"You don't know anything," he said harshly. "I wish to God you did." He drew a shuddering breath. "Jesus, this is going to—kill me." He drew out and then thrust gently forward.

Gentleness, care, skill. She could sense the stormy violence brimming beneath the surface, and yet every move was controlled, disciplined.

"Ruel ..."

"Be quiet," he grated between his teeth. "I have to think about what I'm doing." He laughed desperately. "And not doing. Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm going to take the next step." He flexed, drew out, and then sank fast, hard like a sword thrust.

She gasped, her gaze flying to his face.

His eyes were now unseeing, his lips heavy with sensuality, his expression revealing the same mindlessness as she felt.

"Good," he said hoarsely. "Now hold me, I'll try to have it over fast. Ride it out."

He exploded in a flurry of motion, thrusting, plunging.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she held on as he had bid her. Dear heaven, what was happening to her? Total possession. She felt chained to him in body and response. She couldn't stop herself from taking, yielding to his every move, his every command. She was held captive by the pleasure, the need that kept soaring higher and higher. . . .

The pleasure mounted, crested and then . . .

Was she screaming? She wasn't sure of anything through the heat haze enfolding her.

He tensed, his back arching, and an expression of unutterable pleasure stamping his face. Then he was collapsing on top of her, trembling as if he had the shaking sickness.

Dangerous . . . The thought emerged through the mist of languor and exhaustion enfolding her. She had been right to resist Ruel, wrong to yield. It was too powerful. He was too powerful.

She became vaguely aware of Ruel shifting off her, using to his feet and moving toward the far end of the car.

"Where are you going?" she murmured. Dear heaven, she felt as limp and weak as if she had been ravaged by the torrent pouring through Sikor Gorge.

"Lighting the stove." He knelt beside the pot-bellied ceramic stove and opened the door.

"Are you cold?" she asked wonderingly. Her own body had never felt warmer, more heavily ripe.

"No." He lit the coal and swung the door shut again. "But we may be here awhile and I don't want you chilled. God knows I feel guilty enough without that burden." He stood up and strode toward her. "How do you feel? Are you sore?"

"A little." She sat up and brushed a tendril of hair back from her temple. "It was . . . more than I expected."

"You were more than I expected too." He grabbed a paisley silk couch throw from the divan and draped it around her. "And I have no liking for it."

Even through the mellow haze surrounding her she became aware of the grimness of his tone. "You're angry."

"I didn't want this." He dropped down on the rug, his hands tightly linked around his knees. "It's a complication. You weren't supposed to be a virgin, dammit. I don't want the responsibility."

Hurt spiraled through her, jarring her back to reality. She said haltingly, "It's not your responsibility. No one forced me to come here. It was my choice."

"The hell it was," he said roughly. "I seduced you. I wanted you and I set out to get what I wanted."

"That's right, you did." That first flush of heat was leaving her. She shivered and drew the throw closer around her. "And I'm sure you were very good at it. But I let you do it and now it's over. I'd . . . better get back to the bungalow."

"To Patrick" He smiled bitterly. "Do you know I've been very close to paying dear Patrick a visit? I kept thinking about him and his fondness for little girls and decided I wanted to cut his heart out."

She believed him. Ruel sat motionless, looking like a splendid statue of a naked gladiator, but the repressed ferocity she sensed beneath his stillness bewildered her. "It was never like that with us."

"Obviously. Why the hell did you let me do it?"

"I thought if I let you . . . men go away afterward. They don't want it anymore."

"Don't they?"

She gazed at him and her breath left her.

"Oh, yes, I still want it. I wanted it again almost the minute I left you and I'm mad as hell I can't have it. Are you going to tell me why you deliberately misled me?"

"I didn't mislead you. It was none of your concern."

"Well, it is now. Who is Patrick Reilly to you?"

"My father." She saw his surprise and rushed on. "There's no proof, you understand. He was only one of my mother's customers, but I know he's my father."

"But he doesn't?"

"He doesn't like responsibility either," she said simply.

"Christ."

"Someday he'll tell me he believes it's true," she said quietly. "But you don't have to worry. I don't expect anything from either of you."

"Even I have a code of sorts. I took something from you and now I have to give it back."

She smiled tremulously. "I believe that's considered physically impossible."

"Then I'll give you something else. What do you want?"

She realized he actually meant it. "You didn't take anything of value from me. I'm not like those women at the fort who believe a woman is lost to shame because she doesn't go to her wedding bed a virgin."

"Ian told me," he said sardonically. "You're 'different.' I doubt if your bridegroom would approve of this particular difference."

"I shall probably never wed, so it's foolish to continue this discussion." She looked around for her clothes and found them strewn across the carpet where he had tossed them. "Would you please pass me my shirt?"

"No, but I'll put them closer to the fire to dry out." He scooped up the garments and crossed back to the stove. "You're not leaving until we finish this. Now, what do you want?"

Sweet Mary, why wouldn't he give up? She was tempted to tell him she wanted only to escape from this strange pain that continued to grow the longer she stayed with him. "You don't owe me anything," she repeated. "Why won't you listen to me?"

"Because I'm having uncomfortable twinges of conscience. I guarantee it doesn't happen often." He turned from spreading her clothes out before the stove. "But then, I've never been in this particular situation before. First I cause a woman to be knifed, then I take her innocence. It's a bit much even for me."

"I wasn't innocent."

"The hell you weren't. Growing up in a whorehouse doesn't make you a whore."

She stiffened. "I know that," she said fiercely. "I'll never be like her."

"Who?"

She could have bitten her tongue. "My mother."

"And she was a whore?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh no, you're not closing me out again. We've come too far for that. If I'd probed a little deeper before, I wouldn't be in this predicament. Why does the idea of being like your mother frighten you?"

"Living like that . . . it's a nightmare. She became a slave. I'll never be a slave. I'll never let anyone do that to me."

"If you have such a revulsion for whorehouses, why did you go to Zabrie's?" He smiled grimly. "Since I know it was definitely not for the purpose I originally envisioned."