She stared at him, breathless, as he moved closer, his cool, cool fingers stroking her cheek. His lips were damp from the coffee, as were hers, and she wondered what French roast coffee would taste like on the mouth of a French man. She knew she was about to find out.

His lips were cool, as well. Cool, damp, a faint, almost tentative pressure against her own firmly closed ones. He drew back, and she stared at him. And at her own reflection in his mirrored glasses.

"Open your mouth for me, Laura," he whispered. It was not a request.

She obeyed. His mouth covered hers, open, wet, possessive, and she tasted his tongue. She didn't know whether she would have pulled away, but his fingers had threaded through her hair, holding her head in place, and he deepened the kiss into a long, thorough caress of tongue and teeth and lips, heart and soul, enticing her, seducing her, until she caught her breath and kissed him back, letting him lure her tongue forward, dancing with his, the intimacy shocking, arousing, devastating.

When he pulled away from her, his hand was still tight in her hair. She opened her eyes to stare up at his mirrored eyes. "Is that why they call it French kissing?" she asked dazedly.

He laughed then. The sound was soft, surprising, almost unbearably intimate. "Did you like it?"

"Yes."

"Do you want more?"

"Yes." The word was a sibilant sound in the quiet morning, and he moved closer again, his mouth hovering over hers.

The scream that tore through the house was blood-curdling in its horror. High-pitched, a hollow, keening, sexless wail of such abject terror that Laura tore herself away from Alex, knocking the coffee over as she jumped up. The liquid spread like a black stain, soaking into the white tablecloth, spilling onto Laura's jeans, burning her.

"Oh, God," she moaned, barely aware of her burned flesh. "It sounds as if someone died."

"I doubt it," Alex said in a dry voice. He rose, taking her hand. "Shall we see?"

CHAPTER FIVE

Jeremy stood in the hallway, his color ashen. He was staring at the front door with an expression of abject horror, but the three people crowding inside the tiled entryway were too busy arguing to pay much attention to him.

"That damned heating system," Ricky grumbled. "I just about froze last night. Why the hell it picked last night to malfunction is beyond me. And then you have to scare the life out of me by screaming like a banshee! What the hell's gotten into you, Jeremy?"

"At least you had someone to sleep with," Cynthia said with a malicious purr, glaring at her husband. "A little body warmth must have made a difference."

"It would have if I'd been sleeping with someone other than Justine. She's about as cozy as an ice maiden." He glanced over at Jeremy, and his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's Father," Justine cried in a piteous mew. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Laura moved swiftly, pushing past her motionless older brother, wrapping her arms around Justine's narrow shoulders. "He's still holding his own, Jussie. As a matter of fact, I looked in on him before breakfast, and Maria said he'd had a very peaceful night."

"Then what's wrong with Jeremy?" Cynthia murmured, moving closer.

Jeremy managed a rough laugh. "Nothing," he said. "I'm a little spooked, I guess. I don't like being cut off up here."

"Cut off?" Ricky echoed.

"Trees are blocking the road. The radio and telephone are still out. Not to mention the TV. We're isolated up here on the mountain, and it gets on my nerves." He moved toward the door, and Laura noticed a curious stiffness to his gait. "I'm going down to shower and change. I spent the night sitting up with Father. I'll see if I can figure out what's wrong with the heating system."

"Don't we have servants who take care of that sort of thing?" Ricky drawled.

"They're on the other side of the fallen trees," Jeremy snapped.

"Besides, Jeremy's always been terrific at mechanical things," Laura said, jumping in to try to soothe the tense atmosphere. "Father always used to say it was proof..." Her voice trailed off as she realized what she'd been about to say.

"Yes," Jeremy murmured, and there was no missing the twist of bitterness in his voice. "He always said it was proof I didn't carry any of the glorious Fitzpatrick blood in my veins. If my mother hadn't married him, I could have had a very happy life as a plumber."

Laura bit her lip. "You know I didn't mean that, Jeremy."

He shrugged, a wry expression on his usually bland face. "Don't worry about it, Laura. I stopped being offended by your father's gibes years ago."

It must have been the weather. The strange, stormy ether in the air or the tension that clung to them all, but suddenly Jeremy's humorous excuse rang false. Laura glanced up, over her shoulder, to Alex. He was standing apart, watching them, rather as a scientist might observe a tribe of interesting bugs. The unexpectedly strong notion sent a chill of foreboding dancing down Laura's backbone.

"Well, go or stay," Cynthia snapped. "But make up your mind. I'm freezing to death." She cast a measuring glance toward Alex, letting her eyes drift past Laura for a brief, dismissing moment. "In the meantime, I'm bored, and I'm afraid it's up to you to entertain me, Alex. I'm sure Ricky's mainly interested in how much whiskey he can sneak into his coffee cup, and Justine's frightened of her own shadow. You and I can play blackjack for impossible stakes."

Laura held her breath, waiting. She wanted him with her, not the mesmerizing Cynthia. She wasn't sure what she longed for. A continuation of that too-brief, devastating kiss? Or escape from something too powerful for her to handle?

"Why don't you and Laura see if you can help Mrs. Hawkins?" Jeremy suggested. "With the road closed, she's shorthanded."

Cynthia cast a scathing look at her husband. "Sorry, darling, but Laura's even more tedious than you are. The poor girl's lived like a nun, and everything she knows she's learned in books. We hardly have a thing in common."

"True enough," Ricky drawled. "You've never read a book in your life, and I bet you were a tramp by the time you were twelve."

"Not getting enough, Ricky?" Cynthia cooed, unmoved by his insults. "Sorry, but I'm no longer interested in charity cases." She moved past him. She was dressed in a garnet velour catsuit that clung to her curves, and she stopped in front of Alex, her mane of blond hair rippling down her back as she stared up at him. "Do you like to gamble, Alex?"

Laura held her breath, wickedly hoping for a put-down. But what man had ever been able to resist Cynthia's wiles when she focused them? "It depends on the stakes," he said, and his faint accent and husky tone made the words sound deeply erotic.

Cynthia's smile widened. "How delightful. You don't mind if I steal him, do you, Laura? I'm certain you have a million things to do."

"Of course," she said in a cool voice. "A million books to read."

She turned away, starting to move past them, and the unexpected threat of tears stung the backs of her eyelids. She didn't want them to see—she didn't want Alex to see—and she moved quickly, clumsily, toward the door.

It must have been an accident. The back of his hand brushed against hers as she went, and his skin was cool, firm, an odd caress so brief it must have been a mistake. And yet that momentary touch sent a thousand thoughts soaring through her, and there was no way she could believe where they'd come from. Except that she knew. They came from him. An apology. An assurance that all would be well.