Or maybe he’d been mistaken.

That woman didn’t seem to move with the same grace he remembered of Resa, or was that his imagination? Had he made her more of a sensual enigma with the passage of time? Just as wives who died suddenly were often elevated to sainthood in the surviving husband’s mind, maybe his perception of Resa was imbued with sexual mystery.

Get it straight. Remember how it played out, he reminded himself. Yes, she’d set her sights on him. Yes, she’d come on to him, lured him. Yes, she’d used him to rebel against her family and yes, she’d tossed him aside when the going got rough. But had he created an image of a woman who had never really existed?

The woman with auburn hair joined a group, and he realized it couldn’t be her. With Resa, there was always that tug in his gut, that chemistry.

He couldn’t let himself be distracted. Whether Resa was at the event or not, he had to pay attention. Silvio was taking the stage, smiling, welcoming people to the D’Amato Monastery Estates and the crowd seemed rapt, all eyes turned toward the dais. So far so good.

He turned away from the dais and saw her again…this time closer to the old chapter house doorway. Instinctively, he eased toward her, moving around the edge of the crowd and along the passageways of the cloister.

Remembering.

How they’d come together; how they’d been ripped apart.

Though she didn’t look over her shoulder, she slipped through the doorway to the old library. Behind him Silvio’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“…our unique blend…oaky, with just a hint of pear…”

Parker barely noticed. He told himself that he wasn’t following his ex-wife just to talk to her, but that there was something secretive and restless about her. Something that required soothing.

As if Resa is going to do anything desperate. Come on, Parker, you know better. Get back to your job. Forget her.

But he followed her through the library to the dormitory and the night stairs, which were originally used by the monks in the evening to get from their rooms to the church.

But they’d been locked. Right? Hadn’t Oscar said they’d all been secured?

Hell.

She was ahead of him, walking swiftly, stirring the flames of candles flickering in wall sconces, all part of the ambiance of the party. Into the stairwell she went, and he held back the urge to shout or startle her.

At the stairs to the church she stopped, turned and sent him a sizzling glare that melted his bones. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

He approached, smelled the scent of gardenias, a perfume he’d always equate with her and those incredible nights of twisted sheets, sweaty muscles and pure heaven.

“I was hired. What about you?”

“Invited. I’m family. Remember? You’re not. Not anymore.”

He ignored the barb. “So why aren’t you out celebrating and lifting your glass to your brother?”

Her smile twisted wickedly. “Being part of this family is a dubious honor at best. Listening to Silvio-” She rolled her expressive eyes and turned a slim palm toward the heavens. “Come on! Talk about boring.”

“Then why show?”

“Free drinks,” she said, then laughed at her own joke.

He was caught again. Quick as lightning he was trapped in that invisible but steely hold she had over him, and she knew it. He saw it in the warm liquid brown of her eyes, the curve of her mouth.

“It’s good to see you.” The words slipped out before he could catch himself.

“I don’t know why.” Her brown eyes met his, and he felt locked in her gaze, lost in her scent, a mixture of gardenias and fresh rain. “Nothing has changed, Lucas. We can’t fix what’s shattered.”

He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter; he was willing to settle for the things that remained whole…a pair of brown eyes so warm they could ward off a winter night, a hint of gardenia and spring rain. But before he could find the words, the moment had passed. The window closed.

Lifting an eyebrow, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to the ladies’ room.” She turned on a heel, then looked over her shoulder. “And you’re definitely not invited.”

A reference, no doubt, to the times he’d sat on the rim of the tub while she’d bathed in mounds of scented bubbles and allowed his hands to wander under the piles of foam and through the deep water to touch her in the most intimate of places. There had been candles surrounding the tub and they’d sipped wine, D’Amato Chardonnay, and she’d moaned in pleasure until he’d lost control and joined her.

Water and bubbles had sloshed onto the floor, the candles had flickered and some had sizzled out, but they’d made love in the claw-foot tub filled with warm soapy water, their bodies slick and hot and wanting.

Even now, he remembered that passion. How exciting, sensual and fierce it had been.

Before it had died so suddenly.

Killed by a lie.

Damn.

Caught in the memory, he watched her go as his cell phone vibrated against his leg. He pulled the phone from his pocket, saw that his old partner, Noah Kent, was calling. Not unusual. It was Friday night and sometimes, after a few drinks at the local watering hole, Kent would phone. He could wait. Parker slid the phone into his pocket again, then looked up to spy Resa walking through the library, then turning left at the far doorway. Wait…The restrooms were to the right. She should have known that. To the left was a dead end. The locked stairwell led up to the bell tower and down to the catacombs where barrels were stored in the hillside.

Behind him, Silvio’s voice droned on about the hints of vanilla from French oak barrels in his latest creation. The speech was background to the pulse beating hard in Parker’s ears as he pursued her.

Did she go up or down?

Should he follow?

No. Go back to the party. Do your job, then get the hell out. Who cares what she’s doing? It’s obviously some sort of cat-and-mouse game, the kind you know is dangerous and she knows you can’t resist?

But he heard something above. The scrape of a shoe? Hell. He tried the door and it was unlocked. He found his walkie-talkie, tried to raise Oscar but got only loud, static-laden feedback. So much for stealth. Switching it off, he entered the staircase and considered taking his gun out of its holster.

Why? It’s Resa. You saw her come into the stairwell, and she’s not a threat.

Not to anyone but you.

Setting his jaw, he waited. Ears straining.

Did she go up…or down?

Toward heaven, or hell?

He turned toward the lower stairs as another footfall scraped overhead. Slowly he began the climb up the spiral staircase, the only sound the thudding of his own heart.

Why the hell was Resa luring him up here?

Surely she’d known he’d follow.

Up, up, up.

Nerves tightening with each step.

Something about this wasn’t right, not right at all. He reached into his shoulder holster, pulled out his Glock, released the safety and set his jaw.

No way would he fire at Resa…or…?

The narrow opening was just over his head. He squinted upward, weapon drawn, ascending slowly, knowing he was an easy target.

She was there, leaning over the railing, standing alone in the darkness. He relaxed for a second. “What’re you doing up here?” he asked, lowering his pistol.

She turned then, her face in shadow and in a breathy voice whispered, “I’m waiting for…” Her voice trailed off and she stiffened.

Something wasn’t right. He felt it.

“I’ve been waiting for five years.” The voice was different now. Low. Dangerous.

In a heart-stopping instant, he knew his mistake, saw the gun.

He swung his weapon up.

Bam! Light flashed from the muzzle of the gun pointed straight at his heart.

Parker hit the deck as he pulled the trigger, firing wildly. Too late.