"Do you?"

She turned to glance at him. "To some extent, I suppose I do. I'm lucky, though. No one could develop any great dynasty-founding plans with me. I was pretty much left on my own. As long as I behaved, I could spend my time as I pleased."

"Why is that?"

Her smile was bright, calm and totally devoid of self-pity. "Because I'm going to die. I've been living on borrowed time since I was about five years old. I have a bad heart and an unfortunate allergy to most drugs. There was never any question of a transplant, even though I'm sure my father could have bought me a hundred hearts. I wasn't supposed to make it past my twelfth birthday, but here I am."

"Here you are," he echoed softly.

"I was frightened in the woods, you know," she continued, in a deliberately casual voice that didn't fool him for a minute. "When you found me, I'd passed out. Too much stress, I suppose. Too much worry. But right before I lost consciousness, I was afraid I was dying. It seemed to me that my heart stopped. And it scared me."

"Most people are afraid of death," he said.

"I'm not most people. I've known death would come for me, sooner rather than later, and I thought I'd made peace with my fate. But when I was alone in the woods, I was suddenly terrified." She seemed embarrassed by her sudden confession. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I'm a stranger?" he said.

She looked up, startled. "I suppose so. And yet, I know what Maria meant when she thought she knew you. You must remind me of someone, but I can't figure out who."

He smiled faintly. "It will come to you."

She looked uncertain. "I suppose so." She gave herself a brisk little shake. "I still can't get over my father's recovery. He's been in a coma for weeks, and now he's talking, making sense. It's a miracle."

"I don't expect it will last," he said.

"No, I suppose it won't. If people can jump off the Empire State Building and survive, then my father's perfectly capable of cheating death for a few more days."

"No one cheats death. They only think they do."

He moved past her to push open the doors to the balcony. The wind was very strong, gusting into the room, and he felt it riffle through his hair, tug at his dark clothes. He loved the wind, the damp scent of rain on the air. He half hoped she would go away. He wanted her so badly he was afraid of scaring her again. She'd been afraid this afternoon, she'd said. He didn't want her frightened. Too many people were terrified of him.

But she moved past him, out onto the balcony, and the wind picked up her hair and tossed it away from the delicate, clean lines of her face as she tilted it upward, drinking in the wild night. "What do you think death is like?" she murmured, half to herself.

He heard the words with a kind of shock—and the knowledge that he couldn't avoid answering her. He leaned back against the glass doorway, folding his hands across his chest to keep from touching her.

"I don't know," he said deliberately. "Most people think death comes with a cloud of angels and harps, heavenly choruses and songs of praise."

"I don't think so," she said in a meditative voice. "Do you believe in hell?"

"No," he said flatly, truthfully.

A faint smile crossed her face. "Neither do I. But I'm not too sure about heaven either. What do you think?"

"I try not to think about such things at all. Life is to be lived. The present is what matters, not some obscure afterlife."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, and her smile was rueful. "I suppose I'm a little morbid. It comes from living with death for most of my life."

"It sounds unpleasant," he murmured.

She turned and moved closer to him, and the wind caught her hair and blew it against him. It smelled of rain and wind and flowers, and he wanted to put his mouth against it. Against her.

"It hasn't been. It's actually been rather comforting." She managed a shaky laugh. "My family thinks I'm crazy. Death isn't supposed to be a friend."

"What about a lover?" He spoke the words so quietly that she could have missed them. But she didn't. She looked up into his dark, hidden face, and her eyes were clear and honest. And startled, as if she were considering the notion for the very first time.

"Laura?" Jeremy stood in the doorway, his solid bulk radiating disapproval. "We wondered where you'd gotten to."

"We were just having a philosophical discussion about the nature of life and death," she said with a faint laugh, but Alex could see the guilt stain her pale cheeks, and he wondered where the guilt came from. He wondered how he would stop himself from striking Jeremy Fitzpatrick dead the first chance he had.

"You haven't seen Cynthia, have you?" her step-brother asked in a casual voice, but his eyes swept the room, dark with suspicion.

"I think she might have gone back to the guest house."

"Great," Jeremy said. "Ricky's passed out cold, Justine's having a weeping fit, and you're up here... that is, you're here..." Words failed him.

"Yes," she said, in a deliberately tranquil voice that held just an edge of warning. "I'm up here making our guest welcome."

"Go on downstairs," he said, with an uneasy attempt at amiability. "Mrs. Hawkins has set out a buffet. You know you don't eat enough." He glanced at Alex, and his face was dark with dislike. "We'll be down in a minute."

"Jeremy." The warning in her voice was sharper now.

"Go along now."

She didn't move for a moment, her soft mouth set in stubborn lines, and Alex wondered with vague amusement what she was trying to protect him from. Whatever it was clearly caused her more pain than it could ever cause him, so he simply nodded at her. "Don't fuss, Laura. Your stepbrother just wishes to lay out the rules of the house."

"Damn straight," Jeremy said.

"Ignore him," Laura said firmly. "I always do."

The two men waited until she was gone. And then Alex turned to Jeremy, keeping the faint smile on his face.

"Could you take off those damned sunglasses?" Jeremy demanded in his well-bred whine. "I like to see who I'm talking to."

Not in this case you wouldn't, Alex thought cynically. "I told you before, my eyes are sensitive to light," he said in a deceptively civil tone.

Jeremy wasn't the type of man to make a stand. "Suit yourself," he said. "I just wanted to make a few things clear about our household."

"Certainly."

"You're to keep away from Laura."

It was just as well the mirrored sunglasses covered half his face. He kept it impassive. "And why is that?"

"We look out for her. My stepsister isn't…isn't like other women."

"And why not?"

"She's ill. Dying, as a matter of fact. Any stress could kill her."

"She told me about her heart."

Jeremy looked shocked. "You're lying. She never talks about it with strangers."

"I'm not a stranger."

"I don't care who the hell you say you are. You're to keep away from her. There are trees down all over the place, blocking the driveway, and the phones are out so there's nothing we can do about it now, but by tomorrow this freak storm should have passed, and I'm going to want you out of here."