“Pardon me?”

“There is no pardon for you. What kind of moron takes a girl who’s been absolutely traumatized by her own kidnapping and the death of her best friend and suggests she stage her own kidnapping? I mean, of all the idiotic, irresponsible-”

“Now you just wait a minute. I don’t know who you think you are, but my suggestions to my patient were completely legitimate and not in the least irresponsible.”

“What are you, insane? She’s been kidnapped. For real. And it’s entirely possible she won’t be coming back. Which will only mean one thing-they’ve killed her. You understand what she went through? Her worst fear in the world, and she had to live through it. She had to know she was going to die.” Sara wiped the tears from her face with the heel of her hand. “If Michael wasn’t with her…”

“I’m very sorry for what’s happened to Tate, but you must know that I bear no responsibility. This was purely a coincidence, a tragic one, but it had nothing to do-”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you-” Sara turned, fury so great inside her that she thought she might burst or go crazy or…She pulled back, and when she swung it was with all her weight behind her. The crack was loud and the pain shot up her arm and hurt like the devil. But Dr. Bay, who wasn’t responsible, who had nothing to do with anything, had gone flying back into her pristine office with the fresh flowers and the expensive furniture. Her hand was on her cheek and she was crying. Finally.

“You’re just lucky it was me who came after you. If it had been Michael, you’d be dead.”

HE SAT ON THE BED, waiting. Remembering when he was a kid, when Charlie was really young and his mom was still alive. Charlie hadn’t been a screwup then. He’d just been a little kid, like every other little kid, and he’d been Michael’s responsibility, even back then. When anything went wrong with Charlie, his mother had given him this real disappointed look.

He still saw that look. Felt it. As fucked up as Charlie was, Michael was still responsible. Even now. With Tate in the bathroom. With Tate believing the worst. Still, the idea of walking into the saloon and shooting Charlie made him sick.

What if it came down to that? To choosing between Tate and Charlie? What then?

His first responsibility was to Tate. That was a fact and nothing would change it. He just didn’t like the idea of Charlie dying. Not because the stupid son of a bitch didn’t deserve it, but Michael had a deathbed promise hanging over his head, and even though he knew it was superstitious nonsense, it didn’t feel that way.

Charlie had crossed the line. If there was a way to save him, then Michael would-as long as it didn’t endanger Tate. If not, well, then he’d tell his father he was sorry when he joined him in hell.

Decision made, he went back to waiting. Worrying. Wishing. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t wish for the impossible. He never had. But when it came to Tate, he did a lot of things he’d never done before.

AFTER AN EXCRUCIATING night of no sleep, of remembering what it had been like to make love to him, of reliving the moment of betrayal over and over, Tate finally slept as the sky began to soften into day.

She woke, startled at the sound of the door slamming shut. There was Michael in his borrowed T-shirt and his chauffeur’s pants, holding a tray with food and coffee. At the sight, her stomach clenched, and she knew she wouldn’t be eating much. Of course, it didn’t matter, did it? Nothing did. She would die soon and this torment would be over. That’s all she wanted. In fact, maybe there was a way to speed things up. She’d have to think about that.

Michael put the tray on the dresser and turned to her. She wasted no time in slipping out of the bed. She no longer cared about the clean clothes problem or shaving her legs.

“Tate, we need to-”

She slammed the bathroom door closed behind her. By the time she’d washed her face, brushed her teeth and her hair, she’d realized she couldn’t go out there. He would end up convincing her that he’d had her best interest at heart. That he wasn’t a thief, that he’d made love to her because he’d been attracted, or in love or some other fairy tale.

At least she could sit down. Of course, the john wasn’t exactly her idea of a great chair, but it was better than looking at him. Her real shame wasn’t that she’d been deceived but, that knowing she’d been deceived, she still wanted him.

That’s what made her sick. That’s what terrified her.

How could she want so badly to believe him? Why did she have to force herself out of the fantasy where they lived happily ever after? She truly did need a shrink. Not Dr. Bay, of course, but a good shrink.

She laughed as her chin dropped to her chest. Too late for shrinkage now. She wondered if they’d kill her first before they threw her in the water. That’s something she’d beg for, if she had to. The thought of drowning…

“Tate?” Michael’s voice came from directly outside the door. “Do you want some coffee? I can hand you a cup. You don’t have to come out.”

“No.” She waited, but he didn’t respond. She wished there was a peephole. It would have been so much better if she could know where he was.

She stood, whipped off her clothes and got under the shower, not taking the soap or the shampoo; she was there for the water. She’d always had her best ideas in the shower, and now would be a really good time for something brilliant to occur.

She laughed, inhaling water, then choking for a long, long time. Which was when she had the thought. She wasn’t sure it was brilliant-in fact, it was probably an excellent example of how she’d lost her mind-but there it was. And there it stayed. All day.

MICHAEL GLANCED OUT the porthole, not surprised to see the red sky of sunset. He hadn’t taken a drink or eaten a bite because he really hadn’t wanted to bother Tate in the bathroom, but things were getting a bit hairy.

His personal problem wasn’t nearly as worrisome as what Tate was going through. He hated that he’d put her in this position, but he couldn’t figure out what to say to make things better. He’d told her the truth and he feared that anything else would sever any slight hope that she could believe him. But the truth seemed meager and foolish. Perhaps if he had told her the moment he’d been shoved inside the cabin, she’d have bought it. But he’d been an idiot about that, too.

It was difficult not to put all the blame on Charlie. Granted, Charlie deserved a great deal of it. But then, he did, too. As long as he was able to get an accurate picture of what was real, then he had a chance to save her. If he indulged himself in blaming Charlie, he would lose sight of the objective: keep Tate alive. That was his whole purpose, and he could put nothing ahead of that. His second goal was to keep Tate sane. To help her not be terrified every minute. Right now, that was the more difficult task, but again, if he kept his eye on the prize, he could get-

The head door opened. Tate stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, her arms crossed over the boys’ T-shirt they’d found in the dresser.

She looked good. Her color was fine. In fact, she seemed a bit flushed. Her chest rose and fell normally. There were no apparent tremors. The only thing that looked off was the puffiness of her eyes, but even that was in the regular range. He wanted to say something, anything, but he held back, afraid that whatever he did say would be wrong and would send her straight back to panic.

“So these are my options,” she said, her voice even and considered. “I can do the completely logical, rational thing and not believe one thing you’ve said. It makes perfect sense that you set me up for this. I mean, who else knew we were going to be at Prada? That Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to get to me in that tiny little window of opportunity? It makes sense that you came after me, knowing I had a great deal of money in a secret account. Why else was I taken to a boat? It made getting the money easy and my disposal a snap.