a celebration. I insist." She straightened her robe as her jack-of-all-trades hurried to comply. "Today is Tuesday. If all goes well--if I'm convinced you can carry it off--I'll be leaving for New York on Sunday, the first day of spring, and this will be all yours." Rosemary beamed a beautiful smile. "I'm glad you came after all, Camille. Welcome to the Rose Legacy."

Chapter Three

Pushing her bedroom door open ahead of them, David offered an apologetic smile. "You'll have to forgive Rosemary. She's a little tipsy, I'm afraid."

"She isn't tipsy. She's drunk. But it's okay. That's as good an excuse for bad behavior as any." Camille was well acquainted with such excuses. She had a personal stash of her own.

Resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose as she surveyed her new quarters, she reminded herself it was temporary and that she was lucky to have anything. She couldn't afford to be picky and couldn't move into the master bedroom until her aunt left for New York. And there was always the chance that wasn't any better.

It was a room of shadows and scents. The ceiling had been painted dark blue, as if someone had wanted to recreate sleeping under a night sky. Bad idea. This room--this house--needed all the light it could get. One high, narrow window was shrouded in thick gray drapes that had been safety-pinned closed. There was a large canopy bed against the south wall, mahogany-dark and imposing. A full-length mirror faced the bed, silver showing through its worn, peeling edges, and the black marble floor was glazed with grime.

And although she had been expected, the bed linens were tossed, and the smell of sex was obvious here too.

Her tired eyes searched the walls for a light switch as a teasing bead of sweat swam from her throat to her cleavage. "I don't know how to put this delicately--but there must be other rooms? Someplace else I can sack out?"

David flicked a small crystal lamp on the nightstand and placed her suitcase on the mattress. "They're worse."

Was that possible? She planted her purse on top of the suitcase, eying the bed suspiciously. "Clean sheets? Towels?"

"Roe isn't big on housekeeping."

"Ya think?" Cam stifled a yawn, amazed by how tired she was from the trip. And jittery. On edge. She needed something to help her relax. An extra glass of that champagne she never should've had would work. Mistress-to-be of the manor, and she'd already broken a promise she'd made to herself.

No booze.

Sharing the champagne was necessary. She didn't want Rosemary to know about her drinking problem. The woman was already locked and loaded with enough ammunition.

And she had been doing so well. She didn't drink herself to sleep anymore. Or enough to make sure she slept through half of the next day. Or to cure the hangovers, or the pain of no longer having anyone who cared whether she was hung-over or not.

With everything she wanted within her grasp she couldn't afford to backslide now, despite her raw nerves.

And nerves were as good an excuse as any too.

David looked duly sympathetic. "It won't be as bad as you think. Moira, the girl who comes to cook, will be running in and out. She's a good kid, even if she's deathly afraid of Rosemary. But I think she'd be glad to do some spot cleaning for you if she can avoid your aunt. She's been dying to take a scrubbing brush to the place for months now. And if you can make do until tomorrow, I'll run into the next town and pick up some new things for you. It's seventeen miles off, but the stores there open early."

"The next town? What's wrong with this one?"

"Everything. Obelisk is a good old-fashioned place if you're looking for peace and quiet, but there's not much here."

"I'd appreciate that. Very generous of you."

"Ah well, we want you to be happy."

"We?" Cam flicked the locks on the luggage. "Why?"

"I know how hard this must be for you, moving to a new place. And even when she's at her best, Roe is no day at the beach. People in this town can seem ... strange. I'd like to help if I can." He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. "And frankly, I hope to win you over, so you'd let me stick around after your aunt's gone. I can help you with the finances, make arrangements for any repairs you want done--anything." He smiled, a little too brightly. "Anything you want."

"I see." His eye teeth were too long, and he was just a little too eager, but not unattractive. Cam found herself wondering whether dear Auntie Roe had been telling the truth--whether David was as "talented" as she'd said. After all, this was the first time she'd had a man in her bedroom in nearly a year. "Exactly what do you do for my aunt, Mr. Parrish?"

"Until recently I kept the books, invested a bit of the Price money here and there. Now I also handle the art dealers, help arrange the shows. Basically what I do involves keeping everyone out of your aunt's gorgeous blonde hair."

"And do you do my aunt?"

He blushed again, shrugging awkwardly. It was rather sweet, this boyish charm of his. It made him seem harmless. Harmless would be good for her about now, even if he was just a friend.

"That's a rather awkward question, Mrs.--"

"Camille. I'm not married anymore. My name is Camille Price."

"Sorry. I'm sorry, Camille. I'm not sure what you want me to say about Roe."

"You could tell me it's none of my business. You could tell me it has nothing to do with your work performance. But the truth would be nice."

He sighed, his gaze latching onto the shrouded window. "When I first started working for your aunt a few years back, we had a ... fling. I guess that's what you'd call it. Very short-lived, nothing serious, completely physical. Roe's still a damn fine-looking woman. I was quite flattered, I'm afraid."

"And now?"

"She's still a damn fine-looking woman."

Camille snorted. "I see you also dance a little."

"It's over. Has been for some time." He was cute in a bookish sort of way, with dark, flinty eyes behind the sheen of his spectacles. "It's surprisingly important to me that you believe that."

Was he flirting with her? It was an interesting thought, but the inheritance was all she really wanted here. She'd learned her lesson about trust, and wanted no part of it. Cam wasn't sure she liked the cynic she'd become. But she was sure it was safer than the innocent she'd been.

There was also a serious ick factor with the idea of becoming involved with someone who'd been with her aunt--definitely a complication she didn't need. She'd concentrate on keeping herself together. Men and sex weren't part of the equation right now.

"I appreciate your honesty, David." She lifted a corner of the sheet with her nails, sniffed, let it fall. "Do you keep a room here, or can you stay for dinner? I think Auntie Roe and I could use a temporary referee."

"No. I mean, I can't. I mean, I don't stay here. I've got a place down the road a bit. Near the church. My own aunt lives with me, and she's not very well. I don't like leaving her alone."

"Another time, then. Now if you'll excuse me, David, I am a little tired. I may curl up here for a quick nap." She wanted him gone. Now. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she couldn't handle things here. Her palms were beginning to perspire, and an itch, an urge, was making her skin crawl. Having the champagne had set her off. She needed to be alone for a little liquid comfort. "I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe we can talk a little more then?"

"I'd like that." He moved to the door as she unearthed the bare mattress. "Camille?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome home."

Rosemary Price dimmed the lights in the library. The first act of the play was over. She wanted to enjoy the short intermission.

Returning to the glass of champagne she'd left half-finished, she carelessly shoved several books aside and reclined on top of the massive desk. "The girl is here." She smiled, even though the shadowy figure at the window had his back to her and couldn't see her. He knew she was pleased. He knew everything. "Despite all her mother's meddling, the girl is finally here."

"No thanks to your bitch of a reception." His voice was little more than a snarl that made her nipples perk and spark with excitement. "I'm surprised she's not running for the hills."

"She's got nowhere to go." She loved seeing him like this, without the guises or thrall. Perfectly formed, majestic in his nakedness, just as he was created to be. He had the most magnificently taut buttocks and muscular thighs, tailor-made for lifting and pushing. Pushing hard. They served him well. "We don't have to wait for the weekend, you know. The girl's a wreck, but she's present and accounted for. We could take care of this business tonight, and--"

"The Sabbath. We wait for the Sabbath. I want to give Camille a little time to adjust."

"Time? Why? What's so special about her?"

"I said we'll wait. And stick to my arrangements, as planned." His voice softened to deadly calm. "Unless, of course, you'd care to argue with me?"

"No, no." As crazy as most people thought she was, Rosemary was not stupid. She shrugged, swimming in the dizzying warmth of a full day's worth of alcohol. Damn, even the sight of the animal was enough to arouse her. She felt herself growing randy, wanting to touch herself again. This might not be as easy to surrender as she thought. "You and I could still give it a go, m'lord." She propped her legs wide, laughing. "For old time's sake?"

He didn't seem to hear her. His gaze was focused on something beyond the window, something she couldn't see. "I like this one." Turning slightly, he pinned her with hot-embered eyes, his massive erection jutting before him. "I think I'll keep her."

Rosemary giggled and fell back, curling her toes over the edge of the desk and raising her glass in salute. "Very well. If you can wait, I suppose I can too. As you say, m'lord. The Sabbath day it is."

The bedroom door had barely clicked closed before Camille pounced on her suitcase and retrieved her small silver flask.

Of course she was going to stop drinking. She'd sworn she would. She didn't actually need the stuff. Just a little liquid courage, something to take the chill out of her aunt's greeting. That was all. Anyone would feel the same. And then she could stop. Well ... maybe a tiny taste later to help her through tonight, sleeping in a strange place and all. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow she would definitely stop.

The problem was that this was the tomorrow she'd promised herself yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that.

"You're being a weenie, Cam," she muttered to herself. "Where'd you leave your backbone, girl?"

Setting the flask on the nightstand with trembling fingers, she decided to get to work instead. Cam tossed the sheets to the floor and took a good sniff of the queen-sized mattress. Still dissatisfied, she set about turning it over. The damn thing must've weighed a ton. She struggled, pushed, pulled, nearly squashed herself beneath it. It stood on edge, slipped halfway off the bed, side-swiped her in the ribs, clipped her more than once in the jaw. But after several minutes of heroic effort, she managed to flip the behemoth.

Panting and sweating profusely, she fell to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

Sheets. She'd sell her soul right now for freshly-washed sheets and a cool cottony bedspread to place on top of that. But finding them would involve another bloodletting conversation with Auntie Roe, or searching the jigsaw puzzle of a house for a linen closet.

Cam managed the buttons of her blouse with difficulty. The combination of sweat and humidity made the material limp and cloying between her fingers. Once done, she shrugged out of it and her bra, slinging the damp undergarment across the room.

Air. She needed air. She'd been in the house less than an hour and already felt like the walls were closing in.

The window's track was stiff, the wood swollen. Her third energetic push did the job, and she stuck the upper half of her body out the window, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Well, well."

Oh, good Lord. There was a man, a complete stranger, standing a few yards before her with a wide, teasing smile. The shock of seeing him and trying to withdraw too quickly made her thump her head against the window's rough bottom, and for a moment she saw nothing but sparks. "Owww!"

"Oh, for God's sake, lady--you okay?"

"No, I'm not--ow." She touched her scalp, convinced she'd split her skull open. Slowly, the white light before her eyes faded as the sense that she was spinning in space died away. She blinked hard, trying to focus.

Tall man. Big man. Sublimely naked from the waist up, with an old, weathered spade in one huge hand. Caramel-dark skin punctuated by the most piercing blue eyes she'd ever encountered. And when she could finally see, it wasn't hard to determine what those eyes were riveted on.

Her arms flew protectively across her breasts. "What the--who the devil are you?"

"Not exactly." He drove the spade into the earth and leaned on it. "But close enough."

"Just what do you think you're doing out there?" she squeaked.

His expression grew soft even as his eyes narrowed, brilliant in their intensity. "Waiting for you."

Chapter Four

Well hell. If he wasn't the devil himself, he sure could give Ol' Scratch a run for his money.

He had the broad shoulders of a lumberjack, his chest smooth and bare of hair. Abs, pecs and sinewy muscle rippled with every movement he made above the low-slung jeans. His head was clean-shaven, showcasing the sharp bones of his face, and the dark tattoo of a thick chain stretched snake-like across his impressive ribcage.

But it was the eyes that held her immobile--neon blue with a hint of violet, like the first twinkling of twilight. Brilliant white teeth sparkled from the shadowed face in a disarmingly deadly smile.

Camille touched her sore scalp again, inducing enough pain to convince herself she wasn't dreaming. They didn't grow anything like this in D.C. Gawd, was she so hard up she was inventing sexy farmers to come and plow her furry little field?

Was this was what people in small towns did for entertainment? Masturbate in front of audiences, or tiptoe around bedroom windows, hoping to see a little something? It was a terrific exclamation point to one helluva bad day. "Waiting for me? Is that a fact? Well, why don't you just wait right there while I call the police."

"You won't do that."

"Is that right?" She leaned forward, fury overcoming fright. "Look, I don't know what kind of peep show my aunt may be running here, but--"

"You won't call," he repeated simply. "This isn't Washington, D.C. We don't exactly have a police force. Besides, you'd have trouble getting through. Cellies get notoriously bad reception here, and there are no telephones in the house."

Her head already ached, and trying to remember seemed to make it worse. Couch, bed, candles, books ... he was right. She'd seen no sign of a telephone anywhere. "What the hell are you doing out there? Shame on you. Why are you peeking in people's windows?"

"I'm not peeking. I'm right up front, thoroughly enjoying the view." His voice was solemn, even as his mouth twitched. "After all, you opened the window to me, Camille."

"Well, how was I supposed to know--Camille?" Wait. He knew she was from D.C. He called her Camille. And didn't it sound magnificent in that bone-vibrating basso voice of his? It was as if she'd never really heard her name before. And although she had a good ear for accents, she couldn't quite get a handle on the unusual one behind this particular sexy voice. Clasping her arms more tightly around her body, she tried her best to glare. "Who are you, and how do you know my name?"

"I work here. So naturally I'd heard that the heir apparent was coming to visit." His face stretched into a wide, welcoming grin and her heart tripled its pace. "My name's Mace. I'm the gardener."

The fog coated his bare upper torso with a sugary glaze of moisture. She licked her dry lips, unable to understand why she was suddenly and unaccountably thirsty. "Gardener, my ass. Only a pervert stands half-naked in front of windows and ... and..."

Dismayed, she glanced down at herself, remembering her state of undress. "Stay right where you are," she ordered. "Don't you move."

Cam pounced on her suitcase, tossing clothes carelessly on the floor. There was no way she was getting back into that sweaty blouse. Where was her red satin shift? Her white silk damask? And what the hell was wrong with her, caring how she looked to some sleazy voyeur in the back hills of nowhere?

She settled for a plain white t-shirt, hurriedly slipping it on and returning to the window. He had moved closer and was standing directly below her, gazing up.

"I think we got off to a bad beginning." He grinned again, and her stomach flipped. "Why don't we start over?"

"That would mean taking my shirt off."

"You catch on quick."

Damn, he was fine. A perfect physical speci-man. Something about him just got her juices going. She couldn't ever remember having such a powerful reaction to a guy before. "Hullo there, strange black person lurking under my bedroom window."

"Good afternoon, miss."

"Interesting weather you folks have here."

"We pride ourselves on the density of our Jack-the-Ripper fog."

"One of the perks of living near a swamp actually called Dismal?"

"Sure. You can get sunshine anywhere. It's boring."

"Then I guess for you it's a lovely day."

His voice fell to barely more than a whisper. "It is now."

There was that flutter in her stomach again. The man could read a granola wrapper and make it sound sexy. "If it's not too personal a question, may I ask why you're standing half naked out there in the wet, with mud splashed up to your..." Her gaze slipped down to his powerful thighs, then roamed back up his hips and zeroed in on the very impressive bulge of his crotch. "Knees?"

His grin broadened--and dammit, was that a wink? "I'm Mace, the gardener. I was checking on a few new canes I'd planted last week. And I admit I was a little curious. Heard the new mistress-to-be wasn't too hard on the eyes, thought I might catch a look. They were right. You're a stunner, Camille."

The transition from his teasing tone to suggestive sensuality had been so smooth it took a moment to register. "I'm not sure how I feel about having the help scope the goodies my first day here."

He laughed. "Would you feel better if I tossed up a few beads?"

"This isn't Mardi Gras. And you're a complete stranger who's already seen my breasts. Everything else will seem anti-climactic."

"An interesting choice of words, Ms. Price. I'll look forward to proving you wrong."

The huskiness in the man's voice made her want to drop to her knees. "This is a very improper conversation, Mr. Mace. My dear old aunt, who's quite prudish and strict, wouldn't approve of it at all."

Effortlessly easing the spade from the mud, he slowly edged even closer. "It'll be our little secret. And don't worry. Roe and I have an understanding."

The boots, caked in mud, barely seemed to touch the ground as he advanced, and she took one step back. The inked-link chain undulated as he walked, and she watched, fascinated. That tattoo fit him. A woman could become a slave to watching the movement of that tattoo. The man was a predator with the eyes of an angel, too dangerous to roam free. He should be locked up somewhere. Preferably a sumptuous, four-star hotel suite to which she alone held the key...

Roe?

He'd called her aunt by her nickname.

That might explain a few things. She couldn't see Rosemary having wild, spider-monkey sex all over the house with her staid little art agent. But with this stud? Definitely. And the hell with changing the sheets. Camille swallowed a small lump of disappointment, wondering where it had come from. After all, she'd come here only for the money. "I see you and my aunt are on familiar terms, Mr.--"

"Are you fond of roses, Camille?"

"What?"

He took another step. "Do you like roses? They're the specialty of the house, y'know. It'd be a pleasure for me to work your garden for you."

Her gaze swept the desolate landscape, frowning at the remains of blood-black roses with blotched, jagged leaves. "Bang-up job you've done so far, Mace."

"Oh, what you see here are the dregs of what it was. Only a hint of what it could be. I would love to do that for you." She shivered as his eyes locked on hers. "Especially for you."

Actually, she adored roses. They were one of her favorite things--along with tall, dark, tempting men. But she couldn't afford the distraction. And she didn't like the idea of him assuming she might be just as available as her aunt. "I'm not particularly interested in gardening. And frankly, I don't think your services here will be required any longer." Cam pulled her spine straight, as she'd seen her mother do so many times, deliberately looking down her nose at him--the nose she'd been ordered to keep clean. Rosemary was right. If she was going to be the Price heir, it was time she acted like it.

"You wouldn't really fire me just because I happened along when you were hanging out the window, would you?" He shook his head in mock sadness. "You'd be sorry. You'll get the urge to come callin' on the help when you needed somebody to ease your troubled thighs."

Troubled thighs? "Stop that," she snapped. "This isn't about class distinctions. I just don't care about the gardening, so there's no reason for you to be here."

"There are other reasons, Ms. Price. I'd keep you on your toes. Make 'em curl into the flesh of your foot when you come. Just wait 'til you want some and come a-knockin'. You'll see."

She bit back a smile. Infuriating man, putting her on the defensive like this and inexplicably making her squirm in the process. Dammit, she'd never had her toes curled. Now she'd wonder what it was like until she did. One more reason to resent her ex-husband.

He was just beneath her window now, straining his neck upward. With barely a wiggle and push, she could be out, lowering herself into the strength of those huge biceps.

And then what, Camille? A little roll-around in the mud? Yeah, way to keep it clean...

Mace spoke quietly, as if they shared a secret. "You've always wondered, haven't you?"

"Wondered what?"

"What it would be like. You know what they say about us."

"About garden pervs?"

"About black garden pervs."

He might've been a lousy gardener, but he was no fool. She was already imagining what it would be like to touch that dark, rich skin, to run her tongue down that wall of a chest, taste his navel before dipping lower with a long, hungry sigh ... "And why would I want a black garden?"

He nodded appreciatively. "Nice comeback. Okay, we've established that you're not concerned about the landscaping. Then keep me on as something more important."

Looking at him, watching the way he moved, made it difficult to imagine anything more important than having him make her toes curl. "And that would be?"

"A friend. Because believe me, princess, you're going to need one."

Tossing the spade over his shoulder, he turned and walked away. There was a sudden chill in the air, as if the fog had gone cold, and Cam briskly rubbed her arms. He'd hit a nerve. She could definitely use a friend in Rosemary's little kingdom.

She leaned into the damp, craggy wood frame, not caring that it brushed against her nipples and made them hard. She wanted to watch. And damn if the view from the back wasn't every bit as good as the front. The sway of his hips was without arrogance, without conceit. It was the confident gait of an animal that'd sighted his quarry and made his mark.

Unable to resist, she called after him. "I've never had any trouble with my thighs, you know."

He turned again to face her, now walking backward, those unearthly eyes gleaming with glee. "Then it's high time you did, isn't it?"

She giggled, then burst into a full-throated laugh before remembering herself and retreating from the window. Yes, indeed. You could never tell where temptation might crop up.

Tightly securing the top on her silver flask, she tucked it into one of the dresser drawers. For some reason she felt warm and alive without the whiskey--something that hadn't happened for a very long time.

Camille gave vent to an enormous yawn. Within a few minutes she'd arranged a layer of clothing from her suitcase on top of the mattress and, lying down, curled her naked body into a tight ball. She still hadn't gotten the hang of sleeping alone. She didn't miss Frank. Really she didn't. She assured herself of that every night, even as she kept rigidly to one side of the bed, even when she woke up reaching for him. But she did miss being held, being touched. It was yet one more thing she'd had to learn to live without.

Tired. She was so very, very tired. At least the pillow smelled fresh, and she was glad to make use of that.

Mace.

Now that was something she could really make use of. Pity he was probably her aunt's mystery lover. That made him off-limits, even if Auntie Roe hadn't laid down the law.

But that didn't stop her from thinking about him. She gradually drifted into restless, feverish sleep, imagining that hot body hard beneath her, rough and demanding on top of her...

No, no, Soft. Softly spooning her from behind, his huge hands exploring, teasing as he pressed his need against her. And then the powerful arms became steel bindings, holding her fast as he ground hungrily against her backside with the most persuasive weapon she could imagine, demanding entry. She could practically feel the huge bullet-head of it pushing, probing with the promise of sex as she'd never experienced it before.

A breathy moan was the only sound she could manage as he pulled her hips back and high, his muscular thigh wedged between hers. He taunted her, pushing his erection against her wet heat just enough to make her want more but denying her pleasure, even as she began to grind against him.

Her eyes remained blinded by locked lids. She couldn't see his face, couldn't be sure who it was, didn't care. If this was a dream, it felt better than any reality she'd ever known. His hands were bold and sure, tracing the lines of her body as his breath heated the nape of her neck. "Is this what you want, Camille?"

"Yes. God, yes..."

His lips slid over her shoulder, soft and persuasive, and she wriggled against him, silently begging for more. "Be sure, Camille. Once done, it cannot be undone. Be sure. Do you want me?"

Still unable to awaken, she reached for his arm, pulled it forward, and sank her teeth into the flesh, just as he claimed her with one agonizingly deep thrust.

Home, at last, she thought above a pleasure so piercing it was as sharp as pain. He groaned then began to rock with her in his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. She knew this rhythm, had waited all her life to live it. Then his hips were heaving against her, moving faster, feverishly, with powerful thrusts that drove her higher, and higher still. Clawing at the mattress, she felt the heat spread from their union throughout her body, possessing her soul, her mind as she opened her mouth to scream his name...

She shot up in the bed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She was alone. The room was nearly dark, her protective layer of clothing scattered everywhere and the pillow wedged firmly between her thighs.

A dream? Could something that intense really have been a dream? And what was his name? Dammit, what was the name she was about to call out?

Wearily dragging her body forward, she sat on the edge of the bed, hugging the pillow and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Lord, she was more tired now than she'd been before. And there was something different about the room, something changed...

The smell. The scent of sex so prevalent throughout the rest of the house was even stronger here than before she'd stretched out for her nap. She spread her legs, astonished. She was sopping wet between her thighs.

Leaping away from the bed, she snatched a lightweight terrycloth robe from her bag and ran down the hallway. The third door down was, fortunately, a bathroom. Rust stains painted the tub and toilet, and all of the towels reeked of mildew. But there was a single bar of soap and very hot water, and she lathered and rinsed until her skin pruned and her hair squeaked.

Cam used her robe to dry herself, staring at her reflection in the cracked shaving mirror. She looked fragile and tired, ready to collapse, and felt as if she'd just run a marathon.

Masturbation was no novelty to her. She'd been an average, healthy teenager. And it had come in handy to help her relax at times when even the liquor wasn't enough. But this was no run-of-the-mill fantasy. She'd felt his lips against her skin, and her body had responded to his erotic invasion as it never had in the waking world. It was much too real to be a simple wet dream.

Maybe she'd been wrong about the Price legacy being strong genes, the house and the land, or the fortune she was so anxious to have. Maybe whatever depravity possessed Rosemary was inherited.

Maybe the Price legacy was one of madness.

Chapter Five

Camille drew a hopeful breath as she eased the library door open. Please let David still be here. She wanted to add a few more things to that shopping list of his. And Rosemary could hardly have a problem with the two of them sharing a business lunch. Or two. Somewhere. Anywhere outside of Rose Cottage.

"Camille. Just the person I wanted to see. Please come in."

Her aunt was just the person she did not want to see right now. What was she doing here? It was practically dark outside. Why wasn't she still sleeping in her coffin or firing up her broom?

Every light in the room had been turned on, and Cam blinked in the unexpected glare, surprised to see a woman seated beside her aunt on the royal blue loveseat. She shifted on the cushion and smiled broadly as Cam reluctantly entered. "Oh, hello. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, Aunt Roe. I was looking for David and I saw the light under the door."

Rosemary set her small teacup and saucer on the low table before her as wisps of her hair drifted over her eyes. The library had been straightened a bit, with all unshelved books piled neatly in one corner, and one window had been raised as if to allow the room to breathe. "Yes, I hear you've got Parrish playing fetch for you already." She curled her mouth up at one corner as she raised a hand to silence any protest. "Never mind that right now. Cam, I'd like you to meet Alicia Crowley, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Allie, this is my niece, Camille."

The woman's hand fluttered with the grace of a butterfly at her throat. She was dressed entirely in demure, expensive black, with a red, wide-brimmed hat that could've guaranteed lift-off in a forty-knot wind. "Oh, my dear, it's such a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Obelisk. You're just as I imagined. Every bit as beautiful as Rosemary said."

"Grungy jeans and all," Rosemary added with a disparaging look.

Note to self ... no jeans and t-shirts until it was all hers, free and clear. Ignoring her aunt's sneer, Cam stepped forward with a smile and a hand angled for shaking. She needed all the allies she could get. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crowley."

"It's Miss Crowley, princess. And the honor is all mine."

Cam nearly winced at the faux-royal title her aunt had evidently bestowed upon her, but focused on the woman whose unbelievably soft hand shook hers. Miss Crowley? Never married? Hard to believe. Despite the gleaming silver hair that barely showed beneath the hat, the woman's face was unlined and serene--strikingly handsome, with quick, dark eyes that gave nothing away. Was there something in the water here? Did all of the women look so young well past their prime?

It was impossible to guess her age. Her shoes were elegant, her perfume quite subtle, and the only jewelry she wore was a thin band of intricate gold links--on the third finger of her left hand.

Even Rosemary had exchanged her kimono for a silky red dress that hugged her curves and skimmed the floor. Apparently the rule was to dress to the nines or not at all. "Allie and I are sisters in the women's church auxiliary. That would be St. Leonard's in Obelisk with Reverend Osgood--the church I'm sure you'll also enjoy attending." She nodded as she spoke. Apparently an order had just been issued.

But all Cam could seem to do was stare at her aunt. "You go to church?"

"And why should that surprise you?"

Something to do with the fact that if she lit a match near that tea they were sharing, Rose Cottage would blow sky-high? Or the fact that they were discussing church business in front of that frightening painting of the Devil?

Cam cleared her throat, desperately wishing she'd never entered the room. "No reason. No reason at all."

"You look so much like your aunt did when she first arrived in Obelisk," Allie gushed. "Of course, she was quite the virgin then."

There was simply no civilized way to respond to that comment. Camille watched Rosemary smile smugly as she ran her hand in possessive circles over the other woman's thigh.

And as she had with so many things so far, Cam let it pass. Ignorance, in this case, was bliss. "I wonder if I'm too late for dinner?"

"Late? I'd say so. About two days late." Roe sighed, pouring herself a helping of 'tea'. "I have a girl come in--what is it? Once or twice a week? I forget. Moira is her name. She comes in with a load of groceries, cooks, stores it in the fridge then runs for her life. Silly, useless child."

Rosemary snorted, crossing her long legs. "Come now, Camille, you seem a bright girl. Surely you've figured out by now that we don't do rules and schedules here. I eat when I'm famished, sleep when I'm tired. I'm only here for five more days. Deal with it. You're more than welcome to make whatever changes you like at Rose Cottage--once it belongs to you."

Cam left them deep in conversation and made her way into the kitchen, groaning in despair as she searched for sustenance. The pantry was literally bare, without so much as a single can of food in any of the dusty cupboards. The refrigerator boasted little more: a yellow squash grown green with age, a browning head of lettuce and three small apples.

An unadorned fifteen-watt bulb dangled from a socket over her head as she sat alone in the darkening room, quietly munching apples and trying to ignore the laughter of the two women that wafted in from the library down the hall. The chunks of fruit went down her throat like bits of beaded glass, hard and sour, as she wondered what the hell she'd gotten herself into. Was this really what she'd traveled here to find? Maybe she'd been better off where she was after all.

Even the shithole of an efficiency she'd rented back in D.C. looked good in hindsight. One bedroom, bath, living room and a kitchen so tiny the stove was little more than an oversized hotplate. But at least it was hers and, if she was miserable, she owned the misery. There was nobody doing it to her.

Had Rosemary spent years of endless nights like this, isolated from the rest of the world? The idea made her feel more kindly toward her caustic aunt. The loneliness here was even more palpable than it had been when she was alone in her tiny apartment, and the comforting memory of painkiller in a bottle beckoned to her. A little whiskey would take off the edge. She still had a flask in her room. A quick indulgence and she could feel better within minutes--or feel nothing at all.

But dammit, she was hungry. There must be something here, something else to feed her appetite...

Mace.

If David had his own place near town, then Mace must've been the help occupying one of the guest houses. She might find conversation there, light bulbs, junk food--even some sense of normalcy.

She could single out Rosemary's husky contralto against Allie's chirping laughter; both seemed absorbed in their conversation. She wouldn't be missed for a while.

Silently closing the front door behind her, Camille tossed the remains of her apple into the weeds, gave the demonic doorknocker the finger and ran for her life.

It felt good to get out of the house, to take a deep breath of air, no matter how thick and cloying. Roving wisps of clouds washed over the three-quarters moon, making it easy to spot the orange-gold glow from the occupied guest house.

She took off like a kid with a quarter hauling ass for the candy shop. The grounds had taken on a mystical quality in the dark, the ragged spears of rose canes deadly in their intent to keep her on the footpath leading to the guest house. The earth was springy beneath her tennis shoes, and she nearly squealed with pleasure, loving the feeling of her heart beating fast and the muscles flexing in her legs. Escape. It was the freedom of escaping her failures, her past and that horrid old house with that beautiful, wicked woman who was so like her dead mother, but so different.

Tempted to spread her imaginary wings and fly, she vaguely remembered her mother's descriptions of this, the old family house. This was where Lacey Price, with her sisters Heather and Rosemary, had played as a child, where they'd come to visit her grandmother who told tales of angels and demons, of satyrs and saints, and who allowed her grandchildren to dance like heathens beneath the pagan moon.

It had been hard to believe that her pearls-and-platitudes mother had ever had a wild bone in her body. Having met Rosemary, however, she was now convinced it was all true.

Skidding to a halt, Camille ran a quick eye over the exterior of the guest house. Bright, blessed illumination streamed from the open windows and a miniature landing strip of blue solar lights flanked the flat stones leading to the stairs. No peeling paint, no loose boards. It was almost like a dollhouse in its perfection, surrounded by carefully cultivated groundcover and lush mounds of violets. A huge birdbath gleamed like a monument in the low-trimmed grass, and an old-fashioned porch swing, slatted and shiny, waited for its next passenger.

She padded carefully up the steps, wondering what the devil she intended to say and hoping he didn't get the wrong impression about why she was here.

"Could I borrow a cup of steak and potatoes?"

"Hope you don't mind me asking, but are you screwing my aunt?"

"So, exactly how does that toe-curling thing work?"

The door swung open before she could knock, and the dark bulk of the gardener filled the entrance. Mace was shirtless again, and his eyes--those eyes, the color of molten-blue steel--erased every thought, every pathetic excuse she'd invented for coming there.

"Hullo there." It was hard to manage even a greeting, remembering how rude she'd been when they first met. And knowing that a drawstring was the only thing keeping his sweatpants up, and a tiny little tug...

"Good evening, miss."

Her mouth went dry as she tore her gaze away from his face to stare ... down. Jesus, those abs looked like they'd been carved out of marble, and the crotch bulge was oh so much more pronounced in the sweats. God bless form-fitting fleece.

"Ms. Price. You're staring."

Damn straight she was. No chest hair. None visible below the navel either. She wondered if he was bare all the way around. She wondered if he had somehow made his way into her bedroom, into her dream, and thoroughly, delightfully ravished her. And she wondered if it was possible that he didn't belong to Rosemary--or if she could convince herself not to care.

"Already?"

Cam glanced up to find him smiling at her. "Already what?"

"Your first day here, and you've already come a-knockin'?" Mace stepped back, opening the door wide. "By all means then, do come in, Camille. Maybe we can ease those troubled thighs after all, hmmm?"

Chapter Six

"Oh, my God, that is so good. More. More."

Wielding the heavy pot like a pro, Mace scooped another helping of food onto her plate. "Jambalaya, young miss," he drawled. "Nice and spicy. Give you a warm, full tummy for some lucky man to lay himself down on, for true."

Camille stiffened her spine, drawing herself ramrod straight on the stool he'd placed at his table. Oh, yeah. He'd definitely gotten the wrong idea. "Look. We are joking, right? For the record, I was not raised to be a bigot. I don't believe in that kind of crap. My parents were always very careful to teach me..." She stopped, glaring at the grin that split his face. "You are so full of shit, you know that?"

"Fun and games with stereotypes. Guilt just comes so easily for some people." He chuckled deep in his throat. "Serves you right for disturbing a hard-working man after hours."

"Oh, puh-leeze. I carry around enough guilt of my own. I don't need the added burden of my ancestors."

The sensation of him towering over her, waiting for her to continue to confide in him was intimidating, but she had no intention of obliging. It was not going to happen. Sexual attraction was one thing. Trust was another. "Have you lived here long?"

"Seems like forever sometimes."

"Is there a large population of black people in Obelisk?"

"Why? You thinking of converting?"

"Think I'd qualify?"

"We could make an adjustment or two. Oil you down, park you out on the lawn in the sun every day, get a nice, deep tan goin' for ya. You're a little lightweight in the butt department, but you'll make up for it with the hair. Nothin' sexier than a red-haired woman, black or white."

She was sure she was blushing. She didn't care. It felt so good to laugh and smile after months of unrelenting stress. "More like a dirty-strawberry blonde, thanks. But I may take you up on that tanning offer."

"Sooo, is that the real reason we're here? Taste the forbidden? A little touch of ghetto, checking out how the other half lives?"

Camille surveyed her surroundings. The cream-and-cranberry kitchen motif was as charmingly country as could be. A woman had a hand in the decoration of this little place, far removed from the horrorscapes of her aunt. "I don't think your argument carries much water while you're living here in Mr. Roger's playhouse."

"You do got a point."

"And no, you're not gonna shock me with stories about some cousin Ray-Ray, or life in the 'hood, or women who were killed in their sad, lonely search for toe-curlers. Do you seriously think any of that could scare me after I'd spent the day with Rosemary?"

He nodded, his tongue forming a lump in his cheek. "I can't argue with that. So again I'd have to ask--what're you doing here, princess?"

"Just having a friendly conversation over a nice, hot meal."

"We're not friends. In a few days I'll be working for you, if you don't fire me for continuing to stare at your breasts." Mace set the pot back on his stove and poured two glasses of wine. She watched him, how at ease he seemed in a kitchen, loving the room. It was tiny but efficient, cozy-comfy, and the fresh scent of hot spices made her wiggle in her chair with delight.

He was far too big for the place, of course. It occurred to her that if he stood in the middle of the floor and she wrapped her legs around his waist, he could do her on the counter, stove and the top of the table while barely take a step in any direction. Sweaty, possibly illegal in several states sex, with cold ceramic tile and chrome icing her rear end. And suddenly the jambalaya seemed even hotter than before.

"This isn't an after-hours joint, Ms. Price, and I don't believe for a minute you came just for the food." He handed her drink to her with a wink. "Slumming?"

Accepting the wine, she set the glass aside. The warmth and cheer of his well-lit kitchen was like heaven compared to Rose Cottage, and it had been forever since she'd enjoyed the company of a man. She wouldn't ruin it by caving in to her favorite weakness now. "That's because you have no idea how starved I was. I haven't had a bite in over thirty-six hours. I swear, I'm hungry enough to eat..." Her voice trailed off as she stared, once again, at his crotch. How was it possible for a man to walk around with something like that 24/7 and not contract a hernia of some sort? "Hungry enough to eat anything."

"Is that a reflection on my food?"

"Not at all. It tastes fabulous."

"An old recipe, handed down to me from my father. It's the holy trinity. Onion, celery and green peppers."

Well, the holy trinity was all well and good--but it was the church and the steeple below his waist she couldn't keep her eyes off of. What in the world was she doing? Running around in the middle of the night and invading the homes of strange men so she could ogle their bulges? This wasn't like her at all. She determinedly reminded herself that she'd come here for the food alone. Camille chewed slowly, allowing the meat and spicy vegetables to slide easily down her throat before tasting the garlic bread he'd laid out on a small, plain platter.

She was in heaven.

"You're not drinking your wine. Have a taste. It's good for your heart."

"Nothing wrong with my heart." Camille tossed aside years of breeding by talking with food in her mouth. It felt wonderful. "There never will be anything wrong with my heart. Nothing physical, anyway." Sadness came over her like a shadow. She immediately shook it off, hoping he hadn't noticed. "The Prices are an eerily healthy bunch. No illness, no hereditary diseases--not even tooth decay. If it wasn't for the occasional accident, we'd go on forever, I think."

His tone gentled. "I heard your mother died not long ago. I'm sorry."

The wine caught the overhead light, shimmering liquid white-gold in the glass before her. She quickly changed the subject. "Do you have a last name, Mace?"

He sprawled into a chair beside her. "Does it matter?"

"Why do you always seem to answer questions with questions?"

"Is that what I'm doing?" He smirked. "Why don't we cut to the chase? What d'ya want, lady?"

He wasn't being rude. His expression was mildly curious and a tiny bit suspicious. Wasn't that how she'd react if a total stranger--a supposedly wealthy stranger--dropped in to pillage her food supply? "How about a few honest answers?"

He shrugged, and she breathlessly watched the iron-blue chain across his midsection ripple. My, my, what would it feel like to ride that wave all night long?

"That would depend on the questions."

"Is the Great Dismal Swamp really as dismal as it seems?"

"Not at all. And we're not exactly in the middle of the marsh here. The swamp is one of the last truly wild areas in the eastern United States. That makes it important. Hell, even George Washington visited the place. And historians say hundreds of runaway slaves hid out here during the Civil War. A nice, secure place for the lost soul. I think you'll come to like it."

She had definite doubts about that. But right now it seemed welcoming enough. "Is everyone in this bizarre little town as strange as my aunt and her friend Allie?"

"So you've met our Miss Crowley." He twisted his lips in what seemed an effort to smother another smile. "Actually, she's pretty nice. A very genteel lady. And I'm afraid she's one of the saner ones."

Gawd. Maybe she didn't need this money after all. "Are the two of them ... well, a couple?"

"A couple of what?"

He was the most infuriating man she'd ever met, and as soon as she'd finished stuffing her face with his food she was going to give him a piece. Of her mind. "Forget it. Tell me about David Parrish."

"Parrish? What the hell for?"

Ahhh. That triggered some kind of reaction. He wasn't a complete sphinx after all. "Because he works here. Because he was nice to me. Because I think he's interesting." On a whim, she twirled her tongue around the head of the spoon. "And he seems interested in me."

He shoved his thumbs into his pockets. It was, she noted, a very tight fit. "More likely interested in keeping that posh little job of his, I'll bet."

"That wasn't the impression I got. He was charming."

Mace freed his hands and lunged forward in his seat. "You're kidding. Did he come on to you? That self-important son-of-a--"

He paused, seemed to be trying to collect himself, and ran his hand over his mouth. "You wanna know about the bookkeeper? Okay. Parrish handles your aunt's business. Makes himself useful. Hasn't embezzled any of the family funds as far as I know, since Roe hasn't cut off his balls and served 'em up for dinner--yet. But he's all smiles and too damn eager to please. Got that lean, hungry look, and I'm not sure I'd trust him with anything but the books." Mace lowered his voice to a deep, rich velvet. "Especially something rare, something exquisite. Something priceless in the truest sense of the word. Something meant to be treasured."

Cam's mouth went dry as his words vibrated through every cell in her body. No man had ever spoken to her in such a way, with such sincerity. Was he trying to seduce her, or did sexy just come naturally to him?

He frowned, hiding the answer behind impossibly thick lashes and pointedly lowering his eyes to the drink in his hand. "I hope you're not thinking of wasting your time with him, Ms. Price. He's really not worthy of you."

Not worthy? What an odd expression to use. Had Rosemary been little princessing her to everyone in town? "Well, I think he's nice. And I could use a friend. Somebody on my side, somebody to keep me company. Things have been ... a little grim lately, and Rose Cottage isn't cheering me one bit."

"Poor little one. Yes, I'd heard you've had a hard time of it."

Apparently her personal business had made it all over town already. Exactly how much had he been told? She might, in time, want a few things from this gorgeous chunk of male. Pity was not one of them. "So Mr. Parrish is available?"

"For what?"

"That's another thing I like about David." She sighed in frustration. "He actually answered my questions."

"Maybe you need to be more careful about the questions you ask," he responded softly. "Maybe you need to be more careful, period. It's a peculiar little place, this town, with peculiar little practices. Things--and people--in Obelisk are not necessarily what they seem to be, Camille."

"Like you?" she murmured carefully.

"Me? Oh, yeah, princess. Probably me most of all. Here I am, pretending to be some unaffected Boy Scout lame-ass welcome wagon, when the truth is that I already can't get the image of you stretched out naked and cocoa-buttered up on my little patch of lawn out of my head." His eyes grew dark. "Either head."

All of a sudden she wasn't interested in the food anymore. And she was sure she was still hungry--for something. "So you're saying I should stop asking questions, just take things as they come?" Cam stubbornly shook her head. "Can't do it. I'm trying to make a new life here. And you're giving me that 'she's trying to be difficult' look, and really I'm not. If anything, it's a defense mechanism. I mucked up the old life. It won't happen again. This time it'll be my choices, watching my back, and knowing the kind of people I'm dealing with so I don't get blindsided."

"And you intend to start with Parrish?"

Boy, he really had no love for the bookkeeper. She had no personal interest in David, but the way he ruffled Mace's feathers was intriguing. It made her even more curious about both of them. "He's a member of the household and a part of the business, isn't he? So I should know as much as I can. Is David trustworthy business-wise?"

"I suppose."

"And it's true that he's no longer screwing my aunt?"

He whistled softly. "You've managed to get quite a bit of information in the short time you've been here."

"Answer, please."

"Yes."

"He's not doing my aunt?"

"Not in my presence--no."

"Good. That'll make him a suitable ... social companion."

He was silent. Oh, of course--silly thing that she was, she'd forgotten they were playing Double Jeopardy, and she hadn't put her answer in the form of a question. "Are you sleeping with Rosemary?"

Even as he leaned toward her from his chair, firmly taking the spoon from her hand and pushing her bowl aside, even as he ran his open hand up her cheek, she knew that question had been a mistake. "I love the quiet, ladylike way you ask that. Like it was something you'd toss out during a job interview." Flashing a blinding smile, he threaded his fingers into her hair, and all breath seeped slowly out of her lungs. "Why do you care about my sex life, Camille?"

Looking into those startling eyes of his always seemed to leave her at a loss for words, seemed to make her feel there were other things they should be doing. Better things. "I--I'm going to be taking over the estate. I should be interested in the work habits of all the employees."

His breath was hot and scented with wine, luring her mouth to his. "If you wanna make that part of my job description, I'm game. I'm a very hard worker, y'know."

Hard. Oh, yeah. Cam licked her lips, sinking fast. "I'll bet."

He drew her face closer to his, teeth gleaming against brown sugar skin. "So I could not only help your roses bloom, but cook up something hot for you anytime you wanted. You did say that was why you came here? You wanted to sample something spicy?"

It was impossible to concentrate on anything but the masculine heat of his body when he was so close. Impossible. "I didn't think--"

"Good." With the softest of whispers, he moved in for the kill. "Don't."

His lips barely brushed hers, as full and soft as his hand was hard and calloused. Her fingertips braced against the bare skin of his solid chest as her eyelids lowered, focusing on his mouth, inviting more. Again, he touched her with his lips, nothing more than a touch, a tasting, and a peculiar humming noise reverberated from deep in his throat.

He was holding back. Whether it was because of their positions on the estate or the newness of it all, Cam couldn't tell. But the slight tremor in his fingers sliding through her hair spoke of need.

A kiss wasn't going to be nearly sufficient to satisfy her. She felt like she'd been hot-wired, revved to racing speed, but left to idle in park. Damn him, it wasn't enough. She sucked in her bottom lip, just to get more of the flavor of him.

"You haven't answered the question, boss lady." His voice held a gravelly undertone of desire that took her breath away. "Why the interest?"

"I ... I think I should know exactly what I can expect from you, Mr.--"

Her breath came out in a gush as he slipped both arms around her waist and swept her from her chair into his lap, his huge hands holding her firmly in place. The sweatpants were a poor barrier between them, and she was stunned at the size of the man--and how quickly he grew rod-hard beneath her.

Mace tilted her slightly back in his arms, forcing her hips firmly against him. "Does this give you a better idea of what you might expect from me?"

Cam didn't offer a response. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want his food anymore. All she wanted was the feeling of his mouth, his hands on her. She tentatively traced the lines of his face, wondering at the butter-smooth feel of his skin, and watched his fierce expression gentle.

"You have such small, cool hands," he murmured. "Such a soothing touch."

Little wonder he thought so. His skin felt feverish, almost hot to her fingers, and her touch seemed to calm the trembling of his own.

His tongue ran across her parted lips, and she closed her eyes with a long, expectant sigh. Just a testing. Just a taste. This far and no farther. She touched her tongue to his, drawing out the sensation until she couldn't wait any longer and sucked it possessively into her mouth.

It was the spark that ignited the fire between them. Gathering her to him, he crushed her mouth against his, stifling her hungry moan as his hand slid smoothly beneath the back of her tee shirt.

Too fast. This was all moving much too fast. She didn't mind flirting a bit, getting to know him a little. But every movement, every word, every touch was like a drug that drove her to need more. Her simple attraction to this stranger had escalated to pure lust so quickly it made her dizzy.

"Ah, princess. You taste so ... fresh." His hand skimmed her side, slid the shirt up the curve of her stomach and formed a cup beneath her plain cotton bra. He squeezed her right breast softly, almost reverently, even as his kiss deepened, swallowing her plea for more.

Cam arched against him as he swelled beneath her, impossibly thick and hard. A feral growl issued from his throat and he tore his mouth away from hers to fasten on her painfully swollen nipple. Laving and sucking through the fabric of her bra he focused like a man possessed, as if he couldn't wait to remove it. As if he had to have her right now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter. She wanted to feel his tongue, his teeth on her breast, wanted him to devour her. Craziness. She never reacted like this to sex. It had been little more than a diversion before, a way to feel closer to her husband. Frank might have been a considerate lover, but he'd never driven her to feel this aroused. She didn't just want to be close to Mace. She wanted to possess him and let him have her, piece by piece.

Leaning back in his strong arms, she offered herself, eyes closed. She was barely aware of the sudden rush of cool air against her heated skin, or the overwhelming scent of violets that suddenly filled the room, that seemed to make him pull almost violently away from her.

"Well now. Looks like I'm interrupting something."

Camille would know that voice anywhere. She was sure it would hold a prominent place in her nightmares for the rest of her life.

Sitting bolt upright, she scrambled to straighten her clothing and found that Mace had done it for her. He didn't restrain her as she stood, flustered and searching for words. "Aunt Rosemary, I--"

"Both of you still dressed?" She clucked her tongue, winking at the gardener. "Mace. You're slipping."

Cam cringed at the gesture of intimacy that told its own tale. So there had been something between them. Nothing her aunt could have said or done would've embarrassed her as much as this. Again, the temptation to give in to tears swept over her. So much for regaining control of herself and her life. Had she killed off so many brain cells with the booze that she'd risk losing a fortune for a quickie in the gardener's quarters? How Lady Chatterley of her.

If he'd been Rosemary's lover, what was the point of this little play? Was it some kind of sick game to him? See if he could bed the boss? How naïve could she possibly be? She was still the self-destructive dolt she'd been before. She'd simply exchanged one drug for another.

"I'm glad I got here in time." Rosemary's gaze settled on Mace's blatant erection as he silently rose from his chair. "Barely."

"It's not what you think," Cam insisted, reddening. "We were just talking, sharing supper, and things got a little out of hand."

"At least we agree on that. I asked you to behave yourself, to keep your nose clean. You're here for only a few hours, and while I entertain an honored guest you're already giving the gardener a lap dance?" Rosemary placed her hand on her hip, green eyes sparking in anger. "You are the mistress of Rose Cottage, Camille. For the next few days everyone in Obelisk will be watching you, talking about you. You'll have to at least assume the appearance of propriety, and that doesn't include befriending the hired help."

This woman was talking to her about appearances? "You're overreacting, Aunt Roe. It was just a harmless kiss."

"Then I hope it got you off, because it was the last one. I hold the key to this cottage and everything on this property. That means I can walk in at any time. Until I leave, this is my world, girl. Remember that. Now, Allie's gone and you need to get back to the main house. I'll be painting for the rest of the evening, and I'm about to lock up. If you're not inside when I do, you'll stay out. For good. Trust me."

Camille sputtered, curling her hands into fists. She'd gotten carried away, true enough, but she wasn't going to take this crap from anybody. She clenched her teeth and followed her aunt outside, easing through the doorway, cheeks flaming hot with anger. She just couldn't decide who to direct it toward--Roe, Mace, or herself. This wasn't the time or place, but they were going to have a long talk, she and this woman. Sometime when she didn't feel like the village idiot--or tramp.

Rosemary impatiently jangled the keys in her hand until Camille stood by her side between the double rows of violets. "Let's go. I don't have all night for this little drama."

"Roe, you're being unreasonable." Mace, arms crossed, spoke from the doorway. "Give the girl a break. It was all my doing. Just being friendly. I'll take the blame."

"Friendship is not what you're here for." She glared back at him. "May I suggest, Mace, that you remember what you are?"

Appalled, Camille turned to look back at him, ready to apologize. He might not have been honest with her, but he hadn't forced her either. She was just as much to blame. Her flesh still tingled from the excitement of his touch.

Mace leaned into the doorjamb, his huge grin lighting up the night as he laughed. "Rosemary?" There was amusement in his tone, challenge in his narrowed eyes. "Go fuck yourself."

Her aunt did a half-skip along the path and laughed in return. It was the last thing Camille expected from her.

"Didn't the girl tell you?" Rosemary Price tossed her keys into the air in a gesture of happiness, as if she'd gotten exactly what she wanted. "I already did that, babe. Already did."

Chapter Seven

Camille slept on the ottoman with her back braced against the living room wall that night. She simply couldn't stand the dirty couch or the stains, the smell, the thought of the bare mattress in her designated room. There was little sleep to be had in any case. The atmosphere of the house, the encounter with Mace and the resulting confrontation with her aunt played over and over in her mind, without solution, without end.

"My, my," Rosemary had said after the incident in the guest house. She'd smirked as she'd dragged a huge oval canvas into the library. "Look at the fire in your face. Mace really did get you hot and bothered, didn't he?"

"How dare you. You had no right!" Camille's temper had exploded as she paced the room. "I am not a child. Certainly not your child. You have no right to tell me what I can or cannot do, or to dictate morality--to anyone."

"Don't be silly, princess. Of course I do." She'd braced the canvas against the wall, checking the tension. "As long as I have something you want, you'll do as I say. And let's face it. You want the money, honey."

There was little she could say to that. Had she really become so mercenary she'd put up with anything? Flustered, she changed tactics. "You not only embarrassed me, but Mace--"

"Let's get this straight once and for all. I'm not the wicked witch in this little scenario. I've kept this estate intact and profitable since the day I moved in at eighteen years of age. Hell, I've nearly doubled the family assets with smart investments while my sisters were busy spending their shares of what I earned. Am I a tough, hard-hearted broad? Damn straight. I've had to be. And so will you. That means I have a right to make certain demands, and if you can't do as I say and keep your panties dry for just a few days, you don't deserve the inheritance. Show a little backbone, or I'll send you packing. Right now you're news in this tiny little town. These people will expect certain things from you. Once you're accepted, they'll look the other way. But until then--until the end of this week--the Price legacy, this land, and everything on it belong to me. Including the tall, dark, big-dicked gardener. Got it?"

Camille had left the room quivering with anger, afraid she'd say something she'd regret. She couldn't wait for the end of the week.

At least spending the night dozing on the ottoman had prevented her from having another frighteningly erotic dream. She probably never reached REM sleep. But by the time David's key clicked in the front door at ten in the morning and he cheerfully shouted a hello through the house, she had a stiff neck, a serious attitude and a churning stomach from being hungry again.

At least she'd refrained from resorting to the booze, and of that she was proud.

Stomping toward the door in her bare feet, she let her heels pound against the hardwood floor. She was irritable. She was pissed about everything that had happened to her since she'd arrived, and mild-mannered David was just the person to vent on. "Dammit, Parrish, what took you so long? My butt cheeks have lost all feeling from sitting up on that fucking ottoman all night, and--"

Cam froze in her tracks, squinting into the haze of sun that filtered through the open door. The morning was soft and sweet with spring, and Parrish had not come alone.

Coughing a weak warning, the bookkeeper took a few steps forward, his arms folded behind his back. "Camille? I don't believe you've met Moira, have you? The young lady who comes in a couple of times a week? I made a point of picking her up on the way. She'll be glad to help you humanize the place a bit."

Moira twitched beside David, hugging her bucket of cleaning supplies to her chest as if they were her ticket to the ball. She was dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt, and her brown ponytail bounced as she squealed in excitement, making Camille relax and smile in return. Finally. Someone real and natural in Obelisk who didn't belong to the Rosemary Borg.

"Miss Camille. Oh, it's such an honor to meet you. You're just as pretty as everybody said, maybe more. It'll be so nice to have somebody new here, somebody young. The town could use fresh blood. I can't wait 'til festival. Ms. Rosemary said it's such a special occasion that I might get to play a special part this year, and--"

David stepped between them, effectively ending the gushing. "And I suppose I should've given you advance warning, Camille, but I also brought our own Reverend Osgood to meet you."

Oh, shit. Holy shit.

The tall, smiling figure of the preacher sauntered up the walk behind David, waving an easy hello. "Good mornin' to you, lass." The cool breeze ruffled his hair like a carelessly blown kiss as he closed the space between them, his voice ringing through the entryway. "I hope you'll forgive my unexpected call."

Camille crossed her arms and ankles before her, suddenly uncomfortably aware she was still wearing a rather translucent nightgown. "Um ... forgive me, Reverend, I didn't expect anyone."

"Please don't be apologizin' for my bad manners. A lady should never be taken unawares this way. I'm Reverend Osgood of St. Leonard's church in Obelisk. And it's my great pleasure to meet you, Ms. Price."

Her voice had lodged somewhere in her throat and she couldn't manage a sound, even as he took her hand in his.

Good Lord. The preacher was gorgeous.

He had the ruddy complexion of a man who enjoyed being outside and the smooth, lyrical voice of a poet, embellished with a plump Celtic accent. The tousled chestnut curls on his head were as wayward as a child's, and his pale eyes were those of a man who'd gazed out to sea and dreamed for far too long.

"Pray forgive the intrusion. I've caught you at a bad time." He smiled, and her heart did a quick, exaggerated jig. Dimples to boot? Dayum. Somewhere there were unhappy men wandering the earth, wondering who'd gotten their share of good looks. The answer stood before her now. "Actually, I've come to see Rosemary. Is she available?"

Yes. To everyone who wears pants. And Reverend Osgood wore his very, very well, with what appeared to be a body as well crafted as his beautiful face. Okay, now it was definite. Whatever nymphomaniacal virus possessed her aunt was definitely contagious. How sad was it to think of a man of the cloth in such an illicit way? "My aunt spent all night in the library, painting. I'll see if she's decent, if you like."

"Rosemary? Decent?" Reverend Osgood chuckled. "As if I'd live to see that day. Don't trouble yourself, young lady. I'll just knock. She expected to see me today." He paused to give her hand a gentle squeeze. "I look forward to having you share the hospitality of St. Leonard's congregation. Promise you'll come very soon, just for me."

This guy could charm her into doing anything. If Rosemary hadn't gotten to him already, Cam was sure she'd made more than an effort. This would explain her interest in the church. Women's Auxiliary. Uh-huh. "I will, I promise. Nice to meet you, Reverend."

Moira discreetly disappeared, heading for the kitchen, as Camille watched Osgood walk straight to the library door as if he'd done it a thousand times. Standing before the gold molding, he rapped out what sounded like a song before cautiously entering the room.

"Camille?"

"Yes, David?" She was trying very hard to behave herself and not laugh out loud. The reverend was a brave man indeed to shut himself up in a room alone with Roe.

"Did you hear me?"

"What? No, sorry. What?"

"I said I apologize. Do you forgive me? Next time I'll warn you well in advance."

Yeah, it was tough--forgiving him for bringing someone normal into the household, and for the yummiest reason ever to attend church.

She immediately felt better, however, when he jogged out to his car and quickly returned with groceries. He handed her a bag of chips and fruit, and another with a cache of fresh and frozen food, "Just to tide you over."

When he produced the "largest, thickest mattress pad available", complete with fabric freshening spray, she did a little dance for joy. And when he dragged in four humungous plastic sacks full of sheets, soaps, washcloths, towels and a lovely chenille bedspread, she shamelessly grabbed him and kissed him full on the mouth.

It was a nice mouth, undemanding and tender against hers. And although it meant nothing personal, he seemed stunned by her display of gratitude, laughing with embarrassment as he pulled away. "This should keep you comfortable, at least until the end of the week. Then you can make your own decisions as to what you want."

"I want your car."

"Huh?"

Cam hugged the linens to her heart, grinning happily. Only the finest quality stuff, she noted. The man had good taste. "I want to borrow your car sometime. There are a thousand other little things I'd like to get, if Aunt Roe will advance me a few dollars. And I'd like to see Obelisk. Maybe meet all these folks who are purportedly spying on me. Silly to stay holed up here with that big city just a few miles away."

"Hardly that." He pocketed his hands, not seeming to know what to do with them. "I'm afraid I'll need the Navigator for the rest of today. I have to arrange for the safe transport of a few of the paintings, and Roe--er, your aunt will have my hide if there's so much as a scratch on them. But if tomorrow will do, it's at your disposal. As for the funds ... well, I think I can arrange something." He winked. "Rosemary doesn't have to know everything."

"I'll be seein' to the cleaning of that upstairs bathroom before I go, Miss Camille." Moira slipped the last of the dishes into soapy water as Cam pushed back against her chair, stuffed and satisfied. The young girl had prepared an excellent breakfast for her, and her cheerful presence made the kitchen seem like a much different room than it had last night.

Moira clucked her tongue and shook her head when Cam offered to help. "My apologies for the state the house is in. I'd try to do more, but I got my other job at the town bakery and Ms. Rosemary don't like me roamin' about." She giggled, lowering her voice. "I'd probably take a broom or scourin' pad to somethin' valuable and that'd be the end of me. Ms. Rosemary always says I ain't worth much, but I'm sure she'd take it outta my hide."

Camille's heart went out to her. Control freak and mutant harpy or not, how could her aunt be so callous toward the girl? She was barely more than a child, still rosy-cheeked and optimistic--and she cooked like an angel of God. "Well, I happen to think you're priceless, Moira. Once my aunt leaves, you'll be more than welcome here any time."

Moira laughed at that, vigorously finishing up the dishes. "You can't fool me, Miss Camille. Come festival you won't want to be bothered by the likes of me."

"What's this festival?"

"Just somethin' we call any kind of celebration, any reason for the townsfolk to get together. Participation in a feast. Rumor is they might make an occasion of your aunt's leavin'. Ms. Rosemary's promised to buy me new clothes and everythin'."

Rosemary? Freely offering to give something to a girl she'd called a silly, useless child? "My aunt is going to buy clothes for you? She said that?"

"Oh, yes, she promised. I admit I was a little surprised when she offered. But she said under special circumstances, these sacrifices must be made. So I guess they're plannin' quite a party."

Yeah. Cam could definitely see Roe's departure as a cause for celebration.

The early afternoon sun was like a siren's song, luring her out of the shadowy house. After spending far too long enjoying the newly-cleaned second floor shower, Camille donned a simple blouse, skirt and comfortable sandals and set off to explore her promised domain.

Nearly three hours later she arrived back at the main house. Walking the grounds after Moira's blueberry pancakes with bacon had given her appetite new life, and the bright, breezy day had considerably lightened her mood.

So had seeing a large portion of the Price property. Despite spending the entire afternoon exploring, she hadn't managed to see the full extent of it. Cam had no idea how much Auntie Roe had in the bank, but once this was hers she could sell it off if she liked and make a mint with the development.

But there was so much potential here, she might opt to keep it all. The rose gardens alone were overwhelming, and she fancied the idea of having a greenhouse built near the main cottage. The lake was a mile away, muddied and thick with plants and algae, but could be lovely with the addition of a pier and stocked with colorful fish. Fruit trees would also be nice, perhaps a fountain and...

She galloped up the stairs to Rose Cottage, smiling to herself. Best to secure the deal before she started making plans. Right now she'd see if David was still busy. Maybe he'd have time for a quick lunch. He was so easygoing, so accommodating. At least Roe couldn't complain about her seeing him, as she did Mace.

Mace, the lowly gardener who'd told Her Imperial Highness to go fuck herself.

She couldn't stop thinking about him. Despite being pretty sure he'd slept with her aunt, and all the lies and drama, his cock and cocky attitude had impressed her far more than anything at Rose Cottage.

Cam smiled at the memory. She even felt good enough to make another stab at getting along with her aunt. If nothing else, Roe was a tough survivor and strong businesswoman. Extending another olive branch wouldn't hurt. And who could be contrary on such a gorgeous day? Of course, one never knew quite what to expect from Rosemary...

"Camille? Is that you? Would you come into the library please?"

Why was it that every time she entered this house she felt like turning back and making a run for it? Roe's voice sounded pleasant enough drifting through the hallway. And Cam had vowed to try to make peace. Drawing a deep breath, she chided herself for being paranoid and pulled the huge double doors open.

The room was full of women. Short, tall, seated, standing. They filled the library like a small congregation, all smiling faces and welcoming greetings. They were of almost every race imaginable, and each of them wore black, accented by something red. Black dresses, black blouses, black shifts, black blazers. Red hats, red scarves, red gloves, red sashes. As if a signal had been given, all chatter ceased and the crowd curved into a surrounding half-circle, making room for her to join them. Cam had the oddest sensation of having been hit by a wave and dragged into the deep end of a dark pool streaked with blood.

Rosemary approached, brandy in hand. Her eyes were clear and bright, despite staying up all night. "Thank you for dressing appropriately today." She took in Cam's peasant blouse and flouncy red skirt with a glance. "Allow me to introduce you to the other members of St. Leonard's Women's Auxiliary. They've been anxious to meet you."

"Me? Um ... why?"

Roe laughed, and every face in the room broke into a smile. "Because of who you are, silly. I told you ... as heiress to Rose Cottage, you'll hold an important position in this town, and they all wanted to make a good impression before festival. Come on. I'll introduce you to your people."

Chapter Eight

Camille barged inside the minute Mace opened the guest house door. "I need to talk to you."

"No hullo?" Mace swerved, allowing her to enter, one thick eyebrow raised. "Come right in, why don'tcha?"

She began to pace. It was becoming a habit lately. She must have been a sight, blustering and babbling, hair tossed by the high winds that had increased since the afternoon. She didn't care. She was on the verge of losing her mind. "Leave that door open. I won't give her the satisfaction of having a real excuse to get rid of me. And don't be cute. I really shouldn't have anything to do with you at all after that drama between you and Rosemary. If I ever had any doubt you'd been with her, I certainly don't now. But it's either talk to you or that horrid little doorknocker, and you won out by a thread. Sorry, but I don't have time to be polite or chat about the weather or compliment your..."

She gulped, noticing him for the first time. "Your wardrobe."

Bare-chested again, he wore nothing but sandals and a pair of very short cut-off jeans over magnificently muscular thighs. The denim fit his firm rump to perfection, and the top snap had been left temptingly undone. Camille swallowed hard, remembering the last time she'd invaded his home, and the feeling of his mouth and hands. Every time she came to him, he managed to make her forget her reason for coming.

Or was he the real reason after all? "Mace, I think Aunt Rosemary is trying to scare me away."

He tossed the dishtowel he had wrapped in his hand over his shoulder. "You mean our Ms. Congeniality hasn't won you over yet?"

"This is not funny. You just don't know. First it was those damn paintings of hers creeping me out and making me have nightmares. Then it was being forced to stay in that place that reeks like some stank bordello, and then she tried to starve me to death. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd poisoned those effing apples so she could still be fairest of them all." She pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the house. "And now she's got some kind of ... of coven over there, worshipping with tea and crumpets. I left after an hour or so of socializing. Rosemary looked mad enough to chew nails when I excused myself, but I just couldn't stand anymore."

"You left the Women's Auxiliary's mid-tea party?" Mace snorted. "Well, it's definitely the dungeon for you."

She didn't tell him she hadn't simply left the little gathering. She'd murmured some nonsense about needing a little air then she'd run from Rose Cottage, once again, for her life. Now she felt a smidgeon of guilt as he turned off whatever had been simmering in a pot on his stove and slipped it off the burner. The small table in the center of the room had been set for one, with a lively checkered tablecloth and earthenware bowls. In her hysteria, she hadn't noticed she'd interrupted the man's plans for lunch. "Mace, you can't tell me there's not something wrong there. They're all wearing identical rings on the same finger, and they all seem just a little too glad to meet me."

"You're upset about Rosemary's friends being glad to meet you?"

"Rosemary may be crazy, but she's not stupid. She's got something going on. And I may be stupid, but I'm not crazy. This is not normal. Trust me. A roomful of women who don't mind dressing the same? Please."

He blinked. "They're trying to scare you away with matching outfits?"

"And they're all so damn friendly." She made a fist and shook it in the air. "All those smiles, all that 'it's an honor to meet you, Camille,' and 'we've heard so much about you, Camille' crap. God, it's enough to scare anybody."

"Okay, okay. I can see your point, but really, princess, you need to chill. Come on, sit down. Have a drink and relax. Let's talk."

She was generally a fairly easy-going person, but for the second day in a row, she exploded. "Why does everybody keep offering me liquor? Is it The Rule According to Rosemary? Getting sloshed is supposed to fix everything?"

"What the hell's this about? Just because I offered you a drink?"

Cam turned on her heels, marching angrily back toward the door. Of course he couldn't know she'd had a problem with alcohol. It didn't matter. She was angry at everybody. "I really am stupid. What the hell am I doing here? Did I expect understanding? How silly was I to believe you when you said you'd be a friend? Of course you'd defend her. You screwed her. Every man in Obelisk has screwed her. Why the hell would anybody bother to listen to me? I'm outta here."

"Camille, wait."

Cam grabbed for the screen door, but Mace was faster. His arm looped around her waist and effortlessly yanked her back. "Get your hands off me," she cried, struggling.

"No. Not until we talk." His other arm secured both of hers, trapping them against her body, holding her still until her breathing became more even. "Now. Tell me what this is really all about."

"I told you. It ... it's about that woman. That house. I can't stand it."

His smooth cheek nuzzled hers from behind as he gave her a comforting squeeze. "Yes, you can, princess. I'll help you."

"No. I can't. And I wish you wouldn't call me that. I'm far from being anyone's princess." A single tear out of the many she'd been holding back for two days escaped. "I thought I was strong enough, thought I could start fresh. I thought I'd find family here. Healing. New growth, like those poor roses you keep trying to nudge along. But I need the money. I need Rose Cottage. I don't have any place else to go, no one who cares. Nothing."

"Then this isn't about Rosemary. It's about what you're willing to allow Rosemary to do to you to get the inheritance. Yes?"

"Yes." She sniffled, unable to wipe away the free-flowing tears as he continued to hold her. "It's true. I'm a materialistic little ivory-tower princess who gots to have the money. Don't you hate me?"

He shook his head and released her, gesturing toward the table as he removed the bowls and set them on the counter. "Come on. Sit down and tell me why a beautiful twenty-six year old woman with her entire life ahead of her is so determined to think she's a failure."

"No. I don't want to talk, and I can't sit down."

"Sure you can." He lifted her as if she were weightless and planted her on the checkered tablecloth. Pulling a chair forward, he sat so he was centered between her legs. "Now. Talk."

He was an angel. An honest-to-goodness caring, considerate, hard-bodied angel. "This isn't going to happen. I'm not so far gone that I don't notice where you're sitting, or that I'm not grateful to God that I waxed recently."

"You see? I knew those thighs were troubled. Talk."

Cam stubbornly shook her head, primly folding her hands together. She shouldn't have come. She was so wired that one touch from him and she was liable to violate him then and there--and one glimpse of Rosemary peeking in the door would make her go ballistic. "Can't. Don't want you to think less of me."

"Talk, or I'll have to use my own persuasive methods."

"You don't want to hear this sad little story, and sex won't help anything."

"You just haven't had the right kind of sex, babe." He pushed her hair away from her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. She found it amazing that such coarse hands could be so tender. "You can talk to me about anything, Camille. I'm here, just for you."

"You barely know me."

"And I'm already right at home between your legs." His voice lowered, a murmuring caress. "Just think how I'll feel when I know you better."

His sincerity tore a hole in her heart. She didn't deserve it, not one bit. "If you're waiting to hear about how I was an abused child, or how I've struggled with illness or poverty, or how my husband mistreated me during our marriage, you're going to be disappointed. Everything that happened was my fault. I'm the only villain in this story."

"That'd be hard for me to believe." Mace casually slid her skirt up above her knees and massaged her bare calves. "And it would leave me with nothing to corrupt in you."

"You have to stop." She placed an unsteady hand on his. "I like you very much, Mace whatever-your-last-name-is. And I swear I'm not usually so high strung, but I think you're the only reason I've been able to stand it here this far. You made me laugh. I'd nearly forgotten how. You even made me horny when I was pretty sure I was all dried up inside. And I respect the hell out of you for being the only person I've met who doesn't kowtow to Roe. But I'm not going to lose my birthright for a quick roll in the hay. Not gonna happen."

"Who said anything about quick?" He chuckled and pulled away, raising his hands in surrender. "You must really want this so-called legacy pretty badly."

"The fortune's mine, and I intend to have it. Roe is right about one thing. Money equals power. And once I've got that, I'm independent. Free and clear of--"

"Of ever being hurt again?"

He had a way of cutting to the chase. "Yes."

"Your husband hurt you badly."

"Yes."

"And for that you're willing to put up with Rosemary's shit?"

"Yes. Even that. For a time, at least."

"Then it's your decision. Free will and all that. Who am I to tell you you're wrong?" He sighed, bowing his head. He was so incredibly out of place in this tiny kitchen. His was such a fine figure, Camille mused, he would be equally at home with commoners and kings. The late afternoon sun that crept through the open door painted streaks of gold across his strong arms and, unable to resist, she ran her fingers across shoulders that seemed broad enough to take on the world.

Mace seized her hand and kissed it as if she were, indeed royalty. "If I could change the past for you I would. If I could take on your pain, I'd do it without a second thought. But we all have our little crosses to bear, I'm afraid. And all I'd have to offer is ... me."

Cam sniffled again. The least he could've done was wear a shirt for her to blow her nose on. "The inheritance is always passed to a female of each generation, and I'm the only female of age in the family right now. Why should I give it up?"

Mace placed a rugged finger at the base of her throat, ran it teasingly along her collarbone and casually tested the elastic line of her peasant blouse. "Maybe it's the land that lures you. Sitting here on the edge of this primal wilderness--dismal or not--there's a mystery to this place, something timeless--magical--that appeals to the soul. I've felt it myself. It's probably the only thing that's kept me here all this time ... until now."

"Really?" Cam was flattered beyond words. And more than fascinated to watch his cock grow in the crowding of his pants as his fingertip ran teasingly along her bare skin. This was wrong, all wrong. She couldn't risk having Rosemary catch her in yet another compromising position. But she couldn't seem to pull away from his touch, the lure of those unbelievably hypnotic eyes. "I wondered why a man like you would bury himself here."

"I wonder why I haven't ripped this blouse off. It's in the way," he murmured. "You should never wear clothes. They don't do your body justice."

Every inch that intriguing finger touched simmered with heat, burning for more. What was she doing? What the hell was she doing? "I need to go."

His fingers slipped under the elastic of her blouse, and he moistened his lips, as if he could taste her. "I think we both know what you need, princess."

She was barely able to answer. Her breath simply wouldn't come. "I should go. Whatever this is between us, I won't lose everything just for a ... a--"

"A really big, hard boner?"

"Yeah." She felt the blush on her cheeks flow down to her breasts. "Even for that."

His hands slid over her body, lovingly rounding the curves from waist to hip. "And if there was no money? What would you be doing right now, Camille?"

Riding him as hard and desperately as she could. "I've thought about that too. Push to shove, I could always go back to D.C. Get a real job. Any job. Make an adequate living. Tell Rosemary to keep the cottage from hell and forget all this little princess nonsense. Sometimes it's very tempting." She ran the back of her fingers across his cheek, marveling at its smoothness. "Like now. Maybe you'd like D.C? It has a timeless quality of its own, y'know."

To her surprise, his hands dropped and he screwed his eyes shut. "We need to be clear on one thing. I don't want you to give up your inheritance. I won't be responsible for encouraging you to do so. I know how important it is to you. And if that means staying here and putting up with Roe's eccentricities..."

A creeping suspicion born of the sudden chill that shivered up her spine began to take root in her mind. The man who'd told Rosemary Price to go fuck herself was suddenly averse to Cam basically doing the same? Why? "Don't you think I should even consider just getting a regular job, as long as it's something I can do with integrity?"

"I'd say it takes a lot of integrity to stay here and gut this thing out against Roe."

"You actually think I should stay?"

"Stay. Claim your legacy. Get the cash. You will have earned it." Mace slowly began to ease her off the table and into his lap. "Hell, there may even be perks to being mistress of the manor."

Stupid.

Gawd, how could she manage to keep being so stupid?

Feeling as if her head was about to explode, she slapped his fingers off with the back of her hand and wriggled away from his lap. "You self-serving sonofabitch. Why couldn't I see it? Yeah, uh-huh--you're my friend. Yeah, you care about me. Of course you only want what's best for me. You lying, lecherous shit. Naturally you wouldn't want me to leave. All you're interested in is the money. That's really how you earn your living here, isn't it? First my aunt, because she held the bankbook, right? And now you figure you'll be able to screw enough out of me to stay nice and comfortable once she's out of the picture, right?"

"Oh, hell, don't be--"

"I am such an idiot. Of course you'd want me to stay. As long as you're on the good side of my bed you won't have to give up this cozy little gig you've got going here."

"Will you listen?"

"You and my ex. Just alike."

He frowned, the blue eyes blazing with fury. "I am not your fucking husband. And just because money means the world to you doesn't mean everybody feels like that. For someone who wants to play grown-up, you're acting very much like a child."

Cam vaulted from the table and charged the door. "Not a penny, ya hear? Not a red cent will you ever get from me. You've got until Sunday to vacate the premises. Tall, dark, big dick and all. Once your patroness leaves, I want you out of here. Got it?"

Chapter Nine

Camille returned to Rose Cottage after her quarrel with Mace for the same reason she'd come in the first place.

She had nowhere else to go.

The last of Rosemary's church-going friends were departing as Camille arrived at the main house following a hard, fast run from the guest cottage. Her aunt stood gracefully at the point where the driveway curved around, saying goodbye to each of them. It took only a hard look as she approached Roe and a hidden hand gesture to make Camille fall into place beside her. She really had behaved abominably. Her own paranoia aside, there was no excuse for neglecting her responsibilities as a hostess. Determinedly pasting a grin into place, she humbly added her thanks to Rosemary's for them coming and waved goodbye as they poured into their cars, three or four to each vehicle.

Allie, the last to leave, clasped Cam's hand in hers and gave her a gentle smile. "You seem a little overwhelmed, princess. Are you all right?"

"I--I may have gotten too much sun when I went for a walk this afternoon. But I'm fine, really." The peculiar ring they all wore pressed against her skin and, despite Allie's reassuring tone, Cam felt uneasy once again. "But thanks for your concern. I'm so sorry if--"

"You never have to apologize to me for anything. And you needn't worry. I think they were all very impressed with you. You'll do a fine job."

Cam squeezed the woman's hands in gratitude, releasing them only when Rosemary intervened with a short, dry cough. "If that's how she treats guests, I'm not sure she deserves the job. But I do need to speak to you about the festival, Allie. And you really should get inside, Camille, and stop roaming the grounds like a vagrant." She smirked, linking arms with her friend. "Since you're so sensitive to the sun."

Gladly leaving them to their conversation, Cam staggered into the house, slamming the door behind her. As hard as it was to believe, she was actually relieved to be inside the walls of Rose Cottage.

"There you are. I've been looking for you."

Wearing a toothy grin, David appeared before her, dangling the loveliest set of car keys she'd ever seen in her life. "See how handy I am to have around? I worked something out. No need to wait until tomorrow. The Navigator's parked out back. I figured after a visit from The Horde you could use an escape. Take as long as you like. I've got plenty of work to attend to here, so I'll just keep busy until you get back."

Cam approached him hesitantly, took the keys from him, and reverently held them to her heart. "Mr. Parrish, you may have just saved my life." Or someone else's. She was seriously considering murdering Mace as he slept and planting him in his own garden.

But an entire day away from Rose Cottage was better than sex with anybody could be--wasn't it? And David was giving that to her.

"I'm sorry it's so rough for you here. But it won't be long before you can buy your own car dealership if you want." He shook her hand, covertly slipping a charge card into her palm. "The bill won't come until after Rosemary's gone," he whispered. "I'd say it was safe to use."

"Oh, David. Thank you so much. And I don't really want a car dealership. A small fleet will do." On a sudden impulse, she stood on tiptoe to give him a soft kiss. Odd, but she'd barely noticed before how tall and slender he was, or that his shoes were spit-polished to a gleaming shine, or how smooth and well-manicured his hands were. A gentleman, that's what he was. No talk of troubled thighs, or big hard ones, or cocoa butter. Her first instincts had been right. A simple friendship with a nice, harmless guy was the way to go. "David? May I see you later?"

"Sure. I'll be right here when you--"

"No. I mean see you later. As in get to know each other better. Maybe defrost a meat loaf dinner and share. Discuss our future partnership in a little more detail?"

"Are you ... are you serious?"

Of course she was. It wasn't as if she was using him as a substitute for the man she really wanted. That would mean she lacked integrity. "Wouldn't you like to see me later?"

"Well, yes. Yes, certainly. We could go over your plans for the estate and ... and..." He flushed, his gaze on the floor. "You're a beautiful woman, Camille. I'd be honored."

Rosemary must've really trampled this guy for him to take a simple invitation so much to heart. For a moment, she felt sorry for him. "We could talk. Hey, maybe even laugh. I imagine it's been a long time since laughter was shared in this house, Mr. Handyman."

His eyes grew dark and furtive behind his glasses. He looked excited and scared to death all at once. Was he that worried about what Rosemary might think, even now? She was on the verge of politely withdrawing her invitation when he grabbed her by her forearms and pulled her against him. Without apology, he pressed his mouth hard against hers, his lips silently encouraging her to respond.

He lacked a certain finesse, and his kiss seemed more greedy than passionate. But he could learn, she reminded herself, and the abrupt bulge that came between them showed more than a little promise. A harmless man. A gentleman. Cam tried to let go, to relax into the persuasiveness of his kiss. Why she had to be persuaded she wasn't sure.

Disengaging herself from his arms after a few moments, she reminded herself once again of Rosemary's warning--and the fact that she was about to make her debut appearance in Obelisk. People would be watching her, the lady had said. She hadn't performed well with the Women's Auxiliary, so it wouldn't hurt to do her best in town. "I'm going to freshen up a bit before I go. I will see you later, Mr. Parrish?"

He mutely nodded, staring. And continued to stare as she hurried away from him, eagerly taking the stairs to her room.

This would be so good for her. A day out of this house among nice, normal people and an evening with a nice, normal gentleman ... Camille had barely made it halfway up when she heard the savage roar of an enraged animal.

Barely feeling the wood beneath her feet, she flew back down the stairs...

Just in time to see David in the hangman's grip of a snarling Mace, spit-polished shoes dangling inches above the floor, his face a blood-clotted purple as he strangled on what may have been his last breath.

Chapter Ten

Camille swung around the rotting railing, landing painfully on one knee. She immediately scrambled back to her feet, screaming in horror. "Stop it. Stop it, what are you doing?"

Unintelligible gurgling issued from David's mouth. Neither man seemed aware she was there. Terrified, she grabbed Mace's biceps, tugging with all her might. "Stop! Are you crazy? Let him go."

Mace lifted him two inches higher off the ground as David's arms flapped uselessly at his sides.

"If you touch that girl," Mace muttered viciously, "or go anywhere near her again, I'll kill you. Understand?"

She couldn't move him, couldn't loosen his grip. She pummeled his shoulder with her fists. Nothing. No effect. A sickening rattling escaped David's open mouth, and she desperately searched the room for something, anything, to use as a weapon. "Mace--don't!"

"Do you hear me, you scavenging little prick? Do you understand?"

Camille heard the body hit the floor with a plump, wooden thump and screwed her eyes closed, too afraid to look. Only when she heard the rasping sound of a long, quaking breath did she summon enough courage to open them again. Parrish was flat on his back, clutching at his throat as if he couldn't get the air in fast enough.

With a pent-up cry of fury, she turned on Mace and swung, slapping him squarely in the jaw with what strength she could summon. The blow failed to even turn his head. "You could've killed him, you bullying sonofabitch."

He blinked, giving her a quizzical stare.

It only infuriated her more. She backed two steps away from him to give herself room, made a fist, and swung again.

Raising the flattened palm of his hand, he effortlessly caught her punch, closed his hand in a vise around her wrist, and stalked down the corridor, dragging her in his wake.

Oh, hell, all kind of shit was hitting the fan. Cam turned and twisted, tilting away from him, trying to dig in her heels. No use. She might as well have been on wheels. "Let--me--go. You can't do this. I'm your boss."

Ignoring her words and making no sound, Mace pulled her into the library, his iron grip almost painful around her arm, and slammed the door behind them.

"Stop. Lemme go."

Breathing like an angered bull, Mace shoved her back against the nearest wall. His hand slid roughly under her skirt, ripping her panties away effortlessly. Grunting, he grabbed her hips and lifted her, wedging himself between her legs. In the time it took her to blink in shock he'd unzipped his shorts, the hammer of his cock bursting free.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered between clenched teeth. "Say the words now, before it's too late."

"You'll get nothing from me--understand?" she spat. "Not a dime, not a red-blooded nickel--"

"Wrong words."

His eyes glittered, holding hers. Supporting her rump beneath the flared skirt, he positioned his body and plunged inside of her.

Mace allowed her two seconds to adjust to him. Two seconds only to recover the breath he'd jolted out of her, for her woman's muscles to turn soft and moist, for every drop of blood in her body to surge to her pelvic area as she absorbed the immense size of the man.

Her lids drifted closed with a sigh as she wrapped herself around him in welcome. As if she'd waited her whole life for this.

And then he began to move.

Small, circling gyrations at first, as if he was grounding himself in her, that became harder, more insistent. Her clit bloomed for him, aching with the pressure from the root of his cock, just before he launched an all-out attack.

Mace pumped relentlessly in and out of her, pounding her back against the wall as her arms went around his neck, holding on for dear life. Those strong thigh muscles she'd so admired lifted and pushed, harder and faster, until she couldn't keep up, couldn't catch her breath--and still she felt him holding back.

He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to frighten her. All that savage sexual fury, and just the tip of the iceberg. An agonizing pressure built inside her. She lurched and tightened around him when it crashed over her in a wave that left her dizzy and quivering for more.

"Okay," she gasped, holding on even tighter. "I might be willing to loan you a buck or two..."

She wasn't sure he heard her. He kept up his manic pace, not allowing her a moment to recover, his face dark with obsession. And damn his soul to hell, it wasn't enough. Cam wrapped her legs around him, squeezing as tightly as she could around his pummeling force. Moaning with each deft stroke, she dug her nails into his massive shoulders, vaguely remembering this was dangerous, forbidden.

"All of it," she muttered, half out of her mind. "I want all of it, damn you."

She immediately felt herself raised higher as he pushed forward for all he was worth, sinking as deep as possible within her. She heard herself cry out, on the edge of pain, the precipice of pleasure. He was incredibly thick, rigid, powerful--overwhelming. He shifted, changing the angle of his body so that he was grinding her into the wall, hard cold upon her heated ass, his gyrations stroking her swollen clit until she felt the delicious agony building again.

"God," she gasped. "Oh, my God."

"Yes," Mace murmured softly into her ear. "Right here."

The powerful stroking began again, faster, deeper now, impossibly fierce. She mindlessly clung to him as the fever spread over her body inch by inch. One hand effortlessly held her as the other yanked the blouse down her arm, found her aching nipple and pinched.

Cam raked his back with her nails, felt his warm blood slide beneath her fingertips. He drove her to one plateau, then higher and higher still. And then she was panting, bucking wildly against him, sure her body was about to implode. Through a silver haze she glimpsed the painting of Rosemary's devil on the opposite wall. It loomed before her, eyes barely slits of narrow flames, fist clenched in triumph.

It was the last thing she saw before a shrill scream filled the air, and the pulsing heat consumed her at last in an orgasm that left her barely conscious, limp and lost in pulsing sensation.

She was lying on her side in the middle of the floor when her brain slowly returned to her body. Her blouse had been straightened and her skirt draped carefully over her lower body.

Aliced in the library. Right through the looking glass.

He'd been furious and irrational, primitive and punishing.

And it was the hottest fuck she'd ever had in her life.

Camille lay still, idly wondering if she might've suffered some kind of concussion. She could hardly remember what had happened, only the earth-shattering feelings of it all. Weak, with her mind still whirling, she held one distinct if unlikely memory.

He hadn't climaxed. He hadn't come inside of her, and he was still rod-hard when she'd all but collapsed.

Carefully raising herself to a sitting position, she stared at the dust motes dueling in the sunlight that streamed through the large bay window. She was alive. The stagnant air moved in and out of her lungs. Where were her toes? She couldn't feel her toes.

She found them a moment later, curled firmly into the balls of her feet.

Only then did she think of David. Struggling to her feet, she groaned at the soreness of her body and the throbbing spasm in her lower back and hurried to the door.

"David."

He'd made his way to the living room, where he sat splayed on the floor, a pint of whiskey in his hand. Cam charged down the hallway and knelt beside him as he loosened his collar, still gasping for air. It was all her fault, and she was at a loss for what to say or do. "David, are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"

He silently shook his head, color slowly seeping back into his face. What the devil had she been thinking? Busily banging one man a room away while the other was possibly injured outside?

"I'm all right," he finally managed. He tried to rise, tottered and fell back onto his butt. "Really I am."

Camille touched his chin, carefully lifting his head then quickly snatched her hand away. Blood. She'd forgotten that she'd mauled Mace, that she had his blood on her fingers--and that might be more difficult to explain than anything. She took a peek at David's face, ready to discreetly wipe it clean. Nothing there. Spreading her fingers wide, she examined her nails carefully, remembering the way they'd sliced into the skin of his back, ignoring the arousal that came with the thought of him, wet and slick with blood...

Nothing. Her hands were clean. What the hell?

"What's this all about?"

The wind swirled around her, eddying at both ends of the hallway, circumventing the imperious figure of Rosemary who looked down her nose at them from the open front door. Judging by her expression it was obvious all she could see was David's legs and Camille kneeling over him. "My dear niece. I thought I told you--"

"Stop. It's not what you think," Cam said simply. "There was a fight."

"Really?" The light that came into her eyes was that of a child who's discovered a love for striking matches. "Did Mace kill him? Did he?"

Cam had never seen her aunt look so beautiful. And so horribly frightening. Her hair had been tossed by the wind into a streaming fall of curls, her chest rose and fell unevenly and her eyes were brilliantly alive with ... hope.

Camille stood unsteadily, hard-pressed to believe this creature was any kin of hers. It wasn't possible for a person to be so depraved. She stepped aside to allow Roe a full view of the living Parrish. It was hard to squelch the impulse to hurl at the sight of disappointment in her aunt's eyes.

"I'm fine, Rosemary," David croaked, struggling to stand. "It was just a little misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding, my ass. I saw Mace go storming out of here. However, if you're as fine as you say, may I suggest you get back to your job? I don't want any loose ends when I'm ready to leave here."

Enough. There was a limit. Even for Rosemary there had to be some kind of limit.

Camille placed a restraining hand on David's shoulder and stared at her aunt. "David, don't you move. Don't you lift a finger until you feel well enough. You don't have to work today. You don't have to work because I say so. Here, take your keys back. When you're able, I want you to go home and rest. Take the evening off. You've been through enough."

He hesitated, his glance moving back and forth between them. Rosemary was still and silent, her eyes on her niece rather than her bookkeeper. It was Camille's first challenge to her authority.

And it didn't seem to disturb Rosemary one bit. The confidence, the lack of malice in her slight smile was more intimidating than any words she could have spoken.

"I ... I shouldn't. I can't." After giving Cam's hand a grateful pat, he removed it from his shoulder and carefully stood with a pathetic effort to behave as if nothing had happened.

"You can and you will. A little brandy, a sniff of fresh air and you'll feel good as new. Here, I'll help you." Camille slipped her shoulder under his for support and glared at her aunt. "Sorry about the negative body count, Aunt Roe. Maybe next time."

"Not if I depend on you. You're still too soft-hearted, Cam." Rosemary chuckled, securing the door against the wind. "But there's still time. Maybe I can arrange something myself."

Chapter Eleven

Although David arrived bright and early the next morning, sheepishly handing her his car keys, spring held true to its erratic nature.

A gentle dawn stirred up a brisk breeze that whipped the sky into ominous anger, and rain pummeled the earth minutes before Camille finished the short drive to Obelisk. She pulled over when the drops became a shimmering sheet over the windshield of the Navigator, reducing visibility, and watched the lightning play over a distant hill. A small cemetery bloomed there amidst the gold and green, the few visible gravestones crumbled and tottering with age.

The road, however, was perfectly paved, without so much as a single pothole. As if that wasn't strange enough, there were no lights for guidance as the storm dulled the sun to darkness, no other traffic to assure her there was anyone else in the world. The desolation was so intense that she hugged herself, feeling very small inside the huge black cavern of a car.

She could use the charge card for an airline ticket and fly away from this hellhole. She could escape in the Navigator. She could leave this god-forsaken place right now, just drive until it ran out of gas, make another life for herself--somewhere else. This wasn't the new beginning she'd hoped for. This wasn't her dream. She'd done nothing more than turn over in her sleep. It was just a different nightmare.

There was, undeniably, a wild beauty about the countryside. It was probably very much as it had been since the dawn of time--give an ice age or two. No country lodges, no homes, no footpaths marred the thick brush or the miles of ancient pines that crowded the highway. There was only the split strip of eerily perfect road leading to and from Obelisk, as if this reclusive area had been sequestered from the rest of the world.

And there were secrets among the few inhabitants of Obelisk, as deep and dark as the timberlands. She was sure of it. People simply didn't age this gently, good country livin' or not. No strife among the women, no need for individual expression, no desire for progress. If not for the fact that Rosemary was her blood relative, she'd wonder if any of them were human at all.

But there was the specter of Aunt Roe, haunting her as it had since the moment she'd arrived. Wild, wanton Rosemary, who'd probably taken debauchery to levels Cam knew nothing about. Was that what she was destined to become as the owner of Rose Cottage? Uncaring, self-involved, hedonistic? As wrapped in darkness as this isolated little road that led from no place to nowhere?

Camille watched the sky churn, thick with purple plumes of clouds to green-gray haze, finally lanced with golden slashes of secretive sun. She allowed her shoulders to slump, trying to relax. Rolling the windows down, she inhaled the scent of moist, rustling evergreens and blinked at the wet asphalt that gleamed black-mirror bright. She slipped the car out of park, chiding herself for wasting time away from Rose Cottage, time she might've spent in town, enjoying herself. Gunning the engine, she flew over the road and poked at David's radio, determined to find something other than static.

A sharp curve forced her foot to the brake. The sunshine was almost blinding now, the sky so bright with blue she had to squint and drive more slowly. With only one lane in either direction, there was always the chance that someone might cross the line and--

She spotted something out of the corner of her left eye, a large, dark mass she nearly passed before noticing. It was almost as if the last of the storm clouds had coagulated behind the line of trees into some lurking monstrosity. Odd. It struck a chord in her memory, just as Rose Cottage had, though she'd never traveled this way before.

Cam came to a full, hard stop, tires spewing rain from the road, and glanced back over her shoulder. There was something else there, someone else there. A fleeting flash of crimson clothing directed her gaze through the pines like an arrow. Whoever they were, they'd seen the same thing she had. And they were making their way toward it.

She left the car running. Sprinting as fast as she could she slipped, fell, didn't care, rose and ran again. She reached the small clearing in the trees that had caught her eye and plunged in, following the red floral dress of a short, stout woman walking casually ahead of her.

It was there. Her eyes had not deceived her. Staggering in disbelief, she dropped to her knees before the huge black monolith that rose before her. Stark, shining obsidian, it stood like a stone giant in the landscape, its phallic shape thrusting high above the surrounding granite boulders.

It was unmistakably the object from Rosemary's profane painting. And it was real.

"Well, good afternoon, my dear." Cam hadn't noticed the woman she'd been pursuing had turned back toward her and stood only a few feet away. Her silver hair fell wet and straight down her back, and her face seemed flush with pleasure as she smiled above the bouquet of wildflowers in her arms. "You must be Camille."

"Lord, child, you look like you've seen a ghost. Here, come sit. Rest a spell."

Cam allowed the older woman to lead her to one of the large surrounding rocks, but kept a suspicious eye on her. She wasn't at all sure she wasn't seeing a ghost. "I--I'm sorry. Have we met?" For all she knew, the woman might be a member of the Crumpet Coven she'd been introduced to earlier. Their faces had all blended together after the first few introductions.

"No, and it's damn well about time we did." The sun had turned the slack, silver hair to white gold around her face. "My name is Jane. Jane Parrish. I'm David's aunt. And aren't you every bit as lovely as he said you were."

The compliment went right by her. For some reason she was reluctant to speak here, almost to breathe. Her heartbeat had perceptibly slowed in this place of unnatural silence, so still it lacked the comfort of even the smallest bird's song. "David mentioned you. He said you were elderly and ill." Cam squirmed as the whiskey-brown gaze studied her. Other than the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and a bit of turkey about the neck, the woman showed no signs of being either. Her speech was lucid, her form sturdy and strong, her legs stocky, but firmly muscled. She could probably outrun Cam in a pinch. "Is everything all right? What in the world are you doing here, Mrs. Parrish?"

"Miss Parrish. I'm a spinster." She handed Camille a lacy sprig of fern, a ring of golden links gleaming on her little finger. "I come here for the quiet. Haven't you noticed it?"

"It's hard to ignore." Cam stared up at the jutting rock that nearly overshadowed the sun. "Not so much as the buzzing of an insect. A little ... creepy."

"Nonsense. It's an old gathering place for the people of Obelisk. Actually the town was probably named after this ancient monstrosity. Folks hold their picnics here, come to relax,, make out--all sorts of things." Cam watched, puzzled, as she began to lay the wildflowers in a half-circle around the base of the rock. "Your Aunt Rosemary comes here to sketch sometimes."

"Yes." Cam shuddered. "I've seen the result."

"You must admit it's impressive. This giant rock, so glassy you can see your dark self reflected on the flat. Very out of place in this milieu. Everything around it has eroded with time, and still it stands tall. And the phallic shape is quite a tease, I think." She laughed, tossing away the last of her flowers. "Even the smaller boulders are strategically placed. Your aunt always sits on that right testicle. I see you prefer the left."

Camille lurched to a standing position, brushing the back of her skirt with her hand. Shit. Balls and phalluses and thighs and toes. A singularly one-track town. "Interesting that this formation seems almost exactly halfway between the Price estate and Obelisk."

"It's not interesting. It's quite intentional. The legend says this is exactly where he fell when he was banished, you know."

"He?" As brightly as the sun shone here, she felt goose pimples blooming along her arms. "Who is he? What do you mean, banished?"

"Well, surely you know? Certainly you've been told? There is only one lover, after all. That's the explanation for everything. Why it's so quiet. The nature of the place."

She indicated her own bare feet in a sweeping gesture. "By all rights, you should remove your shoes, Camille Price. This is holy ground, you see. I must say I miss the old days, though. The ceremony was taken more seriously then--a little drama, a bit of blood and the sacrificial lamb. It was so much more fun then. Now, all he requires is the sacrifice. It's really not much to ask. I'm sure you'll agree when the time comes. Just one useless girl after all. Understand?"

No. She didn't understand anything, and nobody was telling her anything that made sense. Why couldn't anyone in this town answer a straight question? "Have you known my aunt for a long time?"

"Since the day she first arrived."

"And knowing her, you approve of David ... er, working with her?"

"David makes his own decisions, just as you'll make yours." Jane Parrish took her hand and gleefully squeezed. "He said your hair was the color of autumn, and your skin was softer than the most delicate rose."

Cam stuttered, surprised. "D-David said that?"

"Oh, no, of course not. David hasn't a poetic bone in his body. He's a people-pleaser. His greatest joy in life is to ingratiate himself, and that's where his satisfaction lies. No, Mace was the one who seemed so impressed by you."

Her heart grew airy in her chest, making her lightheaded. "Mace said that about me?"

"I've never heard him say such a thing about any other woman. And he's had lots of them after him."

Suddenly, Camille was anxious to get to town, get it over with and get back to the estate. "I should be going, Miss Parrish. Can I give you a lift back home?"

"Well aren't you a darling. No, thank you. Walking's about the only exercise I get, and I really enjoy it." She did an impromptu jig. "Keeps these old bones spry."

"Yes, I can see that." Somehow she knew she'd be sorry she asked, but she gave in to the urge to ask anyway. "Exactly how old are you, Miss Parrish?"

"Five hundred and forty-seven, come July. I'm planning quite a festival come the day. I hope you'll attend."

"I ... um..." Cam backed slowly away, her legs trembling with the adrenalin-charged urge to run. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it for anything." She eased into a slow walk, hesitantly smiling and waving goodbye. "You'll excuse me, won't you? Please go on with your--er, phallic worship thing."

It was possible Jane Parrish was insane, of course, and David did whatever he could to disguise that fact.

Camille didn't plan to wait around long enough to find out.

Once she was sure she wasn't being followed, she hurried across the road and, opening the Navigator door, threw herself inside and took off like a bat out of hell, steering desperately toward town and what she prayed would be some familiar form of civilization.

Chapter Twelve

An hour later, having hit most of the small shops of Obelisk, Virginia, Camille was still in search of civilization.

After safely parking David's car on a small side street, she decided to walk. The town itself was barely one-quarter as large as the Price estate, and just as peculiar. Old-fashioned gas lamps stood watch on the corners and the cobblestone streets were as clean as if they'd just been paved. No pollution, very few parked cars, and the few she saw were old models without a hint of rust.

Late spring crocuses circled the trees that shaded the streets, and every angled corner boasted one huge, spreading oak and benches for resting. It was Norman Rockwell come to life, but the artist had skimped on one or two important items.

Men.

And children.

The entire town seemed populated by women. They worked the shops and drifted up and down the streets at easy, unhurried paces. Some of the faces were already familiar to her, ladies who'd attended Rosemary's hen party. They waved happily as she passed, then whispered to other women whose faces seemed to morph into delight.

Camille tried her best to ignore them and stick to the mission at hand. But once again, to her surprise, she found she could hardly wait to return to Rose Cottage.

One general store. Three candle shops. A small deli, one soda shop, a farmer's market, beauty parlor and a large store that sold herbs and natural foods made up the busy metropolis before her.

She'd never met such uncooperative salespeople in her entire life. Her first stop was at the general store, so tiny that catalogue shopping was the order of the day. There she ordered a queen-size bed, pillow-topped mattress and all of the accessories to be delivered as soon as possible--and found herself arguing with the saleswoman, who insisted she should have it all at a fraction of the price.

"That's ridiculous," Cam said firmly. "The sticker prices in the book are as plain as day. Who's going to make up the difference in the cost?"

The woman grinned, wagging her head in disagreement. She took the charge card from Cam with long, tapered fingers, one of which wore the ring Camille had seen so often lately. "The Price family has done a lot for this town. The least we can do is give back occasionally."

Only when Camille demanded to speak to the manager, a very tall woman in gray linen, was she able to persuade them to accept her money. Her luck wasn't much better elsewhere. When she stopped in their audio cubicle to order a DVD player, the young salesgirl nearly injured herself laughing.

"Ms. Price, why would you want to order a DVD player?"

"Isn't that fairly obvious?" Cam muttered, well beyond irritated now. "To watch movies, entertain myself in my spare time, catch a flick late at night before bed?"

The girl's eyes widened as she giggled uncontrollably. "Entertainment? You think you'll be watching movies at night?"

Everywhere Camille went, every store she visited, with every step she took on the immaculate streets, she was hailed and made welcome. By name.

"You must be Ms. Price."

"You're to be the new mistress of Rose Cottage, aren't you?"

"Oh, it's so good to finally meet you."

"Welcome to Obelisk, Ms. Price. We're all thrilled to have you here."

Cam was decidedly less than thrilled with their reactions. By the time she'd ordered a few basics and picked up more food, she'd had quite enough. They were beginning to gather on the street, to gawk at her as if she were a visiting celebrity. It frightened her nearly as much as being alone in a house with Rosemary.

Tossing her bags into the back of the car, she took off, barely resisting the urge to burn rubber and speed. After all, who would know? There wasn't so much as a speed limit sign posted anywhere in sight.

Camille breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the road out of town and floored the gas pedal. Way too Twilight Zone for her. Maybe there was some logical explanation. The male population had probably deserted the place, reluctant to be kept down on the farm. The children were mostly of an age and all of them in school. And just the sight of a stranger in a tiny town was enough to induce excitement. Yeah, that was it. They were probably very nice people. Once they got used to her...

The sight of something flitting around her peripheral vision virtually sent her heart into arrest, and a loud buzzing like a chainsaw gone wild made her grab the wheel and snatch the car to the right with a yank.

And there it was--the only stop sign in Obelisk, Virginia, flying directly toward the front end of Parrish's perfect car.

Camille closed her eyes and lurched into the airbag, welcoming the sickening sound of crunching metal with a perverse gratitude--this time.

"Are you feeling better then, child? There now--have a bit more of that tea. It'll bring the spirit back to you."

The good Reverend Osgood was indeed beautiful, both inside and out. He'd taken her to his tiny home adjoining St. Leonard's, wrapped her in blankets until she'd stopped shivering and drowned her in chamomile tea. A caring, lovely soul--with a droolworthy bod to match.

Of course, she should be ashamed of thinking so--but her parents had only taught her belief and respect in a higher power, not that said higher power necessarily resided in its human representatives.

But right now, drowning in the pale gray gaze of this man, she was almost ready to believe it. "You've gone to too much trouble, Reverend. I'm fine, really I am. I'm more worried about your motorcycle being left on the side of the road while you drove me back here and wasted your time."

"The bike is fine, rest assured. I can't recall the last time thievery was reported in Obelisk." The teapot steamed between his hands as his gentle voice wafted over her. "But you've got a nasty bruise brewing on that forehead, young lady."

"It's nothing." She used her fingers to cover it with her hair in frustration. A minor accident. Stupidity on her part. But more ammunition for Rosemary, dammit. "I just bumped it trying to get out of the car. And now I've put a nasty dent in David's front end and taken out that poor stop sign and--"

"There now, lass, nothing that can't be repaired."

"I'm afraid you surprised me. It's not often I see a man of the cloth wearing a black leather jacket and riding a hog."

"Would a camel and cargo of frankincense and myrrh have surprised you less, Ms. Price?"

The thick weave of his turtleneck sweater rose and fell with his breathing, and she had the urge to hide her face against his chest and ... rest. Just rest. His manner was so peaceful, so ethereal, he made her feel he could take all the troubles of the world on his shoulders and barely flinch.

Cam could see how the urge to corrupt such a guy would be quite a temptation. Without ethics, he could be a very dangerous man.

"I wonder how the bloody accident happened at all. I was about to pass you, but I was quite a safe distance away from your vehicle. Did the sound of the engine startle you?"

The pale blue teacup shook violently in her hand. "Let's just say it brought back bad memories."

"Indeed? Something you might be wantin' to talk about?"

"Confession? I'm not a Catholic, I'm afraid."

"Don't be afraid of it. Neither am I." He laughed. "Although I believe St. Leonard's was once such a church in times long past. It's non-denominational now and available for all. As are my own two ears. And my sympathy, if you've a need for it."

Camille took a deep, shuddering breath as the first tear escaped. Dammit. It was kindness that broke her down every time. "Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated. But I wonder, Reverend, if you would be quite so sympathetic if you knew I'd nearly killed someone."

Chapter Thirteen

"Where to start?" Cam hid her eyes beneath lowered lids. "Is there ever really a single point in time where anything begins?"

"Never." Reverend Osgood moved his chair from the opposite side of the table to sit beside her, holding his steaming mug of tea in his hands. "Begin and end wherever you wish, Ms. Price. I've all the time in the world."

He smelled of sandalwood and something else, something Camille couldn't put her hands on. She idly wondered if he burned incense in the church and if the scent had sunk into his clothes. "Then I'll begin with Frank. Good old salt-o'-the-earth Frank. He was a podiatrist, a friend of the family. Nice enough and fairly secure, but I must admit I was surprised when it seemed my mother was ... well, pushing us together. He was quite a bit older, and she'd always been very particular about the company I kept. But once I had my eighteenth birthday, everything changed.

"She made arrangements for Frank to escort me to social affairs, approved of him taking me out to dinners, spending time alone. At country club parties, she started introducing him to people as my beau, and emphasizing his good points to me. I never objected. Having my parents make plans for my future was just fine with me, since I had no idea what I wanted anyway. And I was literally swept away by the attentions of this sophisticated older man. Within a month of my high school graduation, we were married--as arranged by my mother. She said there was no reason to wait, that settling down with the right man would keep me out of trouble."

"Ah. I take it things did not work out as planned?"

"Oh, but they did. At first. I never even wondered if Frank would've been my first choice--just went along with the program. I was the perfect little housewife. During the week I sent my doctor husband off to work with a kiss and a smile. And on weekends we did the social scene, just to show that I was an up-and-coming heiress and he had married well."

"You speak of this man as though you had no feeling for him. Did you not love your husband, child?"

Cam considered for a moment. "I did. Frank treated me well. He had a little trouble showing affection sometimes, but that was usually sort of endearing. Even when he treated me like a child, I enjoyed teasing him and drawing him out. And I think he was a little sensitive about not being born with the infamous silver spoon in his mouth as so many of our associates were, but that never made any difference to me. He was a handsome, hard-working man, and I considered myself blessed."

"Sounds like you were thoroughly satisfied with the match your mother made."

She opened her mouth to agree--and quickly closed it again, thinking. Satisfied was not the word she would've chosen. That tendency to have trouble showing affection often carried over into the bedroom and to occasions when she really needed warmth and sympathy. She'd never agreed with Frank that her emotional needs made her seem immature. She thought it was part of what made her a woman. "I thought he was doing the best he could. Considering."

Reverend Osgood grinned, nodding. "I understand. No heat between the sheets, eh?"

Cam felt herself turn pale once again. Whoa. Maybe ethereal had been the wrong word. This conversation was taking a decidedly strange turn.

"Have I shocked you, then?" He smiled, seeming very pleased with himself. "You shouldn't be. A shepherd must be open to real-world problems if he's to tend his flock, y'know. My ladies have no qualms about coming to me to discuss anything."

His ladies? Camille shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I can't imagine they'd have many problems of that kind. Men seem to be pretty scarce in this little town."

"Well, that might be a problem in itself, yes? True, there's more than a wee shortage of men hereabouts. Few jobs, nothing very exciting in our tiny town. But there are a few vigorous fellows to be found. They simply have to take up the slack."

How could those eyes be so soft, so distant, and still twinkle when he grinned? "Good to hear. For the past few days I was afraid my Aunt Rosemary had the monopoly on the men in Obelisk."

"Isn't she the most delightfully sinful creature you've ever met? Quite unredeemable, I imagine."

Camille spewed chamomile tea all over his properly set little table.

"There, I've gone and done it again, haven't I?" The reverend quickly fetched a roll of paper towels, his soft brown curls bobbing as he cleaned up her mess. "Please don't misunderstand me. I've a sincere affection for your Rosemary. She's done a great deal for this parish and for St. Leonard's itself. A new roof, a working furnace--even had our shoddy little pews refinished so as not to pinch and splinter when a worshipper becomes fidgety. But I've no illusions about her bawdy character. I've always found her lust for life ... intriguing."

Was there a note of admiration in his tone for her aunt? "Are you a married man, Reverend Osgood?"

"No. I prefer my lifestyle as 'tis. Easier for me to tend to my congregation and be there for those in need. Like now." He placed his hand over hers on the table and she marveled at how cool his skin felt, even after holding the hot mug of tea. "But we were discussing your marriage?"

"Were we?" She'd nearly forgotten. His voice was so soothing it seemed to make her problems fade away. Probably the answer to many a prayer. He'd chosen his profession well. "If nothing else had happened, I'd probably still be married. But things change. People change. My father died of cancer six years after our marriage, and my mom in a plane crash a few months after that. It was a horrible time for me. I'd never had to deal with grief. But Frank was solid as a rock. He was right there when I needed support. Until I nearly killed someone."

"That's the second time you've said that, and I'll never believe it's so. You don't have what it takes to harm anyone, Camille."

How lyrical her name sounded tripping so easily off his tongue. She lowered her lashes again to hide her embarrassment as her gaze strayed to his crotch. Even without apparent arousal, an impressive bulge distorted the shape of his trousers, and her mouth went dry in response. Reverend Osgood had, indeed, been favored by God with many blessings. "I hate to disappoint you, but it's true. It was one of the few times I went to a party without Frank. I was depressed. I missed my parents. And by then my husband seemed more interested in investing my newly-inherited money than investing time in our marriage. I was feeling very sorry for myself."

Her eyes began to water again, just as she thought she was all cried out on the subject. "I only had two drinks. Swear to God, it was only two small glasses of an inferior cabernet on a full stomach, and I felt fine when I left the party. I know that's no excuse. Trust me, I've emotionally flagellated myself about it every day since. But I was on my way home, and it was just a short distance, and it was raining and out of nowhere came this motorcycle and I swerved to avoid hitting him and skidded into the oncoming traffic and ran right into this little Mini Cooper and why anyone would drive such a tiny car I don't know but it made such a big dent in the back and the woman behind the wheel was bleeding from her scalp and I ... I..."

"Ahhh. I begin to see. No wonder you veered off the road when my bike crept upon you. Poor child." He laid a comforting arm across the back of her chair. "Go on."

"Initially, her injury seemed minor. A few stitches and possibly a very small concussion the doctor said. Only after I begged her forgiveness and promised to take on all expenses did she seem to get worse. That girl spent a month in the hospital, Reverend, and two in nursing home rehab. Three months. I know. I visited her almost every day. I couldn't forgive myself. The idea that I might've killed someone nearly killed me. And it didn't help that Frank told the police I was alcohol intolerant and not fit to drive with it in my system."

"You're saying he stretched the truth?"

"No. I'm saying he lied. I couldn't imagine why. I thought maybe it was his way of punishing me for going out without him. But suddenly all the support was gone. As I went through all the legalities, just barely avoiding an indictment, I began to drink more and more. The thing that had ruined my life became the only thing that kept me going--especially after my adoring husband decided I was an alcoholic and divorced me, netting a large settlement in the process."

The dreamy eyes suddenly lost their luster. "That was rather cruel of him."

"And apparently, even that wasn't enough. A month later he married the girl I'd injured and convinced her to sue me for every cent I had." She placed the clattering cup on the table. The tea had lost its taste. "I hear they're living happily ever after on the Price legacy now."

"My word. That's a lot to deal with all at one time." With one gentle finger, Osgood carefully dried her cheeks. "You must learn to forgive yourself. Everyone makes mistakes. You've come through it all now, and you're probably the stronger for it."

"I am. The experience taught me a lot. I'm considerably less trusting and I recognize how important money really is in this world of ours." One last, insistent tear made its way over the rim of her eye. "I never would've believed it. How could he do such a thing? I'd always imagined I'd be content to grow old with Frank. He didn't have to steal from me. I would've gladly given him whatever he wanted. But honesty, integrity and even love go right out the window when it comes to the cash. And the lesson isn't over until I've got it all back, every bit of what I once had.

"I've got my family name. I've gotten off the booze. But I want my self-respect and the feeling that I actually have some control over my own life, that it's not my mother telling me who I should marry, or my husband dictating what's appropriate for me to wear, or reminding me we did the missionary style last time, so this time we're scheduled to do woman on top."

She blushed, remembering her audience. "Forgive me, Reverend, but you know what I mean. I'm willing to acknowledge that I fuc--er, messed up. I just don't want to wallow in it. I want the chance to make my own choices. I want the money, the position, everything I lost. I want the Price legacy returned to me, where it belongs. Is it such an awful thing to want my life back?"

"Worldly things don't constitute a life, little one. You're a young, vital, healthy woman." His finger, still touching her cheek, softly stroked her skin as his eyes faded to the color of fog. "Quite beautiful. Damned desirable."

Okay. This had gone past peculiar and was well on the road to plain old bizarre. Was it her imagination that his hand had lingered too long, that there was something in his gaze more cock-sure than comforting? "You're rather young to be in such a position yourself, Reverend--and quite handsome, if I may say so. What in the world are you doing in a place like Obelisk?"

"Is our little town as bad as all that?"

"Yes. So far it has been. But I'm hoping for better."

"Precisely. Perhaps that's the reason I'm here." Osgood smothered his smile in his mug before setting it on the table. "When I came here some years back, I was in the midst of ... well, what you might call a crisis of faith. Couldn't seem to perform the job I'd vowed to do. I'd become so involved with the problems and cares and needs of the people I served I couldn't seem to get past that to my higher calling--if it was a higher one, and I couldn't swear to that either. I needed to be in the trenches. I suppose it takes a stronger spirit than mine to be sensitive to another's soul, yet aloof enough to look beyond them to something considered more sacred."

Cam wondered if the souls he referred to were feminine. She could well imagine women tripping over their tongues for him. "I'd say you do very well. You have a very calming presence."

"I should. I've rehearsed it well enough." His cheeks dimpled, but there was no smile. "I felt quite the failure for some time. Felt as if I'd let my Father down, after all the faith He'd had in me, entrusting me with His most precious creations. There was nary a place I could lay my head that I'd feel at ease, save when welcomed by one of His own. And Obelisk was the most welcoming place I'd ever come across.

"I finally decided to choose. Free will and all that. I could remain an icon of virtue, deigning to speak to those who suffered from the lofty perch of my pulpit once a week--or I could become involved with the people I loved. Even if it meant sharing their sins and condemning myself."

Sharing sins with this man didn't sound like a bad way to spend an afternoon. Camille's eyes began a subtle search for the exit. She'd thought Rosemary was weird--and here she was, having illicit thoughts about a man of faith. She had to get the hell out of here. "Isn't there someone I should call about the stop sign? A policeman or sheriff of some kind?"

"The constable makes his way through here once every two weeks or so, if his wife's not feeling poorly. I'll tell him what happened if you like, but not to worry. The Price ladies always get very special treatment here." He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. "If you ever need anyone to talk to again, or find yourself troubled, feel free to come to me, Camille. Obelisk can seem a strange place. If you ever need me, I'm here for you. But for now, just relax until you feel better. We want you to make your way safely back to your Rose Cottage."

Chapter Fourteen

Camille made her nervous way back to Rose Cottage, driving the entire distance at ten miles per hour with her foot ready to jump to brake at any moment. She didn't feel steady enough to drive the fifteen miles to what was purportedly the nearest auto repair shop. Hell, if she'd stayed in Obelisk any longer, she might've considered asking for sanctuary at Saint Leonard.

And wouldn't Roe have loved that.

Parking the dented Ford behind the main house, she beat a silent retreat inside, delaying all confrontations until later. There was no sign of her aunt or David. She ran up to her room, tossed her bags on the floor and closed the door with a sigh of relief.

The sensual scent of roses hit her nostrils immediately. Cam turned to find her bedroom had been converted into a garden.

The flowers were everywhere--in huge Japanese urns tucked into shadowy corners, on the dresser, flanking the full-length mirror. A large ceramic pot of miniature beauties waited for her on the nightstand, all red and white roses, bringing the dismal room to unbelievable life. Stunned, she stepped forward, her hand covering her mouth--just in time to stifle the scream that arose in her throat as a large hand clamped over her shoulder from behind.

"Lord, man, you scared me to death."

A single long-stemmed rose, perfect in pure white symmetry, appeared from behind Mace's back. "I'd planned to be gone by the time you got back." His gaze rested on the slight bruise above her brow and he frowned. "You've had an accident."

She'd nearly forgotten. He'd chased the memory from her mind. "It's nothing."

"Camille, if you've hurt yourself--"

"Mace, what are you doing here?" She turned in a half-circle, taking in the room. "What have you done?"

"It's just my way of apologizing." He placed the pale beauty in her hand. "I didn't mean what happened in the library. I mean, I meant it, God, I meant it, and it was so unbelievably good, but it shouldn't have happened. I wanted it to happen, more than anything in this world, but..." His gaze fell away from hers. "What I'm trying to say--very badly--is that I didn't mean to start an argument back at the guest house. When I said I didn't want you to give up your inheritance, it was because I know how much it means to you. And because..."

"Yes?"

"Because I was being selfish. I hate the thought of you leaving. You've already brought more honest life and light to this place than I've seen in all the time I've been here. So I'm sorry about the incident in the library. Never knew I could be that jealous. I intended to make love to you from the moment I saw you, y'know. But I really wanted our first time together to be something memorable, sweet, something ... special."

Cam held the rose to her nose, blinking rapidly. Great. Just great. Another reason to cry. No one, with money or not, had ever made her feel more special than he had today with the simplest words and gifts. "I can't believe you went to so much trouble. The flowers are gorgeous. Where in the world did you get them? Certainly not from the garden I've seen."

"There's a small greenhouse on the extreme southern end of the property. Roe no longer has any interest in flowers, so I didn't tell her what I was doing, but I fixed the broken windows and ventilation, got it up and running again a few weeks ago when I heard you were coming. Then I got the idea to leave a rose on your windowsill, where I first saw you, every morning. But it sounded awfully corny when I thought about it. Guys don't really do that stuff unless they want something from you. And I didn't want you to think I was after your money, and--"

Camille threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. None of the expensive orchids, corsages, or fancy floral arrangements Frank had ever produced for her meant as much as this gesture, as this single rose. This man had managed to make her feel welcome where she wasn't even wanted. "Not a word." She barely managed a whisper. "Not another word."

Evidently he agreed. He hugged her close, rocking their bodies slowly back and forth in a comforting rhythm that she wished could go on forever.

Craziness. He's too macho. Too preoccupied with sex. Too different than what you're used to, and you barely know him.

None of which explained why she was on the verge of adoring the man.

"That's right, princess. You hold tight to me," he murmured. "I'll never let anything happen to you. I'll take care of you. I promise."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me. I just need someone who cares for me. And who'll ease my troubled thighs, every other hour or so." She laughed softly, kissed him and laughed again. "We may both be out on the street if Rosemary should happen to catch us, and--"

"Camille!"

The sound of her name blew through the open window like a late afternoon storm. Rosemary's voice coming from below, sultry as always, but curt and businesslike--and obviously expecting an immediate response.

"Oh, hell." Cam hurried toward the window, pulled up short and hurried back to Mace. "Don't leave. We need to talk. Stay right here--and out of sight, please."

She leaned out of the window, giving the drapes a tug to be sure the safety pins held close around her, smiling as if nothing was wrong. "Good afternoon, Aunt Rosemary."

Roe stood beneath her, a slim flute of champagne in her hand. She wore a black lace teddie with thigh-high boots and nothing else, her hair whipping in the wind. Camille almost laughed. Incredible, how Mace could always seem to lighten her mood. She couldn't honestly say she liked her aunt, but the woman definitely had her own style. Only Rosemary could dress like that for a stroll and look totally cool.

"My afternoon hasn't been any better than yours, and yours has apparently been a nasty one. I've been walking the grounds. I've seen what you did to David's car. Tell me you didn't make an absolute fool of yourself in town."

Oh, hell. She couldn't take a piss without her aunt knowing. The woman was all over her. "It was just a minor fender-bender. Nobody got hurt and I fully intend to take care of the damage myself. In fact, Reverend Osgood was the only witness and he didn't seem to think--"

"You went to see the preacher?"

Her aunt's voice became even sharper as her eyes narrowed. Was visiting the clergy also a no-no? "Well, yes."

Rosemary laughed, rubbing her legs together in delight. "Well, if he can forgive you, I suppose I can too. What do you think? Isn't he about enough to make you cream?"

"He has good things to say about you too."

"What the hell are you doing stuck up in that room on such a nice day?"

Mace snickered behind her, and Cam pulled the drapes even closer. She was not going to let him distract her, or have her aunt come upstairs to see what was really going on. "Actually, I was ... daydreaming. Yes, that's it. Sitting here and mentally laying out plans for the future. Imagining what I'd do with the house, the roses, the garden in general. It could be such a lovely property, I think."

"Really? Tell me about it."

Oh, hell, dammit and back to hell. Cam tried to remember the plans she'd formed on her own walk around the grounds--when was that? A year or two ago? Opening her mouth to speak, she clamped it shut in horror as she felt her skirt lifted from behind.

"Camille? Are you all right?"

"I ... um..."

"You look a little pale."

Forcing a tight-lipped grin, she rested her weight on one arm and swatted back at Mace with her free hand. She not only failed to land a single blow, but suddenly found herself hobbled when he smoothly slid her panties down around her ankles. What was he doing? Was the sonofabitch insane? "It's the accident. I'm afraid it knocked the breath right out of me."

"Are you ill? We can't have you getting sick now, not when I'm so close to leaving. If you want, I can come up and--"

"No."

She fervently hoped she hadn't shouted the word as loudly as she thought. And that Rosemary hadn't heard Mace's soft chuckle.

Or the rasping sound of his zipper going down. "I'm fine. Really."

Roe peered up at her, one eye closed to the sun. "Then I'm waiting to hear these hot-shot plans, princess."

"What are you doing back there?" Cam muttered between her teeth, trying to mimic a smile. "I'm gonna kill you."

"Now, now." Mace's voice, whispery and seductive, flowed over her, even as he grasped her buttocks with both hands, kneading possessively. "Mustn't let Auntie Roe know you're being a naughty little girl, hmmm?" With a tiny growl from deep inside his throat, he nestled closer, probing her cleft from behind with one thick finger. "Don't mind me. I'll just find something to occupy myself while you two girls talk."