The Surrogate

The Surrogate By

K.M. Zant

THE SURROGATE

K.M. Zant

2

© copyright by K.M. Zant, March 2010 Cover Art by Eliza Black, © copyright March 2010 ISBN 978-1-60934New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Prologue "You been talking, ain't you girl?" Her lower lip primped, but she sniffed her tears back, shaking her head slowly. "Didn't, daddy." "What did I tell you about talking to people?" She stuck her thumb in her mouth, remembered she wasn't supposed to and jerked it out again. "Tol' me not to," she said in a trembling voice. "But you did it anyway, didn't you?" A hiccoughing sob escaped her. He was going to beat her now. She shook her head more vigorously in denial, her eyes gluing themselves to the belt at his waist as she waited for him to whip it off. He said nothing for a long moment, then, "Didn't I tell you to change?" She blinked in surprise and felt hot tears run down her cheeks. She wiped them with her fingers, her mouth slack with incredulity now, but she nodded vigorously. "Then do it!" he roared. She jumped and reached for the dresser drawer that held her clothes, struggling to pull it open. When she had done it, she stared down at the strange thing there for several moments, her vision so blurred with tears it took that long to figure out what she was looking at. She dashed the tears from her eyes again, frowning as she peered down at it in the dim light from the bare bulb in the ceiling above. It was orange and furry, like her kitty, Chubsy, but it looked like a funny looking ball. Brown stuff was smeared on it, and on the clothes it sat on. She touched it experimentally with her finger, rolled it over. Its mouth was pulled back, its tiny, sharp teeth bared in a frozen snarl. She screamed when she realized what it was, over and over until her throat burned and she couldn't scream anymore, until she began coughing and gagging. "I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, girl. Do it! Or next time it won't be a damned cat. Next time I'll cut your little head off."

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Chapter One Basilyn lifted her head and tossed her dark hair back over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes against the late afternoon sun as she peered across the campus at her destination. The uncomfortable knot in her stomach tightened and her heart gave a couple of skips. "There's no reason to be nervous. It's just an interview and if they don't want you..they just don't, that's all. No big deal," she admonished herself. A couple sauntered past, arm in arm, and sent her a curious look. Basilyn bit her lip and dropped her eyes to the frayed toes of her tennis shoes once more, increasing her pace. The ragged knees of her faded blue jeans popped in and out of her vision as she walked, drawing her eyes to them. A sour smile touched her lips. It was a good thing ragged jeans were 'in' these days. Otherwise people might notice she was dirt poor. Dismissing her appearance, she shifted her text books and glanced at her watch, trying to remember just how fast she'd set it. But, of course, she couldn't. She didn't know how fast she'd set it, because she'd given it a tiny twist without looking at it. She knew she was definitely going to be late, however. It was already ten after five and she hadn't reached the Medical Center yet. By the time she reached Dr. Chaney's office on the second floor she was bound to be at least ten minutes late. She was half tempted to just turn around and go home. She wasn't altogether certain she wanted to do this..In fact, she was fairly positive she didn't want to do it. Thing was, she didn't have a heck of a lot of choice. If she could've gotten that grant.... But she hadn't, so there was no point in dwelling on it. She glanced at her watch again as she stepped off the curb and onto the drive that separated the Medical Center from the campus. What happened next happened so quickly she could never afterwards recall it with any clarity. She heard the roar of a car engine, was blinded by the sun's glare off its gleaming metallic hood and the next moment she had the air snatched from her lungs as something huge and dark flew at her and carried her to the ground. She was too stunned to move for several moments. The man, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere just as the car had, was apparently as stunned as she was by his tackle, for it was several moments before he rolled off her. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asked sharply, coming up on his knee and bending over her in concern. The sun was behind him, throwing him into dark relief. She stared up at him blindly for several moments, fighting to catch her breath, and finally managed a nod. "Yes, I'm alright. I'm not hurt," she got out with a faint grunt, trying to ignore the painful twinges of a dozen blossoming bruises and the burning cut on her tongue where her teeth had grazed it in her fall. She felt like a Mack truck had hit her, but she supposed she would've felt far worse if the car had hit her. "You're certain?" She nodded again, struggling upright and looking around worriedly for her books. To

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her relief she saw that, though they'd been scattered by her fall, they were not, apparently, damaged. "Yes. I'm alright. Thank you," she said a little absently, rolling over onto her knees and reaching to gather up her scattered belongings. He got to his feet, brushing the grass and dirt from his clothing and finally bending to help her with her task. She snatched the last of her books up just as he reached for it. He straightened. "You're certain you're ok?" She got to her feet, dusting her own clothes off now. She didn't look at him. "I'm fine, just fine." His voice was tight with irritation when he spoke again. "You might consider watching where you're going next time." Her head snapped up, but the sun was still in her eyes and she couldn't see him clearly. She noticed in a rather absent way, however, that he was dressed in a business suit that had probably cost as much as a quarter's tuition, with the text books thrown in. He most definitely wasn't a student. "That car came out of nowhere!" she said defensively. "They've got a way of doing that on streets," he retorted dryly and glanced at his watch. "If you're certain you're ok ...?" He scarcely waited for her to repeat herself before he turned and strode quickly towards the Medical Center. She stared after him, tight-lipped. "Thank you again," she called after him as it occurred to her that she'd hardly been gracious considering the man might well have just saved her life. If he heard her, it didn't check his stride and after a moment she glanced angrily in the direction the car had disappeared. The jerk hadn't even bothered stopping to see if he'd hurt her. Not, she supposed after a moment, that that was really surprising under the circumstances. She shook her head ruefully. She was really going to have to start paying a little more attention to what was going on around her. That was her second close encounter with a speeding vehicle in less than a week. And strangely enough, in almost the exact same spot and under almost the exact same circumstances, now that she thought on it. Except the time before it had happened when she was leaving the Medical Center. Suddenly recalling she had an appointment to keep, she dismissed her thoughts abruptly, shuffled her books and hurried after the man, who was just disappearing through the Medical Center's double doors. She hoped, ruefully, that the guy didn't get the idea she was trying to chase him down. It occurred to her that he might, though, since they were going in the same direction and she was in a great hurry, particularly when she burst through the Medical Center's doors virtually on his heels. Staring after his retreating form as he strode down the hallway in the direction of the elevators, the vague impressions she'd gotten of him congealed into the notion that he was a rather attractive man. He had, she noted, that southern male look and saunter about him she'd always admired, the walk so often attributed to Texans. That sort of 'laid back' gait that projected both confidence and imperturbability, even though he wasn't exactly sauntering just now. Not that it was really necessary to move quickly when one had legs like that. They just naturally ate up the ground. It was a very different matter for her, however. Being rather on the short side, and always on the tardy side it almost seemed her whole life was rush, rush, rush, just to keep up with the leggy people of the world.

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She put on a little more speed as she heard the elevator doors closing … and reached it just as it slammed in her face. She paused to catch her breath and darted towards the stairs, almost racing up them. There was no one in the upper corridor when she reached it and she jogged down it to the door at the end that had Dr. Chaney's name stenciled neatly on the opaque window in its upper half. She paused then to catch her breath and her nervousness and doubts assailed her again, tightening the coil of discomfort in her stomach. Today she faced the final test. Soon now, very soon, she'd know whether all her troubles were over, or if she was going to have to search for other options. Seizing her courage, she pushed the door open and marched up to the receptionist's desk. The woman looked up at her with polite disinterest. "Can I help you?" "I have an appointment with Dr. Chaney. Basilyn Norris?" **** Basilyn blushed as she stepped into Dr. Chaney's office and encountered three assessing pairs of eyes. She felt like a bug under a microscope. She supposed, in a way, she was. She didn't look directly at the couple seated in front of Dr. Chaney's desk. She smiled vaguely in their general direction. Her eyes flitted uncomfortably over the single vacant chair in the room, next to the man, and moved to Dr. Chaney. He motioned her towards the seat. "Have a seat, Basilyn." She bit her lip and moved towards the chair, feeling stiff and self-conscious beneath everyone's scrutiny. Seating herself, she settled her books beside her chair and carefully arranged her shoulder bag next to them. When she straightened again, she focused on Dr. Chaney, trying to ignore the nervous twinges in her stomach that felt more like stinging bees than butterflies. She could feel the man's eyes on her, and the woman's, but she couldn't get up the nerve to return their perusal. "Basilyn. This is Dominic and Theresa Demot." There was no hope for it. She had to look at them. She turned to look at the woman first. Theresa Demot was something of a beauty in that perfectly manicured way some women had about them, as if she expended a great deal of time in personal upkeep and beautification. Her dark, almost black hair was styled modishly. Her features were very nicely sculpted and though not particularly beautiful in themselves, made an arresting arrangement that was set off to extreme advantage by a very good hand at cosmetics. She was dressed expensively and fashionably but, despite that, the dress she wore didn't particularly become her. Status, apparently, was what counted where she was concerned. If it had a designer label and a high price tag it must be considered the very thing whether it particularly flattered or not. Or perhaps she was of the opinion that it couldn't fail to flatter? Her eyes, despite their warm green color, were coldly assessing as she returned Basilyn's brief scrutiny with an appraisal that made Basilyn feel suddenly as if she was standing upon an auction block. Basilyn suppressed a shudder and managed another polite smile, nodding. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Demot." She couldn't summon the courage to make eye contact with the woman's husband after that and merely nodded in his general direction. "Mr. Demot." "Mr. and Mrs. Demot wanted to meet you and talk with you before they made their final decision, as I told you," Dr. Chaney reminded her.

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She nodded, tried to respond, and had to clear her throat of the dust motes that had gathered there. "Yes, I understand." She almost hoped she didn't meet with their approval. She was suddenly very sorry she'd answered the ad. Starving was almost better. Almost. She wondered, suddenly, why it had seemed almost an omen of good fortune ... the timing of it, coming as it did hard on the heels of her rejection for a grant, or a loan/grant. She began to think it wasn't opportunity knocking so much as evil portents. She submerged that thought resolutely. "Dr. Chaney's told us you're a student here at the University?" Dominic Demot said, breaking into Basilyn's uncomfortable thoughts. There was a definite chill in his voice that robbed the question of any suggestion of polite interest, giving it instead a tone of clinical, detached curiosity. Despite that, the timber of his voice sent a far from unpleasant reaction vibrating through Basilyn, which so startled her that she looked directly at him for the first time. She shouldn't have been surprised to discover he was the man who'd scooped her out of harm's way and then preceded her into the Medical Center, but she found that she was. She made a further discovery, however. Dominic Demot wasn't merely a rather attractive man. He was stunning. His eyes were a cerulean blue, a startling blue next to his swarthy complexion and very nearly true black hair. Though here and there surprisingly blond streaks threaded his hair. It was cut in a rather long style, swept tightly back from his high forehead, and confined in a queue at the back of his head. It should've looked incongruous with his business suit. Instead it suited him so well that it seemed strangely right for him. His features were so perfectly symmetrical, from his aquiline nose to his sharply etched lips, the firm strength of his jaw and chin, to his heavy lidded eyes, that he was a plastic surgeon's nightmare, the perfect specimen. She swallowed with some difficulty. "Yes ... sir," she managed finally. He frowned slightly at her answer and for a moment she wondered why it had seemed to displease him. She realized after a moment that he'd taken exception to the 'sir' she'd tacked on. "Mr. Demot," she corrected herself since he obviously considered the title of respect as some sort of insult. "Dominic will do," he said, smiling faintly now, a hint of amusement in his eyes that made her more uncomfortable instead of less so. "It's my second quarter," she added. "What's your major?" She flushed slightly, embarrassed suddenly. She was proud of her goal, and determined to reach it, but it occurred to her that it might sound pretentious for a girl with her background. "Architecture," she said quietly, but with a touch of defiance. "Architecture?" he asked, obviously surprised. A spark of speculative interest joined the gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Yes," she replied stiffly, feeling humiliation pulsing in her cheeks now. "I like art. But commercial artists rarely get paid as well. And they're not allowed as much ...." The word eluded her. "It's more ... It stifles creativity, in my opinion," she finished a little lamely. His brows rose and she looked down at her hands in her lap, clenching them tightly

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together to hide their shaking. "What can you tell us about your background?" Theresa interjected before Dominic could monopolize the conversation further. Basilyn glanced at her in surprise. "I … very little. I thought …. That is, I understood that Dr. Chaney ...." "He gave us a report—your background check—the records concerning your treatment," Theresa said. "I was just interested to know what you had to say about it." Basilyn's lips tightened. Color flamed in her cheeks once more, from both anger and humiliation. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Theresa Demot if she was asking her to apologize for her circumstances since her tone had seemed to imply just that, that Basilyn should apologize for being unworthy. She suppressed the urge. "It's true, if that's what you're asking ...the therapy... all of it. So far as I'm aware. If you want to know what I remember about my father's....about my...the abuse... The answer is nothing." "What made you decide to answer the ad?" Dominic asked abruptly. Basilyn looked at him again, almost grateful for his attack from the other direction. He didn't ask out of idle curiosity. She knew her acceptance hinged on her answer. She answered recklessly anyway, beginning to almost hope for rejection. "Money," she replied bluntly. Dr. Chaney cleared his throat, sending her an admonishing frown. "She's been putting herself through college. But, it isn't easy these days," he interjected. Basilyn looked at Dr. Chaney for a long moment before she turned to Dominic once more. "It's almost impossible. I don't mind the work. I've been working since I turned fifteen. But that doesn't leave much time for studying." "Did you try for a grant?" Dominic asked rather sharply. "There were none available!" she snapped, then bit her lip. Dominic Demot studied her for a long moment and finally turned to Dr. Chaney. "I wonder if I might have a few moments alone with Miss Norris?" Dr. Chaney's brows lifted, his gaze sliding to Basilyn. She said nothing and, after a moment, he took her silence for acquiescence and nodded. "You can use the lounge just down the hall, last door on the left." Dominic turned to Theresa then and fixed her with a hard look. "I'll be with you in a minute." **** Dominic studied Basilyn as she scurried ahead of him, trying to decide whether her nervousness was excessive under the circumstances or if it would've even occurred to him to wonder at it if not for that unsettling report that had been handed over to him when he'd arrived. Certainly she had every reason to be nervous. He was nervous as hell himself. On the other hand, having read it, he couldn't shake his doubts. He couldn't help but analyze her every move and wonder …. She'd given him a hell of a jolt when he'd gotten his first really clear look at her, and not only because he realized it was the same young woman who'd almost been run down in the parking lot. She could've almost been Theresa...in shades. She was a shade shorter, a shade smaller than Theresa, who was extraordinarily petite. Her hair was several shades lighter, far thicker and filled with rich auburn highlights Theresa's hair lacked. But, from the back, she might almost be

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mistaken for Theresa. Front on, never. Her eyes were a deep avocado green. Her features were delicate and on the whole created a face that was far more compelling than beautiful. His reaction to her had been instantaneous, gut deep, and totally out of his realm of experience, so disorienting that he wasn't at all certain he could trust his instincts where she was concerned. It had been years …. No, if he was honest, he'd never met a woman who affected him in quite the same way. If he agreed to this, he was very much afraid his life was going to be a living hell. Perhaps worse than the one he had already. She stopped abruptly as she stepped into the room. Taken off guard, Dominic collided with her. His attempt to catch her was instinctive, but the moment his arms went around her, pulling her tightly against him, he realized two things. That first reaction hadn't been a mere fluke. His body came to life with an instantaneous, dizzying jolt just as it had when he'd caught her against him before. And she wasn't just nervous. She was afraid. He should've released her at once. He didn't. Instead he held her, reaching with his other hand to feel for the light switch, for it was the pitch blackness in the room, he discovered, that had brought her to such an abrupt halt in front of him. The moment he released her, she scurried towards the couch that sat along one wall, hesitated a moment, threw him a nervous glance, and finally settled on the chair that faced the couch. It was a mistake. Doubtless he would've found the chair comfortably proportioned, but it was far too big for her. The seat was too deep and once she'd settled back, her feet didn't touch the floor. She scooted forward once more, placing her feet on the floor and sitting nervously erect. Dominic fought the temptation to grin at her predicament and won, settling across from her, wondering now if it would even be possible to soothe her frazzled nerves sufficiently to get an accurate estimation of her. That thought effectively eliminated the last traces of his amusement. He had far too much riding on this to take any of it lightly, or to simply trust in his judgment when he knew his instincts had gone haywire. He wanted peace, and was willing to sacrifice almost anything to get it. Almost. He wasn't about to chance placing himself in the clutches of yet another blackmailer, however. It was enough that he had to deal with Theresa's emotional blackmail. If this girl wasn't just as her words, and Dr. Chaney's estimation implied, she could ruin him. He hadn't let Theresa do that to him, and he damn sure wasn't going to let anyone else have the chance at him. On the other hand, he'd known money must be her motivation. It could scarcely have been anything else and her assertion seemed reasonable ... or would have had the 'job' they had in mind for her not been such a momentous one. Given that, he rather thought he wanted to hear a little more about her motivations than a blunt 'money for education'. Particularly in light of the fact that she'd been treated (and cured according to Dr. Chaney) for emotional problems due to her abuse as a child. He had a no faith in psychoanalysis, at least as a permanent cure. And he found the idea that she'd been treated for compulsive lying even more unsettling than the emotional problems that had led to it in the first place. "Basilyn …. Do you mind if I call you Basilyn? Or do you go by another name?" "Basilyn's fine."

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He nodded, then smiled faintly, hoping friendliness might put her at ease. Obviously it didn't. Her expression became, if possible, more closed, more distrustful. "It's a pretty name. Unusual..." "Thank you," she replied a little stiffly. "It suits you," he said after a moment. He studied her a long moment, feeling an odd tug of recognition that wasn't really recognition at all, for he knew he'd never met her before. Feeling that surprisingly fierce pull of attraction he'd felt from the first, surprising because he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at a woman, beautiful or otherwise, and felt anything at all beyond a vague appreciation when he discovered she was pleasing to the eye. He frowned slightly. "You're a very attractive young woman—intelligent—ambitious. I'm curious to know why you'd be willing to have my child."

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Chapter Two "Well?" "Not here," Dominic said tightly, pushing past Theresa as they exited the elevator and striding away. Theresa's lips thinned with anger. For the life of her she couldn't understand why Dominic was always so conscious of others around him, always so concerned for his privacy. Regardless, she knew it was useless to try to prod him into discussing what he would consider 'private' business publicly, and that if she persisted he might very well become angry enough to thwart her for pure hard down meanness, and so she allowed him to have his way. Patience wasn't one of her virtues, however. "Well? What do you think? Have you decided?" she asked when they'd exited the medical center. He sent her a narrow-eyed glance, but he didn't answer until he'd slid into the seat of his jeep. "We could discuss this more comfortably at home," he said coolly. Theresa felt her temper snap. "I want to know now!" Dominic's jaw tightened. He wondered how it was that he could ever have possibly thought Theresa's childish determination to have everything 'now' was cute. However he'd once felt about it, the only urge it ever gave him anymore was a strong urge to throttle her. "Shut up and get in the damned jeep then," he said shortly. She glared at him but finally moved around the jeep and slid in beside him. She opened her mouth to speak almost at once, but he forestalled her. "I told her I'd see about having the contract drawn up and to give Miller a call in a few days," he said abruptly, feeling more than vaguely disgusted with himself, knowing he'd allowed himself to be bulldozed into a situation he hadn't wanted--and had convinced himself he wasn't going to allow. But then, the girl had gone a long ways towards reversing his decision, he realized suddenly, feeling vaguely baffled by the realization. Or perhaps not. He wasn't certain now whether he felt more inclined towards the notion or only less repelled by it. Or neither, but rather oddly drawn to the girl in a way that had made him accept the situation only for that reason ... while allowing both himself and Theresa to believe he'd done it merely for the sake of peace. She squealed in childish delight and threw her arms around his neck, reaching up to kiss him. He turned his head to avoid the caress, his lips tightening in disgust as he felt her lipstick smear along his cheek. Gently, but resolutely, he disengaged her and set her away from him, scrubbing the lipstick from his cheek with the heel of his hand. "Don't!" he said coldly. "I don't care for your affectionate act anymore that I like your other affectations." She sent him a pouting look that sat incongruously with the glint of malice in her green eyes. "You never complained before! It's that girl, isn't it? I noticed the way you were looking at her!"

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"You amaze the hell out of me!" Dominic exploded. "How many different ways do you have to be told something before you're convinced?" "You needn't take your problem out on me!" she snapped angrily. "I told you you needed to see a specialist about it! It probably isn't even permanent." Dominic glared at her. "It's permanent ... permanent distaste. There's a hell of a difference between impotence and a lack of desire. It’s over, Theresa. It’s been over. And as I've tried, repeatedly, to get across to you, I no longer have any desire for you whatsoever. If I did, I wouldn't have had a 'problem' as you so quaintly put it. If you've got an itch, why not do us both a favor and find yourself a lover? It might improve your disposition." "You'd like that wouldn't you? Ammunition for your lawyer so you can back out of our agreement and an excuse to go tom-catting yourself? Like hell! And if you think I don't know you only say that to hurt me, and to make yourself feel better for being less than a man, you're crazy as hell!" He laughed harshly, but decided not to comment upon the lack in her logic—for if he was impotent, as she claimed she believed rather than disenchanted with her, he could hardly go tomcatting. Logic had never been one of Theresa's strong suits anyway. "So it's me? There's no possibility it could have anything to do with you? If you're so damned certain of that, then why try this? Aren't you afraid I won't be able to come up to scratch?" "It occurred to me!" she said venomously. "But maybe you can get her to hold your hand and you can make it?" she replied tightly, scooting to the edge of the seat and grasping the door handle. Dominic cursed but he didn't make any attempt to stop her. He despised these confrontations with Theresa. They always left him feeling angry, vaguely ill, and immensely frustrated. There was no satisfaction in them, nothing of expending frustrations to ease tension. Instead, each one only seemed to make the tension between them harder to bear, more volatile. And unlike Theresa, he didn't enjoy it. He didn't consider it an interesting solution to boredom. He would've preferred being bored with her. He stared after her as she stalked away, trying to decide whether to follow her to the house or return to the office. Doubtless, she would greet him at the back door if he went to the house, intent on picking up where she left off. He decided to go back to the office. He had some serious thinking to do and that would be impossible around Theresa. He’d made a deal with the devil. His lawyer had convinced him it was the best way, his only real possibility of redemption—of getting loose from Theresa with something left to start over, but it hadn’t set right to start with and he became less convinced he could do this as time went on. It was almost as if the smell of freedom after years of pure hell had gone to his head and deprived him of any ability to reason. It felt ‘wrong’ in a vague, sick sense of impending doom, but he couldn’t seem to sort through it. All he could think of was throwing everything he’d worked for down and running just as fast as he could. **** "Mr. Demot?" Dominic looked up at his secretary distractedly. "Yes?" Glenda Thompson bit her lip. Try though she might to reconcile herself to it, it never failed to pique her that Dominic Demot invariably looked through her, not at her. She knew he was married, of course, but that didn't seem to stop most men from appreciating her. Even Don

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Kendall, though obviously very happily married, gave her an appreciative glance now and then. Not that she particularly cared for an appreciative glance from Don. Though, of course, it was a very nice compliment. Dominic, on the other hand, might have been wearing blinders. And it wasn't just her. He didn't pay any more attention to the parade of wives and business women that flowed almost constantly through the offices of Kendall and Demot in search of their dream designs. He was unfailingly polite, unfailingly courteous ... and unfailingly distant. Was he a man of steel, she wondered, a little piqued? Or was Theresa Demot that much woman, that she'd spoiled him totally for other women? "You wanted me to remind you of that appointment ...?" she said after a brief pause. "Appointment? Oh!" Dominic looked away, feeling dark color stain his cheeks. His collar suddenly felt uncomfortably tight, but he resisted the urge to give his discomfort away by tugging at it. Glenda eyed him with interest, biting her lip to hide a smile. Now what, she wondered curiously, was there in that announcement to make him turn such an interesting shade? Maybe, she thought, feeling a mixture of pique and smug amusement, he wasn't quite as devoted to the lovely Mrs. Demot as she'd thought? Maybe there was another woman in his life? Maybe there was hope after all? Don Kendall looked up from his work in surprise as he saw Dominic come out of his office across the hall. "You going, Nick?" He grinned. "This is a first. I can't remember the last time I saw you leaving work early." Dominic paused uncomfortably, trying to assume an off-handed demeanor he didn't feel. "I'll be back in a bit. I've got an appointment." "Blond or Redhead?" Kendall joked. Try as he might, Dominic couldn't keep his mind from darting immediately to Basilyn Norris. Or control the color that crept upwards from his neck to his temples to pound there explosively. "Gray actually," he managed, attempting a joking grin that looked rather more like a grimace. "Doctor's appointment." Don Kendall frowned in sudden concern. "Nothing serious, I hope?" "No," Dominic said quickly. He didn't want everyone in the office speculating on what his 'problem' was. "Just a regular ...," he paused and cleared his throat, "uh … check-up." Kendall nodded, accepting without curiosity. "If I'm gone by the time you get back …. You are going to meet us at the gym tonight?" Dominic, who'd already turned away in relief, stepped back into the doorway. "Gym? It's gym night?" Kendall grinned. "Get him to check your absentmindedness while you're at it. Yes. It is Monday, you know. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—regular as clock work. I know you ain't particularly worried about staying fit—not at your age. But I'm beginning to see the middle-aged spread, myself. And you know how badly I need moral support!" he said and chuckled. Dominic grinned. "Right." He turned away again. "Hey! You want to come down to the pub afterwards and shoot a few games with us? If you do, I'll see about getting permission from Sherry? Have to get permission, you know. Don't want to end up in the dog house."

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Dominic forced a smile at the 'joke', though he didn't particularly feel like smiling. Sherry and Don Kendall were one of the happiest couples he knew, as content to go together as to go their separate ways, neither of them threatened by the idea that they had separate interests as well as like interests. It was a well known fact. It was also a common joke around the office that Kendall had to get 'permission' to go out with the boys. No one believed it for a minute, which was the only reason Kendall considered it a great joke. He was a real bear on those few, rare occasions when he was in Sherry's black book. "Maybe. I don't know. I'll have to think about it. Right now I've got to go. I've got an appointment," he reminded Kendall and glanced down at his watch. "Hell! Five minutes ago." He left abruptly. Kendall stared after him a long moment and finally shook his head. It was a damned shame to see a guy like Dominic chained to a woman like Theresa. The woman was a class A bitch..but Dominic either couldn't or wouldn't see it. If they'd been closer friends he would've tried to make Dominic see it. Unfortunately, although Dominic was as nice a fellow as he knew, and friendly in his own way, he was also a stand-offish type. He didn't have close friends—only semi-close ones. He'd didn't allow anyone to get too close. Maybe because he was afraid if they did, they'd find out just what a bitch his wife was? Maybe. But he wasn't fooled. Then again, he had to admit he had been for quite a while. It had been Sherry, really, that had pointed it out to him. And he really hadn't believed her just at first. He'd figured it was a touch of jealousy because he'd mentioned what a sweet, pretty little wife Dominic had. She'd frowned and hadn't said anything for several minutes and then had said, "Mmm. Yes. She's very good, isn't she?" "Good?" "At acting." "Acting?" he repeated, and then grinned. "You wouldn't be just a little jealous, would you?" She grinned back at him, not put out in the least, secure. "Should I be?" "You know better than that, woman!" he'd growled, and they'd dismissed the subject for a far more interesting one. But he'd begun to watch Theresa then, when they met at dinner parties, and he'd come very quickly to the conclusion that Sherry was right about her. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and nothing but honey dripped from her lips … except when she 'teased' Dominic. But it wasn't teasing. She only used a teasing tone and manner to dispense her venom in public. There was a malicious glint in her eyes when she did it, not a teasing light. "Poor shmuck," he muttered, shaking his head, wondering why Dominic hadn't ditched her long since. "You could do a damned sight better, friend. A damned sight better." **** Basilyn looked at her watch again and hurried towards the Medical Center, trying to ignore the terrible sick feeling of anticipation in her stomach. She reached it finally, darting for the door at the same moment a man came from beside her and reached for it, as well. She glanced at him. "Excuse me …." She felt her jaw sag in surprise. A moment later, hectic color rose in her cheeks. Dominic stared down at her, feeling his own face heat with sudden comprehension. He stepped back hastily, started to speak, thought better of it, and departed abruptly. Basilyn stared after him as he strode down the hall, torn between embarrassment,

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consternation, and amusement. "Déjà vu," she muttered, remembering their first encounter, wondering if he had an appointment, as well. She came to a dead halt as it suddenly occurred to her where he was going and why. Her embarrassment of before was as nothing compared to the sudden swamping of her senses as realization struck her. She had been embarrassed at bumping in to him—embarrassed because, on seeing him, she'd suddenly been far more self-conscious about her appointment even than she had been before. Because, in this case, it wasn't a matter of feeling as if everyone who looked at her must know what she was about to do, it was a matter of having encountered someone who knew. She realized quite suddenly, however, that his discomfiture had had nothing to do with hers—except as it pertained to himself. She'd known he must be involved. After all, he was the donor. She hadn't expected that he would be present when .... And she certainly hadn't expected to meet up with him outside the Medical Center. Her courage faltered. For several moments she felt the wildest urge to turn tail and run. She wrestled with herself a moment and conquered the urge, berating herself for a coward as she made her way to Dr. Chaney's office in Dominic's wake, even while hoping against hope that she wouldn't encounter him again. She didn't. Not in the hallway, at any rate. She came face to face with him in the doctor's office as she turned from signing herself in. He sat in a chair in one corner of the office that was a little apart from the other waiting chairs, his nose buried in a magazine. She didn't believe for a moment he had the least interest in it, however determined his concentration. It was, she noted, a lady's fashion magazine. She took the hint, though she'd certainly not needed it. She wasn't any more comfortable about the situation than he was. In fact, she was inclined to think she was far more uncomfortable than he could possibly be. She found a chair as far from him as she could possibly get and opened one of her textbooks, trying, without success, to use the time wisely by studying. "Miss Norris?" "Mr. Demot?" Basilyn surged to her feet, grabbing up her books as she headed for the nearest door. The nurse, she realized when she was almost upon her, was looking over her shoulder at someone behind her. "Mr. Demot?" She came to a dead halt and turned to look at him. Red faced, he brushed past her and disappeared down the hallway behind the nurse. "Miss Norris?" She looked up at the other nurse who stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the reception desk from the one Dominic had disappeared through and hurried forward again, feeling as if every other patient in the waiting room was staring at her and knew where she was going and why. Feeling as if they all knew both calls were related. The nurse she followed halted beside a set of built-in shelves and took down one of those despicable open-backed gowns of the sort hospitals were so fond of, and continued on, leading the way. She had reached a room, turned the knob and pushed the door open when Dominic, still following his nurse, came around a bend in the hallway and into sight once more. "If you'll just take everything off and put this on ...." Basilyn gaped at her, sent Dominic a look to see if he'd heard, saw from his expression that he had, snatched her gown, and scurried inside. Dropping her books to the little ledge seat

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inside the curtained dressing area, she put her hands to her scalding cheeks to cool them. It didn't help much. She felt hot all over. She didn't want to think about that, however. She also didn't want to be trying to dress when Dr. Chaney arrived. She began to strip, trying to ignore the weakness in her knees. It was hard to do, particularly when she felt as if she would collapse at any moment. She sat down finally, when she'd pulled her jeans down, and tugged off her shoes. Pulling her blouse off over her head, she slipped her arms into the gown, lifting them to reach the top tie in the back and tying it to keep the thing from falling off again. She stood up once more, debating with herself, but the nurse had said everything and she didn't really think they could do it otherwise. She slipped her panties off, dropped them onto the pile of clothes already on the bench seat and padded barefoot across the room to stand beside what she'd come to think of as the torture table. Not that she'd ever had anything really painful done to her on it. But there was torture and then there was torture and to anyone as painfully modest as Basilyn, it was purest agony to lay upon that table and expose her body so completely. In a few minutes, the nurse entered the room and helped her climb onto the table, told her to lie down and instructed her to put her heels in the stirrups. Pulling out a sheet from the shelf beneath the table, she shook it out and spread it over Basilyn, covering everything except what needed to be covered. Basilyn resisted the urge to cover her head since she couldn't cover her bottom, chewing her bottom lip as she stared up at the fluorescent light above her. She focused upon it, trying to empty her mind of thoughts, any thoughts whatsoever, while the nurse moved about, taking note of her vital signs. She left after a time, leaving Basilyn alone with her thoughts—the thoughts she was trying to avoid. Was he in the next room? Could he hear what was going on in here? Could she hear what was going on in there? She closed her eyes. "Oh, God! I hope not," she muttered, meaning all of it. She wasn't going to think about it. What was keeping Dr. Chaney? Why didn't he come on and get it over with? She thought suddenly of what might be keeping him and felt a flush start at her bosom and rise upwards until she felt steaming hot. In self-defense, she blanked her mind again. When she discovered she couldn't hold on to it, she focused her mind along the path it seemed determined to trot ... but on herself, trying to decide what it was going to be like, what she should expect. It wasn't pleasant. Surrounded by blinding lights, sterile sheets and medical instruments, by the very 'professional' atmosphere that was supposed to give a patient confidence in medical science, the notion of what was to come appalled her. Despite every coldly clinical aspect of the thing, there was one part of it that was not, could not, be thought of as clinical at all. She wasn't going to be receiving medical instruments or medications into her body today. She would be receiving spermatozoa … from another human being. He would put it inside her. She shuddered at the thought, wondering what sort of instrument he would use to do it— not that it mattered. She wouldn't be able to see anything that was going on. But she would be able to feel it. Her stomach tied itself into a tighter, more uncomfortable knot.

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It was going to be cold and slimy and utterly disgusting and she was going to be sick. She knew it suddenly. She could feel the bile rising to her throat and Dr. Chaney hadn't even arrived with the ... specimen yet. And he hadn't arrived because .... Heat swam upwards through her. She wasn't certain, but she thought it had nothing to do with embarrassment, or very little, at any rate. Because she knew, suddenly, that it wasn't going to be cold. It couldn't be cold, because spermatozoa had to be kept warm or it died. Or carefully brought to its normal temperature when it had been frozen for keeping. Except that that had been totally unnecessary in this case—when both donors were readily available and it was to be done now—not later. And it wouldn't have been kept warm. It would still be warm ... from him. Her eyes snapped open as Dr. Chaney surged into the room, all business. "All ready?" he asked cheerfully, hooking his leg in his rolling stool and taking a seat before he slid forward and stuck his face in 'it' to examine it thoroughly. "Move back … this way," he instructed, motioning with his hands like a construction worker directing a crane operator. "A little more … just a little more," he encouraged as she reluctantly scooted towards him. Lord, she thought a little wildly as she struggled to comply, for it was a struggle with her feet hiked in those damned stirrups, did he want his nose in it? Would he be happy then, she wondered, torn between an urge to giggle hysterically and an urge to weep in mortification? "That's it. All set now?" Basilyn sought her voice and discovered it missing. She managed a sound she thought sounded rather like an affirmative—which was an out and out lie. She damn sure wasn't ready for this. For a moment, as she lay listening to Dr. Chaney sorting through medical instruments, felt his hands upon her, panic surged upwards through her. Mentally, she leapt from the table and ran out the door. Physically, she couldn't seem to command her muscles to respond in any way. "Relax! This isn't going to hurt," Dr. Chaney chided her. "You won't feel a thing." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to empty her mind. She found she couldn't. Failing that, she tried to focus it upon something that would soothe, something calming. Dominic Demot rose before her mind's eye, not as she'd seen him before; calm, self-possessed, threatening, but as she'd seen him today; doubtful, embarrassed, uncomfortable … human … vulnerable as she was. Dr. Chaney was wrong, she discovered. She felt something. She felt a great deal.

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Chapter Three If she had been paying the least attention to what she was doing or where she was going, it wouldn't have happened. She wasn't. She was no less keenly self-conscious than she had been when she'd entered Dr. Chaney's office, perhaps even more so since she wasn't aware only of an action she was about to take, had taken, but also of a burden she might or might not be carrying. And she was concentrating on not noticing anyone else in the hopes that they wouldn't notice her. Apparently he was, as well. They collided at the elevator and although it was no more than a gentle bump, it wasn't something that could be ignored. Each turned automatically to see who they'd bumped in to, to mutter a polite 'excuse me', and stared blankly at the other for several moments before they each very deliberately looked away again, suddenly very conscious of each other when neither had noticed the other before and acutely conscious of the people passing up and down the hallway behind them. "We've really got to stop meeting like this," Basilyn muttered under her breath wryly. Apparently it wasn't said as softly as she'd thought. His head whipped around and he studied her for a long moment before a sheepish grin dawned. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, started to speak, closed his mouth again, and then apparently decided to take the plunge. "They handled this so well. I have to admit I was impressed with their discretion … promised and delivered." Basilyn felt her face heat, but chuckled ruefully. "Didn't they?" The elevator door opened and Dominic ushered her inside and pressed the button, settling his shoulders back against the wall as the door closed and looking her over now in a curious, friendly way, still rather uncomfortable but not nearly as embarrassed as he had been since it seemed she was willingly to laugh it off and dismiss it. Somehow that made his part in it a little easier to bear. After all, her part must have been as disconcerting to her as his had been to him and if she could handle it, he certainly ought to be able to. "Actually," he said wryly, "I suppose it was my fault to a certain extent. I was late for my appointment." Basilyn grimaced and shrugged, though she found she couldn't quite achieve eye contact. "Mine, too, I guess. I was a little early …. First time. I guess I looked at my watch wrong. Ordinarily, I'm always late ...." "Well. At least it’s over and done with," Dominic said after an uncomfortable pause, relief evident in his voice. Basilyn had propped against the opposite wall of the elevator and was gripping the handrail determinedly. She had a problem with elevators. She didn't like them. She particularly didn't like the way they made her stomach feel when they braked to stop. She grimaced. "Unless it didn't …. Unless we have to …. I mean …." She looked away. "Forget I brought it up." She could feel his eyes on her. She wished he would think of something else to look at. "Do you have a ride home?" he asked abruptly, was almost immediately sorry, and then felt a touch of relief at the impulse. After all, they were going to be closely associated from now

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on. Surely it would be best, for all of them, to try to get comfortable with each other as quickly as possible? It was ridiculous to feel so awkward around her, as if they'd stumbled upon each other in a compromising position and were trying to pretend they hadn't. She glanced at him in surprise. She'd thought he was as anxious to part company as she was … as anxious to put the thing behind him and pretend it had never happened. But it had sounded rather like an invitation of sorts. Well, obviously it wasn't any sort of invitation, she amended. "Yes—uh—no—I mean—I'm not going home. I've got to be at work in a few minutes." Dominic smiled faintly, trying to ignore his relief. "But you've got a ride?" He wondered as soon as he'd asked why he had. She'd relieved him of the need to follow up on his first offer. He didn't want to have to give her a lift. He needed a little breathing room to recover his equilibrium. Because what they'd just done had left him feeling strange as hell and he didn't know what to think of it or really how he felt about it beyond extremely uncomfortable. Basilyn bit her lip. Was he actually offering? Just being polite? Did she want to take him up on his offer even if he was sincere? She didn't really think she did. On the other hand, she'd run out of gas on her way to class this morning and had had to push her moped from the entrance to the University all the way to the parking lot where she usually parked. If she didn't take him up on his offer she would almost certainly have to walk all the way to the gas station, and she didn't have a gas can. "Well—uh—if you aren't in any particular hurry I need to get some gas. Don't worry about it, though!" she added hurriedly when he frowned slightly. "I can catch a ride with somebody." The elevator doors opened just then and she stepped out ahead of him without waiting for an answer. Dominic caught up to her before she'd gone far. That last remark had been the deciding factor as far as he was concerned. There couldn't be any harm in taking her to get gas, particularly when it might be a matter of her safety. He could feel comfortable with that. He relaxed at that thought. He even felt a touch of humor as he watched her scurry away as if her shirt tails were on fire. She rather reminded him of a tiny finch as she flitted in and out and around the people passing through the lobby. "Trying to outrun me?" he asked with amusement as he fell into step beside her. "I thought you needed gas." She threw him a searching look. "I wouldn't want to put you out. There's a gas station just a little ways down … across campus. I should've stopped on my way in this morning, but I was running late." She shrugged. He caught her elbow as they exited the medical center, guiding her around the corner to the parking lot. "It'll be faster and safer if I take you. It isn't safe to catch rides these days." She looked up at him a little dubiously and he grinned. "Yeah, I know. You don't know me either, but I do. And I know I'm safe." **** "You sure that's enough gas? If you're short of cash ...?" "I'm sure," Basilyn said firmly. "Thanks for the use of your gas can. I don't know what I could've been thinking of to go off without one." "You should've planned on running out of gas?" he asked teasingly, a little surprised to discover he'd become almost comfortable with her. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed so determined to act casual about the whole thing? Or maybe it was because, despite that determination, he could see she felt the strain as much or more than he did and it brought out a

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determination in him to make her more comfortable? She smiled faintly. "Let's just say I shouldn't have been so surprised when I did. I've been trying to wean the thing for a while now and it just won't cooperate." Dominic smiled, too. "I know what you mean. I remember my college days." Basilyn shot him a surprised look. He caught it and grimaced, trying to ignore the pique of irritation it caused him. "What? You think I'm too old to remember?" She bit her lip to hide a smile. "Hardly. You can't be thirty yet?" He relaxed fractionally, though he wasn't certain why it had bothered him to think she might think of him as 'old' or why he felt better that she apparently didn't. "As a matter of fact, I'm exactly thirty—as of last December. So what was that look for then? Oh! I see. You figure I haven't got any idea of what it's like. Right? Wrong. Contrary to what you seem to think, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth either, not that we were poor. We did alright. But it was a struggle getting through college." She was silent while he pulled the jeep into the heavy traffic on Fowler Avenue, not just from an unwillingness to distract him, but because she was wondering whether or not to give voice to her curiosity. Because she was curious. With the best will in the world she hadn't been able to completely rout the ridiculous case of hero-worship she'd contracted the moment he'd given her his business card that first day and she'd learned that Dominic Demot was 'the Demot', the brilliant young architect she'd heard and read so much about. Besides, she reasoned, from what he'd said, they had something in common—at least in so far as their struggle for success. She wanted to know more about him, more about how he'd done it. For, if he'd come from behind and leapt so far ahead, certainly she had some real hope of managing something similar? "What do your folks do? Is your dad an architect, too? Do they live around here?" Dominic shook his head. "Airline pilot—past tense—Air Force trained. He retired last year. Mom's a school teacher. They live over in Orlando. But I've got two brothers and two sisters. Even with their income we had to bite the bullet plenty." He hesitated a long moment, debating on whether to broach the subject of her family and finally took the plunge. "What about you?" She shrugged. "I don't know." He shot her a sharp look before he fixed his eyes on the road again, negotiating the turn into the University. "I don't really remember much of what came just after ... and almost nothing from before," she said musingly, and then shrugged, dismissing it. "...mental block. They never tried to cure me of it. They figured it was probably for the best." Dominic shifted uncomfortably. "What about your adoptive parents?" "I didn't have any." "But ...?" Basilyn smiled faintly. "There's a difference between having a foster family and being adopted. One's legal and permanent. The other isn't." "Why …?" He broke off. It wasn't the sort of question one asked. And it wasn't the sort of question she could answer. And it might well hurt her to talk about it. "Why wasn't I adopted …?" she asked, not sounding perturbed in the least.

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Maybe just a little too off-handed, he wondered, sending her a surreptitious glance to gauge her expression? He discovered nothing, however, for she'd turned her face away to gaze out the window. "I was a troubled child. There aren't too many people that want to take on the responsibility of a child with severe emotional problems. Anyway, there was one couple that did, but …well ... it didn't work out. After that it was just foster homes. I'd live with one family a while and then I'd go live with someone else." She broke off then, directing him towards the parking lot where she'd left her moped. "Which car?" "No car. It's the orange moped over there." "Good God! You drive a moped—in Tampa traffic? Girl! You're either damned good … or crazy." She sent him an angry glance. "Or poor?" she asked coolly. **** Dominic parked the jeep, but he didn't get out immediately. Instead, he watched the activity within the restaurant. He'd told himself he was just doing a little investigating. It was a sensible thing to do— stupid not to do a little checking on his own. Of course, he could've put his investigator on it, the man he used to check out the occasional client he had some doubts about. But he didn't want Parker nosing around the girl. And he didn't want Parker nosing into his private business. And he wanted to do it himself. He opened the door and got out of the jeep. The restaurant was bustling, even at this hour, which most would've considered long past a regular meal time, though he supposed, for the most part, it was revelers. Certainly, there were several he noticed as he sauntered into the restaurant that looked well on their way to being high as a kite. And he doubted it was merely a case of having one pitcher of beer too many with their ribs. They looked like hard drinkers. Not that the place could be condemned as a dive. There were several couples with children. Obviously it was a family restaurant for the most part. But then it seemed to draw all kinds. He took a seat at a small booth and glanced around for her, trying to decide whether he wanted to observe from a distance, or to try to renew their acquaintance and see if he could draw her out. He spotted her near the back at almost the same moment a waitress buzzed by his table, dropped a menu and a glass of water before him, and flitted off again, throwing a smiling promise over one shoulder to 'be with him in a minute'. He nodded, though he scarcely noticed. He was watching Basilyn as she moved around the area she waited, flitting from table to table, hovering a moment to refill a glass or remove a plate, exchange a word or two or perhaps no more than a pleasant smile, and then flitting to the next table. He signaled his waitress as she flashed by again. "Which tables are Basilyn's tonight?" She glanced towards the back, frowning slightly. "She has the back section tonight. Any of those tables." She moved away, intercepting another waitress. "Deb—See if you can find Bill and tell her the creep's back, huh? Look's like he's bothering Basilyn again. My station's full or I'd do it myself."

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The waitress she spoke to glanced towards the back and her lips tightened with annoyance. "Why? You figure the little princess is too good to get felt up like the rest of us? What is she, anyway? Some kind of man-hater? Or a lizzy?" she asked with a touch of contemptuous envy. She'd been trying to entice Thomas Hilton for weeks now, but he never seemed to notice anybody but that cold blooded bitch Basilyn Norris. If she was having problems, she could handle them herself. "I figure her for a man-hater—and probably with good reason with creeps like Thomas Hilton around. So don't get your hopes up," the first waitress said cuttingly. "And if she was a lizzy, which I don't think for a minute, what makes you think she'd look at you? Or don't you figure they're just as particular as the rest of us?" She stalked off then and went in search of Bill. The tables, she figured, could wait. If Thomas got too familiar, they were going to have trouble. And she'd hate to see Basilyn get fired. It wasn't that she considered Basilyn a friend. They hadn't worked together long enough to form any sort of friendship. But she liked the younger woman, even felt rather protective towards her, and she was a sight easier to work with than a lot of people she could think of. Dominic, who'd stiffened at the overheard conversation, shifted to get a better look and felt a surge of anger. She hadn't stopped at the man's table to chat. She'd been accosted. His hand rested along her thigh, gripping it just above her knee. As he watched, the man leaned forward, leering up at her as if she were a particularly tasty pie and he starving, sliding his hand upwards as he did so until it disappeared beneath her skirt. Dominic got up abruptly and moved towards the back. Basilyn glared at Thomas, torn between anger, the fear of being caught up in a scene and distaste. "Get your hand off my leg, Thomas," she said through gritted teeth, though she kept a smile plastered to her stiff lips. He chuckled huskily, puffing out a beer-polluted breath as he did so that made Basilyn's stomach begin to churn. "Surely, sweet thing," he said lazily and slid his hand upwards. "I can think of something else I'd rather have my hand on anyway." Basilyn dropped all pretense of a smile and raised the pitcher of beer she held in one hand threateningly. "Get your hand off me or I'm going to pour every drop of this over your head," she said warningly. He removed his hand, laughing, giving her a lecherous wink. "We'll save it for later. How 'bout if I pick you up after work?" Basilyn's lips curled in disgust. "Thanks, but no thanks," she said tightly. "I don't care to be mauled again." He allowed his eyes to wander over her slowly, suggestively. "Would I do a thing like that?" he asked with patently false innocence. "How about if I promise to be a good boy?" "Like you did the last time?" Basilyn asked sarcastically. His smiled died. An ugly look took its place. He didn't like being thwarted. And he didn't like her attitude, as if he were a roach or something. "Why don't you cut the bullshit? You ain't exactly a virgin, sweet thing. Who're you saving it for anyway?" "Not you, obviously," Dominic said coldly, resisting only with an effort, the urge to thrust Basilyn aside, haul the man from his seat, and plant his fist in the middle of his leering face.

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Basilyn glanced up at him in shocked dismay, turning first white and then red as a beet. She looked back at Thomas, saw that he was glaring at Dominic and bristling like a cur dog— just as Dominic was. Dread sent her stomach spiraling downwards in a sickening nose-dive. Her thoughts jumbled upon each other so that she couldn't decide what dismayed her most about the confrontation—the fear that she was going to be the catalyst that precipitated a fight that would almost certainly cost her her job. Or the fear that Dominic might decide she was unfit and break the contract. Or that Dominic might develop some ugly suspicions concerning her morals—when she had no way to protect herself against such an eventuality or to prove her innocence. She felt a touch of anger, too. She'd seen his jeep near the restaurant several times before, or thought she had. She'd dismissed it as imagination. Or considered it mere coincidence. She saw now that it wasn't coincidence. He'd been watching her, perhaps waiting for a chance like this one? Or maybe he only considered that he was protecting his investment? It was an unpalatable thought, but she realized it wasn't one she could quibble with. He'd certainly paid well enough for the right to expect the exclusive use of her reproductive organs. "It's alright, Mr. Demot. Thomas was just leaving, weren't you?" she said coldly, furious by now with both of them. Thomas' look was ugly. "I don't think so. This who you're giving it to, sweet thing?" He looked Dominic over sneeringly. Dominic surged forward. Basilyn had been expecting it, however. She'd known Thomas would say something outrageous, something guaranteed to provoke a fight. He liked to fight. It was one of the things she disliked most about him, his predilection for fights. And he liked it even better when he was drunk as a skunk—which he was just now. She caught Dominic's arm, turning to face him as she struggled to hold him back. He yielded almost immediately, though he still glared at Thomas over her head. "Please..," she said desperately. "Don't. Please .... I'll lose my job." Dominic dragged his gaze from Thomas, scowling at her. "You want me to let him get away with talking to you like that?" he asked incredulously. She compressed her lips in irritation for a moment. "Not particularly. But then I don't want to hunt another job either. They're not so easy to find just now." "What's going on here?" Bill Hendricks demanded as she arrived on the scene. Basilyn turned to her supervisor with a sense of relief. Bill was a big woman, nearly six feet, and massively proportioned, as well, very intimidating when she wanted to be. She fixed a cold eye on Thomas. "If you're here to cause trouble, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." "I didn't start anything," Thomas snarled sullenly. "I was just talking to Basilyn here ...." Her eyes narrowed. "I thought I told you last time I didn't want you bothering my waitresses anymore! What you do on your own time," she added, turning to Basilyn, "is your business. What you do here is my business." She turned back to Thomas. "If you don't leave now, quietly, I'm going to call the cops." Thomas surged out of his seat, grabbing up his cap and jerking it down over his forehead. The logo on the front read, 'keep the south beautiful, put a Yankee on a bus'. It might just as well have read 'troublemaker' or 'good ol' boy'. "Fine, bitch! I'm going!" She glared after the man until he'd exited the restaurant and then turned to eye Basilyn

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speculatively for several moments. "Get back to work," she said finally and turned and left. Dominic slid into the seat just vacated. Basilyn stared at him a long moment and finally leaned over to clear the table. "Did you want to order something or did you just come in to see if you could get me fired?" she asked irritably, though she discovered she was so relieved that disaster had been averted that most of her anger, fear, and tension had evaporated on the heels of Thomas' departure. He slid her a startled glance before his eyes narrowed angrily. "I just came to see if I could get you fired," he said tightly. She studied him a moment and looked down at the dishes in her hands. "Sorry. That was uncalled for. I appreciate your intentions, but I really prefer to fight my own battles." He eyed her with a touch of surprise—more than a touch. He hadn't been as surprised by her attack as he was by an apology. "You looked a little over-matched to me." She grinned suddenly. "Oh, I don't know." She leaned forward and whispered, "There's always the old knee to the groin if all else fails. It beats a cold shoulder every time." That remark surprised a chuckle out of him, though he winced at the thought. "I'm glad you warned me." Her eyes crinkled with amusement, though warm color suffused her cheeks. "It wasn't meant as a warning to you. I hardly think that's necessary. I can't think when I've met a more perfect gentleman. Besides, you're married. What can I get you?" He frowned, but then smiled wryly. Apparently she assumed that removed him as any sort of threat … and he supposed that it did, certainly did as long as he and Teresa were keeping the divorce ‘secret’—until he’d accomplished his side of the ‘under the table’ agreement they’d finally arrived at. "Now I can't decide whether I've been flattered or insulted." "Neither," she responded firmly. "I never flatter. It was a sincere compliment." He favored her with a pleased grin and rapped out an order, though he didn't pay much attention to what he was eating when it arrived. She didn't hover beside his table, which he discovered disappointed and irritated him in equal measure, and as he couldn't think of any reason to summon her that wouldn't be obvious, he didn't get the chance to speak with her again. He left the restaurant some time later feeling both pleased and piqued—and somewhat bemused, as well, as he made his way to his jeep, digging in his pocket for his keys. He was trying to fit the key in the lock when he heard a step behind him. "Hey, ass hole!" He ducked instinctively a moment before the tire iron whizzed past his head, whirling in the same motion and throwing both his momentum and his weight behind his fist as he drove it into the man's gut. The air left Thomas' lungs in a woof of surprise as he flew backwards into the car behind him. He rebounded and Dominic's left fist caught him on the jaw before he recovered himself, driving him into the car behind him again so hard it stunned him. Slowly, he slid to the ground, his hands clutching his stomach as he fought the urge to empty its contents all over the parking lot. "Pardon?" Dominic asked through gritted teeth that deprived the query of courtesy and made it more a threat. Thomas managed to get to his knees, but discovered he could get no further. He sent a surprised glance up at the man that stood over him. "Shit! Nothun'!" "I didn't think so." Dominic got in his jeep and drove off. He didn't go far. He pulled

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into the parking lot across the street and sat watching until Thomas stumbled to his feet and wove a dizzy path to his truck. He was still watching the parking lot an hour later when Basilyn came out, secured a bundle to the back of her moped, cranked it, and pulled away from the restaurant. He frowned as he watched her leave unmolested. Watching out for her once was all very well, but he couldn't make a habit of it. He didn't think her 'boyfriend' was the type to give up easily—or gracefully. The sooner he had her under his roof, and thus his protection, he thought, the better.

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Chapter Four Basilyn stared at the florescent light on the ceiling above her, trying to ignore her position. As many times as she'd done it already, she still felt horribly embarrassed and vulnerable. But then, this wasn't the sort of thing that any woman would ever get used to, she supposed. And, whatever the results today, she had to look forward to this for a while to come, she knew. She hoped it had taken. She didn't want to go through 'that' again. Not that the procedure had been painful, merely uncomfortable and embarrassing—and something else she didn't even like to think about. She had closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, determined to endure. She wouldn't think about it. She would think about how easy it was going to be from now on. She would think about the fact that she now had some chance of graduating high in her class because she was going to have all the time she needed to study and she wasn't going to have to go to class exhausted from working half the night. She hadn't thought about any of that, however. She'd thought about Dominic Demot. And she hadn't been disgusted at all. She hadn't felt immensely ill or even vaguely ill. Despite the clinical aspects, which couldn't be ignored, despite the circumstances, and without any rhyme or reason, she'd felt something she had never expected to experience at all when Dr. Chaney had injected Dominic Demot's seed into her womb. It had felt almost ... sensual. She wouldn't for the world tell a soul that, even if she had had someone she could've confided such intimate things with. Because even she thought it was crazy. But, somehow, when she'd closed her eyes all she'd been able to think about was that a part of him was reaching up inside of her to touch a part of her that had never been touched. Not even when …. But she didn't want to think about that. Remembering made her feel unclean. Remembering made her despise herself, even though she knew what had happened to her wasn't her fault. This had made her feel ... cleansed, uplifted. And, almost as crazy as the sensual thing, it had made her feel almost gifted in a religious sense. Because a new life had been given into her care to nurture and bring to fruition. Dangerous thoughts. She wasn't supposed to have them. She had told herself that she would not acknowledge the foreign object in her body at all. She would pretend it wasn't there. Or rather, she would pretend the thing was something 'borrowed'. Someone had lent her an object to carry around for a while and when the time came she must return the package to its rightful owner. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and held on to that thought as the door opened and Dr. Chaney and his nurse entered.

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"Well …. And how are we doing today?" Dr. Chaney asked jovially. Basilyn sent him a wry smile. Certainly the man was old enough to be her father, but it seemed rather incongruous for him to treat her like a small child with that 'we' business. "I don't know about y'all, but I'm fine," she responded wryly. Apparently, her irony escaped him. "Good. Good. Anything you want to tell me?" he asked as he grabbed his stool and made himself at home between her spread thighs, lowering his stool so that he had 'it' at eye level. She cringed inwardly and closed her eyes. He might very well be blasé about this, since he sent most of his days with his face in some woman's crotch or other, but she found she couldn't be nonchalant herself. She flinched when she felt his hands in that area. "Relax. This isn't going to hurt." Relax? Oh, sure. Nothing to it. That ice cold 'jack' he inserted into her vagina didn't bother her one little bit as he cheerfully pumped it open. She could almost envision what a gaping hole he'd created with that darned thing—if she'd wanted to, which she didn't. She heard the snap of rubber gloves and opened her eyes. The nurse was standing at his shoulder, peering at her coochy. She sent the woman a narrow-eyed stare, which she missed, wondering if it would be too much to ask that they take turns watching the 'show'. Maybe they should summon the rest of the staff and all crowd around to get a good look? "Well …. Looks like it took," Dr. Chaney said in a self-congratulatory way, standing up and pulling off his rubber gloves. Basilyn sighed with relief as he stood up and moved around to her side and began probing her abdomen. Several moments passed before his comment registered. "It took?" He grinned. "First time. Not bad. Not bad at all." She felt such a knee-weakening sense of relief she wasn't even particularly perturbed when he moved to her breasts and began examining them. She felt something else, too, an exhilaration that set her pulses to pounding. She didn't try to examine that reaction. She quickly dismissed it. "What happens now?" "We wait while you do all the rest of the work. Any nausea? Light-headedness? Fainting spells?" She frowned slightly. "No nausea. No fainting. I did have a dizzy spell, but I'd just gotten out of a hot shower." He pulled the sheet back over her breasts and patted her arm in a rather fatherly way. "Nothing to worry about. But be careful around the shower from now on. No hot showers. And if you begin to feel dizzy, sit down and put your head between your knees. Understand?" Basilyn smiled faintly. "I can think of a few places where I'd look a little odd doing that." He frowned, not amused. "It doesn't matter where you are. If you feel a dizzy spell coming on, do it. That's better than fainting and possibly hurting yourself—or the baby." She swallowed against a sudden, uncomfortable knot in her throat at that last word. "All right." Another thought occurred to her just then, effectively distracting her from the uncomfortable emotions his comment had made her feel. "Six weeks," she muttered in dismay. The future seemed to stretch out through infinity. Seven and a half months to go and already she

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felt trapped and suffocated by the idea of having to spend that time living under their roof. Dr. Chaney grinned, apparently having missed her tone. "No guessing with this one." Basilyn wondered if her smiling response looked as sickly as it felt. He took her heels out of the stirrups and, taking one of her hands, helped her to sit up. A muscle, low in her abdomen, caught in a painful cramp and she winced, reaching to massage away the pain. "Cramp?" She nodded. "It's the muscles. Just be careful when you sit up." She nodded again and he turned and headed for the door. "Dr. Chaney?" He stopped and turned to give her a questioning look. "Do you think...?" She paused, biting her lip. "Could you give me a couple of weeks before you tell …?" He frowned and gave the nurse a look. She went out, closing the door behind her. "What's this now? You aren't having second thoughts already?" "No," she denied quickly. "Not at all. It's just …. It's so long!" she blurted. "I know that's part of the deal—that I have to stay with them. I just thought … a couple more weeks wouldn't make that much difference to them one way or the other.." "The first trimester is the most important time in the development of the fetus. I already explained all that to you. And remember, no smoking. No drinking. Normal activities are fine, but you don't have any business horseback riding and the like." She sighed deeply, conceding defeat. "All right." Dr. Chaney moved towards the door again but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll give you a week … against my better judgment." She beamed at him. "Thank you." He studied her a moment and gave her a wink. "Don't mention it. But," he tapped the prescriptions he'd written out on the chart, "I want you to get on these prenatal vitamins immediately, understand? The iron, too, twice a day.." **** Basilyn knew she was alone when she bolted the apartment door behind her. It wasn't just the knowledge that both her roommates were working. The apartment felt empty. It also felt eerie. The air felt ... heavy, weighty with something that just wasn't right. She shivered, as if someone had drawn an icy finger down the ridges of her spine, and fumbled for the light switch. Nothing happened. She clicked it up and down twice more before she realized it was useless. The first thought that came to her was that the power company had cut the power. The blinking light on Cathy's digital clock/radio dispelled that notion. The bulb then. It had to be the bulb. Dropping her purse, books, and uniform by the door, she felt her way blindly across the darkened living room to the couch, the table beside it, and finally the lamp. She pressed the switch and light flooded the apartment. Sighing audibly, she dropped to the couch, pressing a shaking hand to her lips as she tried to reason away her fright, noting without any real surprise that everything looked just as it should. After a moment, however, it occurred to her that the apartment was as silent as the grave.

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It was so silent she could hear the electrical whir of Cathy's radio and the refrigerator in the apartment's kitchenette. She got to her feet again and moved to her room, pushing the door open. Switching on her overhead light, her gaze went immediately to Emy's cage. "Emy?" She hurried across the room, oblivious to the destruction that surrounded her, staring blankly at the empty bird cage ... open cage. Fury surged through her. One of her roommates must have left the door open or not latched it properly. But no one was supposed to go into her room for any reason. And they damn sure didn't have any business messing with her pet. "Jack!" she said on a sudden thought, recalling that he'd complained about the 'racket' the little finch made. Her eyes focused finally on the open window beyond the cage. She stared at it for several moments, trying to remember if she'd left it open, opened it for any reason, before she realized that the screen was gone. Something hard and painful and chilling hit her in the chest then—fear –terrible fear. Because she knew Jack wouldn't have left the apartment open and vulnerable. He was more terrified of burglars than she and Cathy put together. She stared at the gaping black hole of night beyond the window for several moments before she could force herself to turn and face the room—to see what had been taken—what destroyed—to see if whoever had climbed in had also climbed out again. She knew what the ugly brown splotch on the wall was even before she saw Emy's broken little body on the floor below it. She'd seen it in her nightmares, countless times. She clapped a hand to her mouth, but a hiccoughing sob escaped her. Without volition, without even realizing she'd done so, her feet took her across the room until she was close—close enough to read the words someone had smeared in Emy's blood.

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Chapter Five Almost one week to the day after her appointment with Dr. Chaney, Basilyn got the call she'd been expecting just as she was walking out the door to go to work. Her stomach knotted with nerves even before she took the receiver from her roommate, Cathy. "It's a man," Cathy mouthed, looking both surprised and curious as she held out the receiver, for Basilyn had never had a call from a man before, not in all the months she'd been sharing the apartment with Cathy and Jack. "He's got a dreamy voice—gave me goose bumps," she added in a conspiratorial whisper as Basilyn took the receiver. Under the circumstances, she wasn't at all surprised at Cathy's curiosity. They weren't friends and had never shared confidences of any kind. They didn't even know much about each other's backgrounds. And although Basilyn had thought at first that Cathy and Jack were lovers, it hadn't taken long to discover that that was not the case at all. Jack was gay and Cathy and Jack had met in the same way Basilyn had met them—through the want ads. The living arrangements had been strictly one of necessity since none of them could afford the upkeep of an apartment alone. And yet the arrangement had worked surprisingly well. So well Basilyn almost felt as if she was abandoning them, even though Cathy had acted mostly unconcerned when she heard Basilyn would be moving and had gone straight down to place another ad. "Hello?" "Basilyn? It's Dominic. Dr. Chaney gave me a call a little while ago with the news. I hear I'm going to be a father." She felt a shiver tingle along her spine, an unidentifiable 'something' that was half uncomfortable half pleasant and couldn't forbear wondering, briefly, what she would have felt like if things had been different and she'd been speaking to a husband or lover instead of an employer. She thought she would've felt immensely pleased and cherished, for the excitement in his voice was patently obvious. He sounded almost like a school boy. Funny, but when she'd thought about it at all, she had figured he'd be very blasé about the whole business … once he recovered from the session in Dr. Chaney's office, that is. She couldn't seem to think of an appropriate response. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Uh … Congratulations?" she said a little doubtfully. He laughed, an amused, shaky sound, as if he was still more than a little stunned over the news. His reaction did strange things to her insides. She decided to ignore it. "Yes … well …." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "I'll be coming to collect you tomorrow. Do you think you could have your things together that quickly?" "Yes, I'll be ready. What time should I expect y … to be picked up?" "I don't usually leave the office until around six. How does that sound?" She bit her lip in consternation. "Well—uh—I think I'm scheduled to go in at five tomorrow. I'll ask my supervisor if I can come in about eight?" There were several moments of silence. "You haven't turned in your notice?" She lifted her brows in surprise. "No. Why would I do that?" Silence greeted that question. "I'll be taking care …. You'll be living with us now. You

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don't need to work at a place like that." She frowned. Just what did he mean by that? Po' Ed's was a perfectly respectable restaurant. "That wasn't in the contract," she reminded him. Again silence. He obviously wasn't at all happy about the reminder. "It should have been," he responded tightly. "I don't want you working at a place like that." She felt her jaw drop. "I … I beg your pardon?" Surely she hadn't heard him correctly. "Turn in your notice—today, when you go in." It was an order. Basilyn felt a spurt of anger. "Look, Mr. Demot …." "Dominic," he broke in to correct her. She could hear him grinding his teeth. "Look, I need this job ...." "No, you don't." She felt a tiny spurt of fear. She did need it. Work was security. She'd already asked them to cut her hours. But she couldn't let go of her job and the security of a personal paycheck completely. If she did that she'd be totally dependent on others for the very food she put in her mouth. She hadn't been dependent on anyone else for anything since she was sixteen. She wasn't about to start now. "I do. And I won't," she said belligerently. An electric silence followed. "We'll discuss this tomorrow when I pick you up." "Fine. Good bye," she said and hung up. He could discuss until he was blue in the face for all she cared. They didn't own her just because of that damned contract. **** They made the drive in angry silence—for the most part. Dominic's demeanor had been cool from the moment he arrived and remained so as he helped her to load her belongings into the back of his truck. The only thing that elicited any notable response out of him, in fact, was her moped when she brought it forward to be loaded, and at that, it was only a stiffer, more frigid, more pronounced silence that was marked enough at that point that, as little as she knew him, she was in no doubt he disliked the moped excessively. She saw nothing remarkable in his behavior otherwise. Regardless of the contract between them, they were virtual strangers. And, from the little she knew of the him, she'd gained the impression that he was rather reserved. She was herself, and could see nothing in that to quibble over. She preferred his coolness, in fact, to the friendliness he'd tentatively extended several times before. She couldn't be comfortable with that at all. She quickly discovered, however, that it wasn't reserve but rather anger that had prompted his cool greeting and kept his conversation to a minimum as he loaded up her belongings. They'd scarcely traversed three blocks when, on stopping at a traffic signal, he slid her a narrow-eyed look that took her in from head to toe and made her thoroughly uncomfortable, although she was at pains to pretend she didn't even notice. "Did you give your notice?" She didn't look at him. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did she let on that the remark annoyed her or bothered her in any other way. "No," she replied bluntly, though without inflection. He seemed to wrestle with himself a moment. She waited patiently, somewhat curious, in a detached sort of way, of his temperament. It was always safest, she'd discovered, to know the 'man of the house' right off. Was he cold in anger? Blustering? Violent? Was his temper forever on a short leash? One could not protect oneself until one had discovered what to expect.

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"It's not necessary for you to work," he managed finally. "And I'd prefer that you wouldn't." Reasonable. He sounded reasonable—even if his request wasn't. She turned to look at him finally. "You don't trust me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, flat, without rancor. His head whipped around and for a long moment their eyes met and held before he returned his attention to his driving with apparent reluctance, prompted by a blaring horn behind them. "I understand. You've no reason to, after all. By the same token, neither do I—have reason to trust you, I mean." Again, he shot her a quick look but said nothing, waiting for her to make her point. "Actually, I don't trust anybody—depend on anybody. I've learned not to," she continued after a moment. "I don't say this to insult you—merely to make you understand. I trust me— rely upon myself." She smiled faintly. "I rarely get disappointed that way. This job is my security. It means, come what may, if I get booted out on my ear, I won't starve. I mean to keep it as long as I'm able—to build up my nest egg again, so that when I have to quit, I'll be safe till I can find another job and go back to work. I will do it regardless, but we can be much more comfortable if you'll just try to understand and accept my position." He braked to a stop as the signal at the intersection they were approaching switched to yellow. Glancing towards her again, his gaze rested speculatively on her abdomen for several moments before he lifted them to her face for a long moment and finally looked away again. "You honestly think you can continue to do that kind of work in your condition?" She bit her lip to hide a smile and looked away. "I'm pregnant, Mr. Demot—not crippled." She heard a rustle of sound and knew he'd turned to look at her again. She felt his eyes upon her abdomen again ... and wished it wasn't so magnetic to him. She didn't think, if her abdomen continued to fascinate him, that she was going to be able to accustom herself to that speculative look that rested as often upon that place as her face. She rather hoped he would rapidly accustom himself to the notion and cease to stare at her in that disconcerting way ... with that look she found impossible to understand. He allowed the subject to drop, but she sensed he was still angry. And not resigned to being unable to change her decision to suit himself. Obviously, he was a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Though how his wife had failed to break him of the habit, Basilyn couldn't imagine. She doubted Theresa was the sort of woman who ever followed an order—even when that order coincided with her own wishes. She seemed just the sort to perversely do the opposite out of sheer contrariness. Basilyn on the other hand, was more apt to allow logic to sway her. She didn't like orders any better than the next person and an abrupt command invariably set up her back. However, she was not, even then, resistant to logic. If he'd given her some concrete reasons, instead of simply pointing out that he didn't like it, she would've been willing to listen and might even have given in to persuasion. Her working was not going to endanger his fetus, however. And, barring that, he had no claims upon her person whatsoever. "I'll ask Dr. Chaney's opinion," she added after some time had passed. "If he's against my working—or thinks my job might be bad for your baby—then I'll quit." He slid her a speculative look. "All right."

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She frowned slightly, unable to interpret the tone he'd used, but dismissed it after a few moments. They'd passed through Tampa proper and Temple Terrace and were about to leave the suburb behind before he spoke again. "Dr. Chaney said he gave you a prescription for prenatal vitamins and iron. If you've got them handy, I'll stop and get them filled." "I already got them filled." He sent her a sharp look, frowning. "Already ...? I'll have to reimburse you then. How much?" She turned to study him a moment feeling, for some strange reason, as if he was intruding on something private. But he was right. The medical expenses were his—and his wife's—like the baby. She had no reason at all to feel 'cheap' because he was offering to pay for something for her. It wasn't for her at all. She dug into her purse and produced the receipt, placing it on the seat between them. He picked the slip up and looked it over, then sent her a sharp look. "This is a week old." She bit her lip. She hadn't thought about that incriminating date at the top of the receipt. She managed an offhand shrug. "I needed a few days to accustom myself to the idea. It's not going to be any easier for me to live among strangers than it will be for y'all to have a stranger living with you. I asked Dr. Chaney to give me a couple of days before he called you." His lips tightened in irritation but, after a moment, he seemed to dismiss it. Relieved, Basilyn returned her attention to the view outside her window, concentrating on that rather than the nervous twinges she got when she allowed herself to think of living in the same house with the Demots. She dismissed that, too, however, as they turned upon a long, winding drive, her attention caught by the sudden snort of a gasoline engine. A short, rather stocky man, wearing a battered straw hat and ragged denim shirt and jeans was chopping his way through the underbrush with a bush hog. Aside from that precaution against snakes, however, the wood on either side of the drive had been left in an entirely natural state, the stand of trees so thick that they were upon the house before she saw it. She drew in a sharp breath as the house burst into view, craning her neck to take it all in as they swept around the curving drive, passed through a modernized portecochere and around to the back of the house where he pulled into a three bay garage between a red jeep and a tan foreign luxury car before he killed the engine. Impressive. The house was a sprawling, multi-level, modern design, constructed, from what little she'd been able to tell from her short view, almost exclusively of wood, real wood, though she recalled a glimpse of field stone as well ... and glass. The house had more windows than a department store. She wasn't surprised. An architect with Demot's reputation would never live in a ho hum house. But she was still impressed. Instead of getting out immediately, he swiveled around in his seat to face her. Basilyn, on the point of exiting, paused and looked at him questioningly. "Are you always this unreasonable? I only meant to make things easier for you," he said coolly. Basilyn studied him a long moment, though she realized almost immediately that he'd taken up the gauntlet over her job again. Her silence was rather an assessing one. She couldn't for the life of her understand why it bothered him that she meant to continue working. If he had been any man other than Dominic Demot, who had no reason that she could see to feel that way,

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she would've thought his persistence a sign of possessiveness. "If the … suggestion was meant as a kindness then I appreciate your concern, however unnecessary. But I don't think I'm being unreasonable." He scowled at her. "So I'm being unreasonable? Alright. You think you won't have any problem keeping up with the work, regardless of your condition and you need the money. I can understand your position there. I don't go along with it, but I can understand. But it isn't safe for you and I'd think, after what happened with that Thomas character, you'd be anxious to quit the sort of job that exposed you to creeps like that." Basilyn pursed her lips. "What you happened upon was a rare circumstance, whether you believe me or not. The guy hasn't been in since. And it doesn't matter if he does. I told you I asked for shorter hours. I won't be working nights anymore—just afternoons. So there isn't much chance I'd run into him even if he did come in. That being the case, I feel perfectly safe. I am perfectly safe, so I can't see how you could object on the grounds of safety. Because it's as safe a job as I'm going to find. And what I really can't understand is why do you make such an offer, and insist, when you've been afraid from the start that I'll end being an albatross around your neck for the rest of your life." He stared at her in surprise for several moments, a dark tide tingeing his swarthy complexion to mahogany. "What makes you think I think that?" She gave him a steady look. "Don't you?" He looked away. "I might have ...." He glanced over at her again, his gaze wandering slowly over her until they came to rest on her face. "But I begin to think that's the least of my worries." He flung open his truck door and got out, muttering under his breath so that Basilyn wasn't even certain she'd heard him right. “I've already got my albatross." They entered through the kitchen. Theresa, who was apparently in the process of preparing supper, turned and watched without a word as they went through, Basilyn trailing Dominic with a box she could barely see over. She could see sufficiently well, however, to take in the kitchen, and she did so with a single sweeping glance that missed little—but only a sweeping, somewhat furtive glance. She didn't want to appear either nosey or back-woodsy. But she was awed. The kitchen looked much as she had envisioned it must, belonging to such a house, like something out of an interior designs magazine. One of those ultra modern, ultra chic, ultra efficient kitchens that looked as if no one had ever worked a day in it. The copper pots hanging from the wrought iron pot rack above the cook island were spotless and looked fresh from their box. Plants were tucked in every conceivable nook, late afternoon sunlight spilling onto them from the skylights above. There was a built-in wine rack, full, and near that cache of what Basilyn knew without looking were very expensive wines, a rack that held spotless crystal stemware. There must have been a half a mile of smooth white counter top, corian if she didn't miss her guess, and back lit so that the opaque surfaces glowed almost as if with an inner life. Diffused fluorescent lighting from above chased every shadow away. There was a bar sink on the island opposite a six burner gas cook top with an indoor grill and griddle. Beyond the stove, along the outer wall of the house and below cased windows that must have been six feet high, was a second sink, this one divided into three sections.

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It was the sort of kitchen women dream of. The sort of kitchen most women would've given up all hope of heaven to own. And Theresa looked as 'at home' as a barnyard fowl. From the looks of the meal she'd prepared, turkey bologna on rye and 'light' corn chips, it seemed doubtful she'd won Dominic's heart through his stomach. They passed through the kitchen and down a short hallway and stepped into the great room. At a guess, Basilyn estimated the room must be at least thirty by forty feet, though possibly it only seemed that cavernous because the ceiling soared upwards two and a half stories. And much of the outer wall was glass so that it seemed to bring the outdoors within. Up two steps to their left, upon a raised platform that was all the distinction made for separation, was a formal dining room. The rectangular mahogany table could've easily seated ten, which seemed to indicate the Demots were in the habit of entertaining rather lavishly and probably fairly frequently. At the far end, against the wall that separated the dining area from the kitchen, stood a hutch and credenza easily ten feet high, also of mahogany. Opposite that, creating a semi room-divider effect, was a mahogany sideboard topped by a rather elaborate epergne filled with improbable silk flowers and cat-tails dyed a deep indigo blue. A conversation pit was the focus of the great room itself. There, cushioned seating and mounds of throw pillows in earth tones circled a fire pit made of fieldstone that was capped by a conical flue. At the far end, just barely visible, stood a full sized billiards table with a dropped Tiffany lamp above it. Off to one side was a bar perhaps eight feet long with swing out bar stools. And, opposite that, a wide screen TV. Nearer at hand was a reversible topped game table, inlaid with burled wood divided by leather strips with built-in glass coasters and cups for chips, the game ensemble completed by four upholstered chairs. A four sectioned bookcase/ display cabinet lined the wall near the stairs, but few books resided there. In the majority, it's function seemed to be simply as a display cabinet for those odds and ends an interior designer was apt to think a 'must'; an assortment of plants; brass, glass or wood objects d'art; and antique, leather bound, beautifully tooled books that, in all likelihood, were there for the sake of appearance only. All in all, and despite its almost overwhelming spaciousness, it seemed a warm room, designed specifically with entertaining in mind ... which, regardless of it's 'masculine playroom' affect, seemed more in keeping with her perceptions of Theresa than Dominic. For it was Theresa who seemed a very social sort of person and, if she wasn't a social butterfly, undoubtedly aspired to the distinction. Dominic had struck her from the first as a reserved, private sort of man. Certainly she had difficulty envisioning him bantering with friends around the pool table or guzzling beer in front of the wide screen TV. Not that she really knew either of them well enough to consider her judgment of them sound. Dominic crossed the room and mounted a suspended staircase built of wrought iron and wood that curved gently as it rose. Following in his footsteps, Basilyn paused a moment and looked up at the stairs, wondering if she could make the climb to the top without breaking her neck. She didn't like heights and there was something terribly intimidating about a suspended stair. Wrought iron and thick plank treads notwithstanding, the staircase seemed as insubstantial to her mind as smoke. After an uncomfortable moment, she shifted her box to her hip, grasped the cold iron balustrade and followed Dominic upstairs. Her room, she discovered, was on the top level. She

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would've much preferred a ground level room. Or even one on the second level they passed at the landing. But then, she hadn't been asked and she doubted there was a ground level room that could've been used for a bedroom—and the rooms on the second level obviously made up the master suite. She paused on the upper landing as Dominic entered the room that would be hers for the next seven months, gripping the balustrade with a white-knuckled fist as she stared out over the panorama that lay before her. If the Demots had meant to intimidate her with their wealth, they couldn't have done a better job. In her present position, however, she couldn't even appreciate the aesthetic aspects of the room that lay before her, for her stomach pitched forward in weightless flight as she turned to survey the living area below. She swayed slightly as she stared with sick horror at the drop-off at her feet, unable to tear her eyes away, though she wasn't certain whether it was vertigo from her fear of heights or the light-headedness her pregnancy had already caused her several times before. Regardless, the sensation was very real, and she couldn't decide whether to sit down immediately and follow Dr. Chaney's orders or try to reach her room where she might lie down with a little more dignity. She jumped when her arm was suddenly seized, so startled she lost her grip on her box. The carton hit the top step and tumbled downwards to the second level before it halted its descent by crashing into the wall. She looked down at her scattered belongings in dismay for several moments before she looked up at Dominic Demot, who was still gripping her arm. "Are you alright?" he asked abruptly. He was frowning, but she couldn't tell whether his expression denoted concern or irritation. She moistened her lips, swallowing against the dryness of her throat. "Yes. I ...." "What happened?" Dominic released her arm as if he'd suddenly been burned as they both whirled to look at Theresa, who'd rushed in at the sound of the crashing box. Basilyn swayed again as her support was so abruptly withdrawn and grasped the balustrade with both hands, staring down at Theresa and wondering if she should confess her dizziness for the sake of peace between husband and wife or keep it to herself for her own peace. If Theresa had failed to note that her husband was gripping Basilyn's arm before, which seemed doubtful in any case, his guilty movement had certainly drawn her attention. And her eyes were glittering with suspicions even now. On the other hand, if she admitted to suffering occasional dizzy spells, Dominic Demot was liable to seize upon that as an excuse to demand, again, that she quit her job. And she didn't want to admit to anyone that she had a phobia of heights. She suspected both of the Demots already doubted her sanity. She wasn't about to add fuel to that fire. She decided, therefore, to say nothing. Dominic Demot looked more than capable of defending himself. "Nothing—she dropped a carton," Dominic said and started down the stairs to retrieve the object in question. Basilyn stared after him for a long moment, undecided as to whether to follow him or not. Her mementos had spilled from the box and she didn't want him handling them, whether he was curious enough to examine them or not. On the other hand, she still felt a little dizzy and she wasn't certain she could manage that flight of stairs just now without giving herself away.

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Her need for privacy overrode other considerations as Dominic picked up her diary and turned the volume over curiously before dropping the book into the box, and she followed him down, relieved to find she was only slightly unsteady on her feet, crouching beside him as she reached the second landing. "I'll get this," she said quickly, snatching up her belongings and tossing them haphazardly into the box without looking at him. She felt his assessing gaze upon her for a long moment before he finally spoke. "Alright. Why don't you just go on up and start unpacking. I'll get the rest of the boxes in." She hesitated for a long moment before she nodded acceptance. She'd never cared for the idea of obligations. And it wasn't altogether stiff pride, though she was well aware she had her share of that. However, it was more that she distrusted obligations, than pride, for she'd learned to her cost that all too often people were inclined to call in favors owed with unpleasant requests for repayment. Regardless, she didn't feel up to doing her own moving at the moment and feared that she would give herself away if she was forced to make too many trips up and down the spiral stairs. "Thank you," she said quietly as he rose to leave. He paused again and she looked up to discover he was studying her frowningly, not angrily, but rather as if he couldn't quite decide what to make of her. In a moment, he smiled. It was like sunshine breaking through the clouds, warming, cheering, a slowly dawning, pleased smile that seemed to lift years of care from his shoulders. There was nothing of the seducer in that smile, nothing calculated—which made it all the more seductive. She felt a tentative, answering smile lift her own lips in unconscious response, a rush of warmth through her entire system that she instantly distrusted. He left her abruptly, descending the stairs at what she considered a dangerous pace and she stared after him for a long moment before shifting her gaze to where she'd last seen Theresa. She was there still, watching her. Their eyes met, clashing in some sort of war of wills Basilyn was conscious of even while its exact meaning escaped her, before Theresa turned and followed her husband towards the back of the house. Gathering the last of her belongings into her battered box, Basilyn rose, lifting it to her hip and carefully making her way upstairs. She paused in the doorway, surveying the room, disconcerted. It was a little girl's room. French provincial furnishings in pristine white, embellished with gilt, filled the room despite its size—for it was a large room—and still overcrowded. The four poster, canopied bed looked to be queen size and was largely responsible for the cluttered affect since it dominated the room. But, even so, the room wouldn't really have been crowded if the bed had only been matched by a few necessary pieces and left at that. Instead, in the corner beyond the bed was a canopied, French provincial crib. Surrounding the crib, almost as if invisibly partitioned off, was a nursery, complete to the point of overflowing. A baby swing, dressing table, chest of drawers and two rocking chairs; one adult sized the other toddler sized, crowded close by. Dozens of stuffed animals and squeezable, squeaking toys cluttered the pastel baby comforter in the crib. At the foot of the crib stood a chest filled to overflowing with more baby toys. A wind-up mobile was clamped to the headboard and along its side rail, 'busy-boxes' for baby. The opposite side of the room, where she stood, was decorated for an older child, from tot to pre-teenager, with a large chest of drawers, a double dresser and an armoire that Basilyn

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was almost willing to bet without even checking, housed a TV and possibly a VCR or CD player, as well. At the foot of the bed stood a large chest that was likely as filled with toys as that at the foot of the crib. The room was beautiful, expensive—And somehow chilling. It was almost as if she'd stepped into the room of a child tragically lost, rather than one not yet found, but happily anticipated. She felt herself an intruder. She would never be comfortable here, she thought in sudden dismay. Never feel even a guest. She would feel out of place, unwelcome, for all the time she stayed. She'd really expected no less. She hadn't anticipated, however, that she would feel threatened somehow, but that was exactly how she felt. It wasn't just the hand of wealth spread before her. Though that in itself was sufficient to make a poor girl like herself feel woefully out of her depth. No. There was something ... unnatural about the place … something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She shivered slightly and finally moved reluctantly into the room, settling her box on the floor and kneeling beside it to begin sorting and putting away. Though that was the last thing she wanted to do. She glanced around at the room again as she stood with her diary, seeking a safe place to hide the book from intrusion and felt an uneasy shiver skate down her spine. What she wanted, she realized suddenly, was to run and never look back. She was threatened here. She knew it with sudden, absolute clarity. She didn't know by whom, or even in what way, but she felt a bone deep chill seep through her.

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Chapter Six "What were you two talking about?" "When?" "In the truck—before you came in. It must have been something interesting. Otherwise you would've come in, not sat in the truck a good fifteen minutes! What's the matter? Didn't you have time to seduce her on the way over?" Theresa asked, her voice coolly flippant despite the inflammatory suggestion. A lengthy silence followed that remark. "We were arguing," Dominic finally answered, his voice taut with anger. "You know—what you and I do all the time!" "About what?" Theresa asked, sounding suspicious but slightly mollified. "I don't want her waiting tables, damn it! I told her so. She refused to quit." Another lengthy silence. "Why?" "Why, what?" "Why don't you want her waiting tables? You think she's too good for that? Or are you worried about how she'll be fielding the passes that come her way? Personally, I think, if you're trying to reform the little slut, you're entirely too late!" There was a distinguishable pause before Dominic replied in a low, rumbling growl. "That's a damned lie, Theresa, and you know it! If you'd really believed she was a slut—if I'd believed it, she wouldn't be here now! What's eating you tonight, anyway? You were the one that demanded we at least try for the appearance of a real marriage here. Or do you want to air our dirty laundry in front of a stranger? Because if that's what you've got in mind we might as well call a halt to this right here and now! I let you have your damned way, and I'm not going to pay for the damned privilege!" Theresa didn’t reply for several moments. Finally, she muttered, "I don't like the way you look at her. If you mean to keep up appearances you could at least make an attempt not to drool when you look at her. What was that all about on the stairs while ago, anyway?" Dominic cursed long and fluently. "The way I look ...? Jesus Christ! Alright! Fine! You don't want me to look at her? I'll make damn sure I look at the wall when I speak to her! Or would you rather I didn't talk to her at all? Maybe I should just use hand signals when I want her to pass me the salt? Huh? How the hell do you think the three of us are going to live in this God forsaken mausoleum of yours for nearly a damn year like this? And for your information, I was trying to keep her from rolling down the damn stairs! Or, maybe I should have let her?" "Will you be quiet! Do you want her to hear you?" "This is a hell of a time to start worrying about that! And why worry at all? If you mean to keep this up, she's bound to hear us sooner or later!" Another, shorter silence. "Why don't you see if she's ready to come down and eat?" "Why don't you do it your damned self? Hell! For all you know I might seduce her three times on the way back!" Basilyn ducked back into her room and softly closed the door. She hadn't meant to

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eavesdrop, but she could scarcely have failed to hear them. She'd been on the point of going down in search of food, but she rather thought she'd lost her appetite. She kicked her shoes off and dropped onto the bed, staring at the pattern on the canopy overhead while her mind, regardless of her wishes, replayed the scene she'd just overheard. She couldn't say that she was truly surprised at the development. She'd sensed from the first that all was not right in paradise. Of course, it was none of her business—except in so far as it affected her. And she didn't intend to choose sides, didn't think she could've figured which side to choose if she'd wanted to. Neither of them particularly appealed to her, and both, it seemed, must be at least partially wrong. But she began to see her own life in a better light. Obviously, there was hell and then there was hell. And she, at least, was working on severing the last of the chains that bound her to a hell of poverty. Theresa and Dominic seemed, somehow, chained for eternity. Ridiculous, she thought disgustedly and dismissed the notion. No one was 'chained', at least not in wedlock, anymore. Divorce was too easy to get. And if nothing more than money held them together, then they richly deserved each other. Then again, maybe the tension between them was because of her? Maybe they weren't always like this, though Dominic's remarks seemed to indicate otherwise. Perhaps she should insist on leaving. Cathy hadn't rented her room out yet, surely? But would they let her go? And did she want them to know she'd overheard them? Because that was the only real excuse she could give for a sudden departure, now, when she'd only just arrived. She heard footsteps on the upper landing. A moment later Theresa Demot flung open the door without so much as a warning tap. Basilyn's head snapped in her direction, her brows drawing together in sudden annoyance. For a moment, she debated whether to voice her irritation or not, particularly in light of the argument just finished down stairs. But finally she decided she might as well make it plain from the start that she didn't mean to let them run over her—whatever they were in the habit of doing to each other. "If this is to be my room, I'd appreciate it if you'd knock before you come in." Theresa's eyes narrowed. "It's my house." Basilyn sat up, eyeing her coolly. "That's not in question. I like my privacy—and I mean to have it. If you can't respect that, then I might just as well start packing everything up again. I don't care who you are or how much money your family's got—or how much you're used to having your way, you see. I'll have a guarantee of privacy, or I'll be leaving today." "You heard us downstairs, didn't you!" Theresa snapped suspiciously, neatly avoiding an answer to Basilyn's demand, though Basilyn assumed she had tacitly agreed and merely had no desire to address the issue directly. "I would've had to have been deaf not to. If you want your own privacy, you'll have to try to remember I'm here," Basilyn retorted dryly. "I didn't want to come, if you'll recall. This was part of the bargain." Theresa seemed to wrestle with herself for several moments, trying to decide whether to pursue the argument till she 'won' or to practice a touch of diplomacy for her ultimate ends. Her gaze left Basilyn's face and traveled around her room of dreams, hesitating lovingly on each detail. After a time, she focused on Basilyn again, her face now a model of tranquility. She smiled faintly. "Fine. I've made sandwiches. Will you come down?" Basilyn stared at her curiously for several moments, disconcerted at the swift change in

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her. Finally, she nodded, smiling faintly in return, more than willing to drop the argument. Unlike Theresa, who seemed to thrive upon it, she disliked dissension immensely. "I'm starving." "What do you think of the house?" Theresa asked in a friendly sort of way as they started down the stairs, justifiable pride in her voice. Though Basilyn noted a touch of condescension there, too, that she didn't particularly care for. She didn't need anyone to point out the difference in their life-styles. She was painfully conscious of it without any sort of reminders. But then she dismissed the touch of irritation almost as quickly as it registered, glanced around automatically at the prompt to admire, and immediately wished she hadn't. She focused her eyes on the stairs again, missing the sharp look Theresa sent her. "It's beautiful. I didn't think anybody really lived like this. I've seen places like this in magazines, but honestly, I think I believed it was like fairy-tale books. Not real, you know," she admitted with rueful amusement. Theresa chuckled, obviously pleased. It was almost a natural sound—almost. There was something slightly stilted about it. Not really surprising all things considered. "I don't know as I'd say we really live like this either. Dominic spends most of his time at his office. He only breezes by and lights briefly now and then." Basilyn said nothing. She wondered, though, if he only 'lit briefly' because Theresa made him miserably uncomfortable in his own home. Or if Theresa made him miserably uncomfortable because she had failed to domesticate the man. Either case was equally possible. But of the two, she thought she was more inclined to believe the latter. Dominic didn't strike her as the sort of man easily domesticated. He struck her as the 'wealthy playboy' type, or possibly businessman extraordinaire, the businessman who was always a businessman and never a 'home body'. That was the main reason she'd considered the interior design of the house more likely Theresa's idea than either a joint venture or the product of Dominic's design. Perhaps as an enticement to bring her man home. Not that Theresa struck her as being a terribly domestic sort either. She seemed too ... superficial ... too ornamental for that. Dominic was frowning intensely at a ball game on the portable TV mounted on a swivel support above the base cabinets in the kitchen, demolishing the last of his sandwich with methodical precision rather than any appearance of enjoyment when they entered the kitchen. He didn't look up at their entrance, didn't acknowledge them in any way, though Basilyn was fairly certain that he had no idea what he was watching and couldn't have cared less if the screen had been perfectly blank—probably wouldn't have noticed if the channel had been switched. If he had been any man other than Dominic Demot, Basilyn would've viewed his posture as sulky, little boy sulky, but there was nothing about the man that hinted at 'little boy' vulnerability, desperately hidden by macho man to protect himself from having his weakness used against him. There was nothing of the 'wounded bear' about him either. He looked dangerously near a total loss of temper, possibly violent temper. Basilyn gave him a wide berth and seated herself gingerly at the far end of the snack bar. Theresa dropped a plate in front of her with a clatter that should have drawn Dominic's attention but didn't. "Tomorrow night's your night," she said and took her seat. Basilyn, who'd taken up her sandwich and surreptitiously searched it to discover if it contained anything she'd just as soon not eat, lifted her head questioningly. "Pardon?"

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"We take turns preparing supper around here—now. Since we're all going to be one, big, happy family from now on, you'll want to take your turn. I'll expect you to help me around the house a bit, too. Nothing strenuous—I send the laundry out. Thing is, Nick's quaint way of looking at things is that if you get, you have to give, so I had to drop the woman who used to do the cooking and cleaning." She didn't do cattiness very well. It wasn't nearly subtle enough. Basilyn stared at her. It wasn't that she minded. She and her roommates, since they all worked, had had a similar arrangement. However, she'd assumed Theresa was a housewife, and couldn't see, in that case, why she would quibble over preparing a meal for so few—not that it was much of a meal. The restaurant she worked at did better, though it was a semi-fast food establishment. As for the cleaning—despite the size of the house, the upkeep couldn't be too difficult with only the three of them to pick up after. If she were honest with herself it wasn't Theresa's half-subtle demand that bothered her, but her not so subtle dig at her husband. If he'd made Theresa give up her maid, it seemed far more likely that it was because of her—because he didn't want the woman privy to their arrangement, rather than an attempt to be tightfisted as Theresa was implying. She didn't believe that for a moment, not when Theresa so obviously spent money like water. If anything, she was more inclined to think the man over-indulged his wife rather than the reverse. And, since she could see no signs that Dominic abused her in any way, why did Theresa seem to take a perverse delight in seizing every opportunity to make him look bad? Undoubtedly she didn't realize that such comments had a way of reflecting back on the one who'd made them. Finally, she issued a mental shrug, dismissing her thoughts with the uncomfortable suspicion that Theresa was making an attempt to drag her into their domestic problems to take up sides. She wanted nothing to do with that. She had no intention of allowing herself to be dragged in that close if she could help it. "What would you like for me to cook?" She felt a stirring of excitement as she allowed her gaze to wander from Theresa's face to the kitchen around her. It would be purest pleasure to prepare a meal in such a kitchen. She hadn't thought she'd be allowed to touch anything. Theresa shrugged off-handedly. "Nothing fancy. Don't worry. We like to watch our waistline around here." Basilyn felt her excitement take a nose-dive. But she caught the sardonic look Dominic sent his wife and wondered if he was quite as happy about that particular rule of the house as his wife was. In her experience, by way of her foster fathers, men were inclined to be inordinately well pleased when greeted by a warm meal on returning home from work. And inordinately displeased when they discovered nothing at all—or perhaps a sandwich. Not that she cared whether Dominic was pleased or not, but she rather liked to come home to a hot meal herself. "You don't want a regular meal then?" She was a little surprised that Theresa didn't take insult at the careless remark. She chuckled. "What do you call a regular meal?" Basilyn shrugged uncomfortably, sensing Dominic's interested gaze. "Meat—a couple of side dishes ...." Theresa waved the suggestion away as if it were an annoying fly. "Fattening foods. I'm surprised you're so skinny. You must have a very fast metabolism." Basilyn flushed. She wasn't skinny. Everybody couldn't be built like Theresa Demot,

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after all. She'd always considered that she was fortunate enough to be neither skinny nor plump but rather somewhere between the two. "Despite what most people seem to think, meat is one of the necessary food groups and it isn't necessarily fattening—if cooked right. Even pork ...." "We don't eat pork." "Well, chicken then." "We don't eat chicken either—not anymore. If you'd seen that horrible article …." She shuddered. "If everyone believed everything that had been written, they'd soon discover there was nothing left to eat. Anyway, everybody's got to die sometime of something, but starvation is a sight quicker than a lot of other ways I can think of. Besides I happen to consider food one of the enjoyments of life. The problem is, most people don't know how to do anything in moderation. If they did, they could enjoy things without worrying about it becoming a health problem." Basilyn paused, studying the other woman a long moment. "I don't mean to argue, but I'm human and humans are naturally omnivorous, which means I eat meat, fowl, fish, and vegetables. Y'all must eat what you like, of course, and I'll try to be accommodating when I do the cooking. But I'll eat vegetables, fruits … and meat." Dominic choked on his iced tea. Theresa sent him a suspicious glare. "Well! We're certainly candid, aren't we?" Basilyn eyed her steadily. "I don't know about 'we', but I certainly try to be. I've never seen any benefit in trying to pretend I'm something I'm not—and I make it a policy not to be anybody's doormat. It's an … unpleasant way to spend one's life." "Nobody's trying to make you a doormat, so you needn't get your back up!" A humorless smile tipped Basilyn's lips up. "Good. It's so much more comfortable, don't you think? When one knows where one stands?" She turned her attention to her bologna sandwich. She'd been staying with the Demots less than a week when she left class one day and discovered her most vital claim to independence had been demolished … literally. Someone had run over her moped in the University parking lot and totaled it. She realized then just where she stood—right in the palm of the Demots’ hands. **** Basilyn stared from her window without really seeing anything of the view below. Despite her distraction, however, despite the solidity of the wall and window that separated her from space, despite the fact that she stood back from the window rather than leaning against it to look out, her stomach had a weightless feel. It was strange that she couldn't seem to grow accustomed to the sensation. A flutter of movement caught her eye, distracting her from her thoughts as it settled on the pine branch that extended towards her window. It was a tiny, brightly colored finch. Her stomach pitched forward at the sight of it, bringing on a flash of first heat and then bone deep chill in such rapid succession that her flesh grew clammy. She thought she'd dismissed that horrible night completely from her mind, the night she'd come home to find her room ransacked and her pet .... She'd tried to blot it from her mind. She'd done her best to create a mental block against it. Because it threatened her hard won serenity and she knew if she allowed herself to begin to believe he'd found her, instead of accepting that the act had been no more than a random,

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malicious act of vandalism, every little stone she'd erected to protect her sanity would begin to crumble and fall. Resolutely, she pulled her gaze from the tiny bird. With grim determination, she dragged her thoughts away, as well. Below her, the Demots' occasional yardman/handyman (apparently he worked when he pleased and disappeared for weeks at the time when it didn't please) was half-heartedly pulling weeds from the flower bed. Her gaze skimmed past his stooped, ragged figure and lifted once more when she discovered gazing down disturbed her more than gazing outwards. Through the leaves and branches of the screening trees, she could see several roof tops in the distance. None were really near at hand, and to one accustomed to the huddling effect of city houses, it seemed strange to have so much room. The Demots' house sat a semi-rural area. It was convenient to the city, only a short drive from anything one might find oneself in need of; banking, shopping, gas stations, hospital facilities, restaurants, recreation; and yet comfortably secluded, as well. She'd thought Theresa must be as pleased with that as she was the house. She wasn't. The comment had elicited yet another of Theresa's endless lists of complaints. "I can't imagine why you'd think I would like it," she'd snapped irritably. "What's to like? We're in the middle of nowhere. I wanted to build on the golf course. I mean, what's the point in having a nice home if it's not in a nice neighborhood? “And Nick could've taken up golf. But, would he even consider it? No! He chose this place for spite. He let me have full rein in designing the house, lay it out just the way I wanted it, and then ruined the whole effect by building here. That's his idea of compromise!" Prestige. Theresa had wanted a full quota—as if the house wasn't prestigious enough in itself. And Dominic had wanted privacy. So he'd allowed Theresa her house, a house three times as large as anything she would ever need, and she still complained because he'd wanted something for himself. Obviously Theresa wasn't 'in' to compromise. For herself, she could've seen just cause for complaint if the house had been in the middle of nowhere. But she couldn't see that being within a thirty minute drive to anything was in the middle of nowhere. In her opinion, they had the best of both worlds. Not that her opinion mattered. Apparently Theresa's didn't carry a great deal of weight either. Or, more fairly, Dominic was willing to bend for the sake of, or perhaps more accurately, hope of, a peaceful compromise, but he wasn't willing to be run over. And Theresa couldn't be happy unless she had everything all her way. The thoughts brought her back to her own situation, and she felt a spark of irritation. She was less inclined towards Dominic's viewpoint in her own case. He'd been talking to Dr. Chaney. Dr. Chaney hadn't said so, but he didn't need to. He'd suggested she consider giving up her job as waitress for the duration of this 'job'. She'd explained to him, just as she had to Dominic, that she was only working part time, hardly strenuous activity considering she was putting in half, or less than half, the hours she'd put in before. And that she would quit just as soon as she had a tidy sum put back—or even before that if the work got to be too much. He hadn't argued the point. He'd let it drop. And told her point blank that she wasn't to

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consider driving her moped any more. There was too much chance she would have an accident. And even a minor accident on a moped could endanger the child she carried. Obviously, Dominic had spoken to him before the little 'accident' her moped had suffered or Dr. Chaney would've saved his breath on that subject at least. She felt a surge of anger at that thought, momentarily distracted down a different lane. She would have dearly loved to know who'd run her moped down and then took off without so much as a by-your-leave. They must've been blind as a bat to miss seeing something that big— and bright orange besides! At any rate, the question, or suggestion was moot, since she'd already had the matter taken out of her hands by that time anyway by that hit-and-run driver. Not that she could really quibble with it. She could see his point. It wasn't as if she was dumb enough to actually feel 'safe' on the back of a moped. She didn't. It had scared hell out of her to take the thing in traffic. But it hadn't been realistic to consider getting around on foot and she couldn't afford taxi service. It would've taken every cent she earned just to pay for that type of transportation to and from work, and to and from the University. Dominic had assured her that he and Theresa would see that she got where she needed to go and she'd agreed as gracefully as she could manage since she didn't really have any choice anymore anyway. But she hadn't been at their mercy for a week yet and already Theresa had 'forgotten' to pick her up three times and she'd been forced to shell out cab fare. She was willing to be reasonable, but if they didn't begin to have a little better track record than that, she was going to be looking for another moped. She finally turned away from the window and gazed around the room. It wasn't 'her' room. Even with her belongings placed here and there around the room it didn't feel like hers. She still felt like an intruder. She didn't like the room. And she couldn't study. After a moment, she moved across the room to the bathroom door. It was a connecting bathroom, shared by what had obviously been designed to be two children's bedrooms. She passed through the bathroom and into the room beyond. She hadn't touched anything in the room, hadn't explored, she'd merely investigated to see where the other door into the bathroom led and discovered a room used as a 'catch all'. A balcony opened off the room—or perhaps, more accurately, a deck, and she moved to the French doors that led out onto it, parting the semi-sheer drapes to stare out at the deck a touch wistfully. It appealed to her. It was a shame the deck was so high her stomach knotted with nerves only to contemplate going out on it. The balcony was so … private … so peaceful looking … so inviting. Its low, surrounding walls had bench seating built into them. Potted plants were scattered here and there to give it an almost bower-like effect, though they looked as if they'd been set out and simply abandoned to nature. Which was very likely the case. Theresa, she'd already discovered, didn't have a way with plants. She simply did away with them and bought more when her decorator plants croaked from lack of attention. The sun was shining, the sky above clear and cloudless, though storm clouds rimmed the far horizon like distant mountains. It was one of those spring days that enticed one to enjoy the out-of-doors, even those like herself who weren't really 'in' to outdoor activities.

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It pricked at something else inside her that was latent, so well hidden it never really showed its face, only piqued her now and then, prompting fits of what ifs. She'd always wished for the nerve to do something really outrageous … to throw off her inhibitions and do something … risqué. She moved away from the French doors on sudden inspiration and checked the door that led into the upper hallway. It was locked. Going back through the bathroom and into her own room, she moved to her own door and locked that, as well, and then snatched the coverlet from the bed and returned to the French doors, staring out at the deck for a long moment. Gathering her courage, she unlatched the door and opened it, bending to spread the coverlet on the heavy plank flooring. After a moment, she nerved herself to step outside, pulling the French door to, but not closed. She wanted instant access for retreat. She didn't want to waste moments wrestling with a recalcitrant door knob if panic from her fear of heights suddenly overcame her. Her stomach took instant flight as the full view from the deck struck her at once. The deck seemed to shiver beneath her weight, but after a moment she finally realized it was only her own quaking that made the planks beneath her feet feel so insubstantial. She knelt on the coverlet and glanced around. From her new position, she could see nothing but the walls that surrounded the deck and above them, the cerulean blue of a near cloudless sky. A sky the same breathtaking blue as Dominic's eyes. She submerged that errant thought and sat down, wondering if she had the nerve now, to follow through with her idea of before. It suddenly seemed far too outrageous, regardless of her privacy. After a moment, she shrugged off her reluctance and began to strip. She'd always wondered, when she'd overheard others talking, what it would feel like to sunbathe nude. It had sounded deliciously wicked and decadent—and frighteningly nervy. It didn't take much nerve, she thought in self-depreciating amusement, to take such a plunge when she was guaranteed of privacy. But at least she could safely discover if there were actually anything to nude sunbathing. Or if those who spoke so highly of the pastime enjoyed it merely because their true enjoyment came from the thought of being observed. She hesitated again when she was down to nothing more than bra and panties, but finally shrugged off her inbred reluctance and removed everything. She felt shaky but strangely triumphant when she lay back against the coverlet and closed her eyes. The sun felt warm on her skin, but it was a delicate caress, soothing. A light breeze wafted over the privacy walls and skimmed gently across her bare skin. Slowly, her excitement and nervousness over her daring waned and she began to relax and discovered it was actually enjoyable. She grew drowsy after a time. She fought it with the amused reflection that, gentle as the sun seemed at this time of year, she could well get a sunburn on embarrassing places if she wasn't careful—or drown if the storm on the horizon suddenly decided to shift inland as they did all too frequently on the gulf. She might have drowsed. She wasn't certain. But she'd allowed her mind to drift away, in a smug sort of way, thinking of all the times when she'd been in high school, and junior high for that matter, when she'd overheard the other kids chattering excitedly about going 'skinny

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dipping' and wished for the nerve to join them. Wished for an invitation she never got, and could not have summoned the courage to follow up even if she had. Feeling almost as if she had initiated herself into the exciting world of daring, had finally taken a shaky step towards conquering long held inhibitions ... when something roused her. It felt very like the sensation of being watched, and though she tried to shake off the notion, she found she couldn't. She sat up abruptly, fighting a touch of panic. She heard nothing, saw nothing that might have disturbed her. Unless, perhaps, it was the breeze rustling through the plants? Perhaps it was only drifting shadows from the shifting clouds above her, sensed behind her eyelids but not really noticed? Determined to ignore it, she turned over, propping her chin on her arms and staring at the shadows playing across the deck in front of her as the potted banana tree swayed with a gentle breeze. After a moment she glanced upwards, and froze.

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Chapter Seven There was a row skylights in the peaked roof that rose above and in front of her at the end of the deck. It was only the attic, she'd been told, accessible by an enclosed narrow stair at the opposite end of the hallway from her room. It had been intended originally as a studio, but Dominic didn't use it any more. Or had Theresa said he rarely used it anymore? Had she seen movement beyond the windows? Or was it a case of fright on discovering that the deck she thought totally hidden from view wasn't as totally hidden as she'd thought? It had to have been her imagination. It had to have been! Because if it hadn't been and Dominic had gone up .... He would think she'd done it deliberately! What else could he think? She heard the French door click as the breeze caught it and drew it shut. The sound brought her frozen muscles to life and she sat up abruptly, gathering the coverlet to her as she scrambled to her feet. Snatching up her clothes, she bolted for the door, grasped the handle .... Nothing happened. She wrenched at the knob, first pulling then pushing. Nothing. She stared at the knob in her hand and slowly, slowly the realization dawned. She'd locked herself outside. Naked! It was a mistake. It couldn't be locked. She just hadn't turned it the right way. Or she wasn't turning it hard enough. She wrenched it back and forth with more determination. It was locked. "Oh God! Oh my God!" she muttered, wondering in panic what she was going to do. The deck suddenly felt shaky beneath her feet. What if the supports had rotted? How old was the thing? When, if ever, had it been used? Checked? Why hadn't she thought of any of that before? Would it collapse with her? Should she scream for help? Did she want to be rescued buck naked? She drew in a shaky breath, fighting down the panic, too frightened now to look around her at the view she found breathtaking in a terrifying way, glancing down finally at the clothes she held in her hands. She started to laugh. "Idiot!" she admonished herself. Locked outside on a balcony three stories high and all she could think about was being found naked … when she was holding her clothes in her hand like an imbecile. She stopped laughing when she realized there was no place to dress without being in plain view of the windows above her. She shrugged the thought aside. There was no one there. It was just her guilt at the notion of getting caught doing something she should've known better than to do that had created that shadowy figure that had startled her out of her complacency. She couldn't bring herself to drop the coverlet, however. Lifting it, she shimmied into her jeans. She didn't bother with her underwear. She could put those on when she was inside. She had to drop the coverlet to pull her blouse on. Try though she might, she discovered she couldn't manage it otherwise. She felt better once she was clothed, less panicked—not much, but somewhat. She still felt foolish and jittery ... particularly when she finally noticed that the storm that had been so

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comfortably distant only a short while before scudded above her now, darkening the sky until it seemed almost like dusk ... except for the periodic brightening that came from distant thunder. The discovery unnerved her further. Regardless, she discovered she didn't want to summon help. She wasn't even certain she could summon help. She might well be here for hours before anyone thought to check on her. And likely, the moment they discovered she'd locked her door they'd go away again, thinking she was napping. Or maybe in the shower where she couldn't hear their knock. She couldn't wait that long. She couldn't wait half that long. She couldn't stand it. Being on the deck was frightening enough in itself. Being trapped on the deck, particularly in the midst of a thunderstorm, was terrifying. She tried the knob again. When she realized wrenching at it wasn't going to get her inside, she took the coverlet up again, wadded it over her elbow and struck the glass. The blow hurt her elbow anyway, and it didn't break the glass. Rubbing her elbow, she looked around for something she could use to break the glass and finally spotted a small potted plant she thought might do the trick. Inching towards it, for the container sat on the ledge of the outer wall, she'd just reached for the pot when lightning struck so close at hand the deck shook violently beneath her. She screamed, momentarily blinded and deafened by the fork of electricity that snaked down from the sky to lick at the lightning rods that adorned the roof of the house next door. A second, more violent bolt followed hard upon the heels of the first, clipping the top from the pine tree just beyond the deck before the fiery streamer disappeared down its trunk. She screamed again. Snatching the pot up, she scurried for the door and plunged it through the glass pane. It shattered that time, loudly, in the deafening silence that followed the double clap of thunder, and, fleetingly, it occurred to her to wonder what the Demots would say when they discovered her vandalism. She shrugged the thought aside as she plunged her hand inside and felt around for the latch. She didn't particularly care at the moment. At any rate, she didn't mean to tell them. She'd repair the pane herself and they'd never know, she decided, sighing with relief when the latch turned and scrambling inside. She shut the door behind her and wilted to the floor, lifting her shaking hands and covering her face. After a time the shaking stopped and she took her hands down to look at the stinging cut on the back of her hand. She hadn't even realized she'd cut herself. She stared at the oozing cut. "There's a lesson to be learned here," she muttered to herself. "Outrageously nervy acts are for outrageous nervy people, not your basic, horribly inhibited, introverted coward." She rose finally, when she could get her shaking legs under her, carefully picked up the shards of glass that littered the floor and went back into the bathroom to drop them in the waste basket. She washed her cut hand then, examined it, discovered she had no more than a scratch, though the cut still oozed sluggishly, and opened the medicine cabinet. It was well stocked—almost to the point of overflowing. Selecting a bottle of peroxide, she poured the disinfectant liberally over the cut, waved her hand until it was dry and covered the scratch with a stick-on bandage. She went into her room then. She still felt more than a little shaky from the ordeal and weary, too, both from her sun bath and the nerve wracking minutes after it had been disrupted. She thought to lie down until the shakiness passed, but as she stepped into her room once more

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and glanced around, she stopped dead in her tracks. Not only was her door not locked. It wasn't completely shut. She hadn't left it like that. She knew she hadn't. Something else occurred to her then. Whoever had done it, had almost certainly meant for her to know they'd been in her room. **** Basilyn was far too cautious to consider doing anything really adventuresome, though she admitted to an occasional yearning for new experiences, and the whimsy now and then as to what it would be like if she could force herself to take the plunge and still actually enjoy herself. But, whereas she was inclined to consider herself sadly lacking in that area, and far more stuffy than she would've liked to be, she'd discovered she felt no such constraint when it came to experimenting with her cooking. Theresa owned a virtual library of cookbooks on every sort of cuisine imaginable .... though why she had bothered when she, apparently, had neither domestic talents nor inclinations, Basilyn couldn't imagine, unless it was for the simple reason that she thought the books looked good on the shelf. Moreover, cooking ingredients could be had merely for the asking—or getting. She'd acquired the additional household chore of doing the grocery shopping—which made it easy to indulge her sense of creativity in the kitchen. And creativity was necessary, at any rate, since it took a juggling act to plan a meal that pleased her ideas of a regular, balanced meal and still suited Theresa's ideas of watching her calories and everyone else's. The fact that Dominic seemed to appreciate her efforts helped, even though Theresa quite obviously didn't, and frequently picked at the food on her plate. Or turned her nose up at Basilyn's efforts altogether, dumped her meal down the food disposal, and fixed herself a salad. For although he was far too wary and wise to comment directly, Dominic always arrived home in time for supper on those nights she cooked and he generally helped himself to a second serving. That was all the encouragement she needed, one appreciative audience—other than herself. She liked to cook anyway. She loved the opportunity of cooking in Theresa's kitchen. She wasn't enjoying cooking tonight with quite the enthusiasm she generally felt, however. She was far too upset. She burned the rice. She nearly burned the rolls but burnt her fingers instead when she reached for the very brown bread distractedly and forgot to pick up a hot pad first. She was obliged to consider the whole meal a disaster. She felt like weeping. She sniffed back the urge and made another pot of rice ... and nearly scorched that, as well. She saved it in the nick of time, but she couldn't say it helped her feelings a great deal. She addressed her meal in silence as they gathered to eat, not that there was anything new in that. The Demot household didn't enjoy a great deal of chatter. They tended to communicate only when necessary. Or rather Dominic did. Theresa seemed to consider supper time the perfect time for promoting indigestion by introducing whatever subject seemed likely either to enflame Dominic's temper, or to make both Basilyn and Dominic uncomfortable by choosing some personal subject Basilyn was embarrassed to listen to and Dominic embarrassed to have discussed in her presence. "Creole tonight?" Theresa asked with false pleasure as she studied the seafood gumbo arranged on a bed of white rice. "Well … we shall certainly reach new heights in indigestion

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tonight, won't we? I expect those peppers will give us all the ... uh ... burps." Basilyn felt her face flame as she sent Theresa a horrified glance. The woman had a total lack of compunction about mentioning bodily functions—any bodily function—anywhere or at any time, but Basilyn found she simply could not overcome her shock at such remarks. She returned her attention to her plate. She didn't look at Dominic—but she carefully picked the peppers out of her gumbo. Theresa carefully picked the shrimp from her gumbo, scraped as much of the sauce off as she could without blotting it in her napkin, and took a suspicious nibble. "Did you get all that stuff moved up to the attic?" she asked Dominic casually. Too casually? Basilyn's head snapped up, her eyes widening as she stared at Dominic. Was it her imagination, or did he look distinctly uncomfortable? Was his swarthy complexion just a little darker than usual? The blood dropped from her head in a free-fall that made her dizzy, only to rush back in a tide so scalding hot it made her eyes burn. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Uh ... yes ... all two boxes.." He didn't look up from his plate. "I do hope you didn't break anything. I thought I heard you drop one of the boxes." He looked up at Theresa then. "There was nothing in them that was breakable. Unless you figure there's some way I could've broken the old linen, I'd say everything's alright." Basilyn returned her attention to her own plate, though she really didn't see it. Dominic had been up in the attic—today. When today? She didn't feel well. She felt very hot. Maybe just a tad lightheaded. He probably hadn't been anywhere near the windows. She didn't believe that for a moment, anymore than she believed it had to have been at some other time than the time she'd been sunbathing, or that it had been purely imagination that she'd felt as if she was being watched. Her skin prickled uncomfortably. A coldness seeped into her that quenched the fire so abruptly that a cold sweat coated her skin. Had he seen her? Come down from the attic and picked her door lock …. Maybe for a closer view? She shook the thought off. She couldn't believe it. Lord! It was outrageously conceited to even think it for a moment! She could believe he might have stumbled upon her by accident—gone up to the attic, casually glanced out the window, and spotted a naked coo-coo bird laying on a coverlet on his deck. Maybe he'd even lingered for a long look. After all it wasn't every day one got a gander at that sort of exhibitionist idiot. But, to have come down the stairs, picked the lock to her room and come to the French doors for a closer look? When she might have opened her eyes at any moment and caught him? Or maybe he'd thought it might constitute some sort of invitation? Not. Definitely not. Surely, if that was the case, he wouldn't merely have peered out at her. He would've come out to take her up on the 'invitation'. So how had her door come to be open? She knew she'd locked it. She knew it. She didn't believe for a moment that it had been some sort of Freudian slip on her part, some latent wish to be caught in the act. She distinctly remembered locking the door. And she wasn't crazy—regardless of what some people seemed to think. She could not remember doing it if she

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hadn't. But that Dominic had unlocked the door and come in to watch her? How well, she wondered suddenly, did she really know him? Not at all. Not at all, but she still couldn't believe it. "What happened to your hand? Did you cut yourself?" Basilyn’s head snapped up again and she stared at Theresa. Was it only her imagination, or did she look immensely pleased with herself? Was she pleased merely with the idea that Basilyn might have injured herself cooking? Or did she have a very good idea of how Basilyn had come to cut herself? Had it been Theresa who'd come in to her room? Theresa had barged into her room the first day she moved in as if she considered Basilyn had no right to expect privacy. She hadn't done it since—that Basilyn knew of—hadn't done it when Basilyn was home and in the room. But, obviously her restraint was from Basilyn's complaint and demand for privacy and not apparently from any understanding or appreciation of others' right to privacy. Maybe the locked door had seemed to her just cause for suspicion and she'd decided to investigate? Another thought occurred to her then as she accepted that possibility. Was it possible the deck door hadn't 'accidently' become locked? Could Theresa possibly have come that close, locked the door and disappeared before she'd whirled to look at it? Had she had time? Would she have done it? Why would she have done it? Maybe because she knew Basilyn was exposing herself to her husband and had wanted to teach her a lesson? But how could she have known that? Unless she'd been in the attic, too? But she hadn't said she had. In fact, from what she'd said, she hadn't been anywhere near the attic herself. So, where did that leave her? Either Dominic had seen her and crept down for a closer look. Or Theresa had come into her room for some purpose, discovered her, and decided to pull a malicious prank—a prank that might well have gone seriously awry considering the dangerous storm that had come up so suddenly—for no other reason than a wish to make her uncomfortable. Maybe even possibly because she saw Basilyn, knew Dominic was in the attic, and jumped immediately to the conclusion that Basilyn knew it, too, and had deliberately set out to expose herself to Dominic? It seemed a little farfetched, particularly since, if she hadn't liked it, by locking her outside, she'd blocked Basilyn from retreating. Or maybe she'd only meant to let Basilyn stew for a while? Maybe wait an hour or two, then go up and discover her? Make an embarrassing to do about it all? It sounded like something right up Theresa's alley. She got up abruptly. "Excuse me. I'm not really hungry tonight. Maybe it's a touch of morning sickness," she muttered. "At night?" Theresa called after her. She sounded amused. Basilyn hoped she choked on her damned shrimp. "Some people have it at night," she snapped shortly. She set her plate in the sink and headed for her room. "I'll clean up after a bit," she threw over her shoulder as she started up the stairs. "Maybe you had a touch too much sun?" Basilyn paused on the stair and turned to look at Theresa. Her expression was impossible to interpret. Was it an admission? A statement of suspicion? "What?"

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"Maybe you stayed out too long? I didn't know you were in to sunbathing. You're so pale and all. You must have a problem with burning. Were you down by the pool? If you like, maybe we could sun together sometime. It's about time I started working on my tan …." Basilyn stared at her a long moment. "Actually, I do burn easily, so I don't sunbathe. It tends to age you, you know?" She turned away and went up the stairs. It was an admission—or as close to one as she was going to get. She dismissed the doubt that immediately surfaced that, just perhaps, Theresa had only noticed her slight sunburn and really didn't know anything about her misadventure. Dismissed the unpleasant realization that that would leave only one other suspect. Undoubtedly Theresa had done it and she wanted her to know it. She purchased and installed security chains on both bedroom doors the very next day. No one, she thought grimly, would catch her unawares again.

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Chapter Eight Dominic stared sightlessly at the sketch pad before him. He'd been trying for the past hour and more to capture a rough sketch of the bank building he was supposed to be designing— without success. Finally, he got up from the drawing table and moved across the room to stare down at the view from his window. The late afternoon sun hung suspended just above the skyline, peering through a haze so thick it seemed to have settled into the rippling waves of Tampa bay. Heat waves shimmered off the buildings and in the streets below, for although it wasn't officially summer yet by the calendar, temperatures were already peaking in the high nineties. It was just as well, he thought, that Basilyn's moped had suffered an accident. Otherwise he was fairly certain neither his or Dr. Chaney's arguments would've persuaded her to give it up before she was good and ready. And it wasn't the sort of weather to make open air travel enjoyable. The sun could be a killer in this part of the country if one wasn't careful. Not that she would've been reasonable enough to consider that as just cause to give up her coveted independence. She didn't give up an inch of that without a fight. It was one of the things he most admired about her, her fierce independence. It was also the one thing they continued to clash over. Not that he particularly minded the challenge. She was amazingly reasonable—for a woman, and logical argument hadn't yet failed to sway her—though she dismissed ambiguous argument out of hand. And she was never vicious when angry like Theresa. He realized, in fact, with a touch of surprise, that he had actually enjoyed their few clashes. And it wasn't because he came out the victor more often than not, because they were pretty well matched in their battle of wills. He wasn't certain just why he did enjoy it, but he strongly suspected it was because that was about the only time he could draw her into a discussion of any sort … and he preferred arguing to being ignored. She'd been living with them for several weeks now and was still almost as much a stranger as she had been when she moved in. Unreasonable or not, that circumstance bothered him immensely. So much so that he was becoming more and more reckless in his efforts to change it. And he supposed it was unreasonable. It would've cut up his peace far worse if she'd decided to unbend sufficiently to be friendly, because Theresa would've looked upon such a situation with immediate suspicion and would've set out to destroy the fragile peace they had been enjoying lately ... now that Theresa had finally gotten her way. Regardless, he discovered he didn't covet peace as much as he'd once thought he did. He didn't want peace badly enough to keep his distance—even if it meant cutting short that blissful period of peaceful coexistence that generally followed upon the heels of Theresa having gotten her way—until she found something new to pursue for them to wrangle over. And it wasn't, after all, as if his interest was questionable, or a threat in any way to

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Theresa's interests. Maybe to his—not Theresa’s. She had him by the balls—or at least thought she did. Not that the bitch wasn’t perfectly willing to drag him through court wrangling over their assets—his assets—until both of them were penniless, just for spite. He wasn’t legally, or morally, bound to Theresa anymore, however, and the bargain they’d struck was beginning to chafe him far more than he’d thought it would—as hard as that was to imagine when he’d felt like he was drowning from the first. At the time, he hadn’t been able to see beyond saving his business, though. As nightmarish as his marriage had become, as desperate as he was to be completely free of her, looking at the possibility of losing everything he’d spent years building had left him feeling as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice. If he’d thought he could save enough to start over, even if that meant starting near the bottom, he thought he would’ve been more inclined to violently reject Theresa’s proposal than accept it. It was the most insane thing she’d ever come up with—which was saying something for Theresa. Unfortunately, even though his lawyer had vehemently agreed, at first, once he’d looked over the proposal he’d changed his tune and begun pointing out the benefits. Theresa would have the child she’d always wanted. He could have his freedom. All he had to do was pay a reasonable amount of child support and alimony over the next eighteen years and he was completely and totally free—He’d not only have enough left to keep going, he could actually afford to remarry if he was insane enough to want to try again! The sticking point was keeping up ‘appearances’ until after the baby arrived. He was damned if he could see that it would make any difference at all if they announced their divorce before or after the baby was born—beyond the fact that it gave Theresa that much more time to make his life hell. Theresa’s parents weren’t going to be any less upset. He didn’t see that it would have less impact on her social status as far as that went, but then again he’d never really understood, or cared to understand, the intricacies of the high society crowd. In any case, it wasn’t as if he planned to renege on his end of the bargain. Basilyn lived with them. It was only natural to have some interest in the people around one, to wish to socialize with another human being. And, if he was honest with himself, he was too intrigued by Basilyn to particularly care whether Theresa cut up ugly about his interest in her or not. Or, perhaps he'd finally become as immune to Theresa's temper tantrums as he was to her in general and he'd simply ceased to feel anything at all? He frowned at the thought, examined it for flaws, discovered it was full of holes, and dismissed it irritably. Moving back across his office to his drawing table once more, he stared down at the half finished sketch with annoyance. He should've finished by now. He'd thought, when he sat down that the idea was clear in his mind. It was only once he'd begun that his mind had begun to drift and the idea, so clear, had begun to fade to an 'impossible to catch' blur in his mind. The office was quiet. His associate, Don Kendall, the architect who shared the small office complex with him, and the draftsmen, had long since gone for the day along with the secretary /receptionist they shared, so he couldn't claim the distractions of a busy office as an excuse for his lack of concentration. If anything, he thought wryly, the dead quiet, unbroken by anything but the hushed swish and hum of the air conditioner, and the loud ticking of the clock on his wall were responsible.

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That shouldn't have been the case, but he realized that it was. In general he did some of his best work after hours in his office, for although it had begun as an excuse to delay returning to his house (which he'd never been able to think of in terms of 'home'), over the years the solitude had become a solace against the almost inevitable, nightly clashes with Theresa. And the tranquility spurred creativity. But the ticking clock was a constant reminder of passing time. Every tick seemed to jack his restlessness to be gone up another tiny notch. Until his impatience had finally blocked all access to concentration. It occurred to him finally why he was anxious. Basilyn was working tonight … and Theresa had 'forgotten' to pick her up the past two evenings, forcing Basilyn to catch a ride with one of her co-workers ... or so she'd said. He wouldn't have minded so much, could've been easier in his mind, if he hadn't suspected that she'd hitch-hiked to the house. At that thought, he glanced at the clock again, saw that it was nearly eight o'clock and moved to the phone. If Theresa had picked Basilyn up, they should be at the house by now. He dialed the number. Theresa picked up almost at once. In the background he could hear the clatter of pots. Basilyn? Or was Theresa in the kitchen? He frowned, remembered it was Basilyn's night to cook and felt an instant, though momentary, relief. The relief vanished when he heard Theresa say 'hello' the second time. The wildest urge seized him to simply hang up at once. If he asked about Basilyn, he realized, he would likely spend the next ten minutes listening to Theresa's outrage that he doubted her when she'd said she would pick Basilyn up, and probably another ten minutes of probing questions as to just why he was so worried about her. On the other hand, if he simply hung up, Theresa would hit him with that at the back door when he arrived, wanting to know who the 'woman' was that had called him. Because she would instantly jump to the conclusion that some woman had tried to call him and, on hearing her answer hung up the phone instead. Not that that was any of her damned business anymore! He could damned well sleep with any woman he wanted! He was divorced, damn her. She might as well get used to the idea that she have her hooks in him. Except she did. She had him squirming like a worm on the end of a fishing hook. He almost thought she was trying to push him into making a mistake so she’d have an excuse to tear up the agreement. "Theresa?" he said finally. "Nick? Why didn't you answer? I thought you were a breather!" "Uh … sorry … I was doing something. I … uh … just called to let you know I'll be home in a few minutes," he added lamely. A dead silence greeted that announcement, which didn't surprise him in the least. He should, he thought with disgust, have planned his strategy before he called. "Wellll," Theresa drawled, sugary sweet. "We're just delighted to hear that." He heard her turn away. "Basilyn, honey, Nick says to tell you he'll be home in a few minutes. You did want me to let her know … so she could set you a place, of course," she added. Dominic ground his teeth. "Hell! Never mind. I'll just pick up a damn pack of crackers from the damn vending machines downstairs. I've got work to do anyway." "Nick?"

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"What?" "I was only teasing you, boogie bear! Do come home, please!" she said placatingly. Dominic felt his ears turn red. He'd always hated that 'endearment' Theresa had pinned on him and suspected that that was just the reason she'd done it. In fact, he knew damn well she did it to annoy the hell out of him. The only time she used it was within someone else's hearing. He wondered how close Basilyn was standing to the phone. As for teasing. Theresa never teased. She tormented. "You could always bring whatever you're working on home … and work in your office here. I don't know why you stopped using it." They both knew why he'd stopped using his home office. Theresa demanded his complete attention when he was at the house and refused to let him work. Or had in those days when he'd thought to try it before the divorce. These days they were mostly indifferent to each other—insofar as that sort of attention went anyway. Theresa wasn't the sort of woman who could tolerate complete indifference. Despite the fact that they were officially divorced now and had been estranged for more years of their marriage than they'd shared a common bond, they still regularly went through the motions of a marriage. Theresa still acted out her jealous rages, though they were possessive jealousy and had nothing to do with love, and he still played the part of placating husband—because he still held out some hope that the final settlement would be something he could live with. He'd been thinking much along the same lines lately, however, particularly when he could foresee no real peace of mind in regards to Basilyn unless he saw that she got home safely. And he knew there would be many times, like tonight, when he couldn't simply drop everything and go after her, when he would need to bring his work with him if he picked her up from work. And he allowed her to persuade him without protest. Despite Theresa's very obvious dislike of having another woman in her house (aside from the maid she still complained of no longer having) she was, as he'd hoped she would be when he'd agreed to this drastic measure, considerably easier to live with than she had been before. She was almost cheerful much of the time now that she had the baby to look forward to, something positive to occupy her mind. Lately, she seemed, finally, to have come to accept his indifference to her, that there would be no turning back this time. And he might well get more done there than in his office when his mind was at home. It was certainly worth a try, at any rate. He could hardly do worse, he added as a wry afterthought. "Fine," he said finally. "I'll see you in about twenty minutes." **** Basilyn sent him an amused glance the moment he walked in the door. He felt his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. She'd heard. Pointedly ignoring her, he went directly into the tiny room off the kitchen that had been intended as a storage room and converted to a home office years ago—before it was converted back into a storage room. Shoving aside two boxes that had 'goodwill' scrawled across the side and a bag of dirty laundry destined for the cleaners, he removed a third box from the top of his drawing table marked 're-cycle', unloaded three packages of laundry with a week old receipt pinned to them from the seat of his chair and dropped a roll of drawings onto the table. He felt Basilyn's presence behind him even before she spoke. "Supper's ready ... Theresa says come on ... boogie bear," she added in a provocative

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whisper and disappeared from the doorway before he had a chance at rebuttal. He turned to glare at her retreating form. In a moment she threw him a teasing look over her shoulder. He stared at her a long moment, feeling his annoyance fade abruptly and a surge of almost light-hearted amusement take its place. A smile tugged at his lips as he followed her out. He caught up to her before she reached the dining room. "Brat," he muttered without heat. She threw him a feigned look of innocence and chuckled. **** Dominic smiled faintly as Basilyn strolled past his door for the third time. He knew it was her without looking up, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact that Theresa was out with the 'girls' tonight. He recognized her step. He thought he would have known even if he hadn't learned to identify her light tread. It was almost as if she—and Theresa, too, for that matter, had a tangible aura that charged the air around them—at least, when they came near him. He wasn't surprised that he felt and recognized Theresa's presence, even before she spoke. He ought to as long as they'd lived together. And at any rate, anyone with any sense of self-preservation learned to be wary around people they had reason to be wary of. And Theresa was the sort one didn't care to give one's back to. He was surprised that he felt that same, instant, recognition whenever Basilyn was nearby. Without ever having to look, he knew the moment she passed near him. Just like he knew that the next time she thought of an excuse to cross the kitchen, she would pause in the doorway and watch him at work. Not that that had anything to do with intuition. That came from having watched her watch him at work in the past weeks he'd been bringing his work home with him at night. He was beginning to think he could guess what she would do next almost unerringly. She surprised him. She didn't merely pause at the door, she wandered inside. He didn't look up immediately. He didn't know why he pretended he didn't notice her presence unless he was afraid if he did she would ask the question that had brought her in and leave again. Or perhaps because he didn't trust himself to look up just at first, for he felt a strong sense of triumph that her curiosity had finally overcome her reluctance to admit to even that much of an interest in him and he was afraid it showed. He didn't do indifference well. He broke his pencil lead. He looked up at her then, wondering if she'd noticed the effect she had upon him. He found the thought that she might have more than a little disconcerting. She looked back at him self-consciously. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just wondered what you were working on. I'll go away." "No." He swiveled around in his seat, inviting her closer. "Have a look. Tell me what you think." She hesitated a moment and then stepped closer, peering at the drawing on his table. "Holy sh ...!" She broke off and looked at him in wide eyed dismay. "I mean ... Dam ... This is a house?" He grinned, then shrugged wryly. "It's supposed to be." "It looks like a bank … or an apartment building or something," she muttered, moving closer still. "Thanks," he said dryly, eyeing the drawings now with a twinge of doubt. "As it

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happens, this is rather what they had in mind." She looked at him quickly. "Oh …! I didn't mean …. It's absolutely—majestic! I just meant …. Well, I can hardly believe it’s supposed to be a single family dwelling. They must be rich. Of course they're rich," she answered herself. "They'd have to be to afford something like that—and you to design it. I wonder what it'd feel like … to live in a house like that?" "Tiring I expect." "What?" She glanced at him in bemused surprise. "It's just a tad over 6,000 square feet ... living area.. That's a lot of walking, no matter how well laid out the floor plan is." She grinned. "But wouldn't it be nice to have too much space for a change?" she said a little wistfully, thinking about the cramped houses she'd grown up in, for it had seemed the bigger the house, the more children the people fostered so that there was always someone she'd had to share a room with. She’d considered herself lucky when she'd shared her room with only one other child. She fell silent, studying the drawings intently. Dominic fell silent, watching her. She seemed unaware that she stood so near him as to brush against his thigh with the slightest movement. He wished he could be as detached, as unaware. He was excruciatingly aware, however, in a way that made his heartbeat a little erratic, his breathing a little ragged. The thought occurred to him that he should scoot his stool back to allow her access to the table, should've done so when he invited her to have a look. Or that he could at least move his leg and save himself some discomfort. He did neither. He caught a whiff of the fragrance she wore. It was like her, delicate, quiet, understated ... elusive … and heady. He couldn't decide whether his reaction was from the effort to capture the elusive scent or a physical reaction to her—or both. He allowed his gaze to wander over her, noting the slight physical changes in her in the past few weeks, wondering what she would look like unclothed—now. That thought had a very definite physical effect and he shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge adjust himself into a position less binding upon his anatomy. He had the uncomfortable notion that to do so would only serve to draw her attention to his state and she was bound to think the movement deliberately suggestive. She wouldn't welcome such a thought. He didn't for a moment believe that episode that came so heatedly to mind so often had been deliberate provocation on her part. Which was a pity. He would've liked to have thought so. She'd surprised hell out of him—which was an understatement—stunned, amazed, enchanted came somewhat closer to his reaction. He wouldn't have thought she would have the nerve to try sunbathing in the nude, even with guaranteed privacy—or with the belief in guaranteed privacy. She didn't strike him as the daring sort. And she definitely wasn't an exhibitionist. But he admitted to a great deal of pleasure in the sight and gladness that, on one occasion at least, she'd allowed whatever demons of mischief that had persuaded her to try it to overcome her usual reticence. He wasn't sorry he'd glanced out the window. And he wasn't sorry he'd been so stunned it hadn't occurred to him for many moments that he had no business enjoying the view. He began to realize, however, that her nearness and his thoughts were rapidly bringing him to a state of acute physical distress and that she was bound to notice the effect she had on

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him if he didn't redirect his thoughts. He brought his attention back to her face. She had a faint dimple in her cheek when she smiled—or bit her lip in concentration as she was doing now—and a barely discernable cleft in her rounded chin. He hadn't noticed either before. Or the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the tops of her high cheek bones or the faint roman hump on the bridge of her nose. He wondered if she was as self-conscious of that little hump as Theresa had been before she'd demanded, and gotten, a nose job. Somehow, he doubted she was even aware of it. She seemed comfortable with herself. Not conceited—comfortable. There was a world of difference between the two, he'd discovered. Theresa was conceited and still dissatisfied with the few flaws about herself that she noticed. Unfortunately, her only concern was for physical flaws that detracted from her beauty, not with character flaws. If she'd ever acknowledged those and made some attempt to curb them …. Instead it seemed every smallest adversity of life only made bad worse, or had since that time .... He realized that she'd turned to look at him, that she was smiling, talking vivaciously ... about the house? He brought his wandering mind to focus on what she was saying. "I expect the electric bills will be astronomical?" He blinked, realized his thoughts were still sluggish, heated ... dangerous. "Ah … Not really … no." He looked away from her, studying the drawings and trying to bring his thoughts together. "The brick, as you probably know, is a good insulating factor. Beyond that, the outer walls will be six inches and insulated with the same material used in packing houses and such— damned expensive on such a scale. But it'll pay for itself in the long run. The windows will be triple insulated. The heating and cooling system's about the most efficient you could have. Radiant floor heating for winter. Air conditioning pumped through ceiling vents—ten to twelve foot ceilings throughout and ceiling fans for better air circulation." "What about the ceiling … insulation, I mean?" "Eighteen inches—blown. The pitch of the roof will be a big help, too. And it'll have electric attic ventilation fans with automatic shutters here … here ... and here," he added, pointing them out. "Very efficient." "Very. They could practically heat the thing with a candle—not that it takes much heat around here—but it'll be efficient with the cooling too ... for its size." She frowned, started to speak and paused, lifting her head to listen. Dominic, too, heard the sound that had distracted her—a car pulling into the garage in back. "Thanks for showing me," she said quickly and disappeared. Theresa paused at his door on her way in. "Still hard at work I see." Dominic reached up and turned out his lamp. "Just finishing up for the night actually. Have a good game?" Theresa snorted. "Not really. I got stuck at Mildred Pierson's table again. She cheats. And she thinks just because she's a bank president's wife that no one will dare notice. Or say anything if they do. I fixed her little red wagon though. I dropped my plate of chip and dip in her lap. She had to leave early," she added airily and vanished up the stairs on Basilyn's heels. ****

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A week passed before Basilyn approached the office again. She waited until Theresa's bridge night—not because she felt what she was doing was wrong, but because she thought Theresa wouldn't like it regardless. And because she was reluctant to chance Theresa's scorn over her efforts. Or her malicious enjoyment in the event, certainly very possible, that Dominic held them in contempt. She lost her nerve when she reached the office door and saw him bent over the table in concentration, fearing she might have caught him at an unreceptive time. He caught her before she could retreat, however, turning towards her as she turned away. "What's that you've got?" She turned back self-consciously, holding her roll of drawings behind her. "Just a few sketches. I thought …. Well, I thought if you didn't mind you could give me your opinion on them?" He held out his hand. "Sure. Let's have a look." She handed them to him a little reluctantly, biting her lip as he turned back to his table and unrolled the bundle, spreading the drafts out. He didn't comment, merely studying the sketch frowningly for a time. Minutes dragged by, agonizing minutes for Basilyn. Finally, she crept closer and edged up to the table, trying to gauge his reaction by his expression. She found she couldn't. After a time, he removed the first drawing and examined the second with equal concentration and finally the third. He looked up at her finally. She looked back at him, afraid to speak for fear she'd give her anxiety away … afraid he would be able to read how important his opinion was to her and tell her a polite lie. She didn't want a polite lie. She wanted the truth, even if it hurt to hear it. "These are good—damned good—exceptionally good," he said finally. She blushed, pleased, and still uncertain of whether she could believe him or not. He seemed to sense her doubts. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't believe it," he added quietly. She felt a smile dawn. Spawned by relief, it crept upwards from inside her until it seemed to fill her with both relief and gladness. "They're just … very simple designs really … nothing fancy," she added apologetically. "Affordable housing for newlyweds—or anybody with a tight budget is damned important. These designs would be saleable—with a little work. They're not just well laid out, energy efficient and affordable, they're aesthetically pleasing." He turned back to look at the sketches again and Basilyn moved closer. "I had it in mind to design them in such a way as to make later additions easy … so that they could be done without a lot of renovation to the original structure. That way as their families grew, or when they could afford more room .... With this one," she picked up the second sketch, "since it’s not an open design, I figured for truss/joists so that none of the interior walls are load bearing and could be removed altogether or moved without difficulty … say if they wanted to add on a bedroom addition and expand the living area to take up this bedroom here. Or take out the wall between the kitchen and dining area to create an open country kitchen. The roof pitch on this third one …. With truss/joists set on sixteen inch centers instead of the standard twenty-four would add to the original cost, but there's room enough to convert the attic space into two bedrooms and a bath down the road at very reasonable cost—particularly if they went ahead and roughed in electrical and plumbing to start with and installed the sub-floor."

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"I see that." He looked at her frowningly, curiously, and finally smiled faintly. "I'm impressed. This looks more like the work of a third year student than a first. You did say you were in your first year?" "Well, I'd learned a good bit before I started. I used to be a carpenter." "What?" She smiled faintly. "I know. It sounds—very women's lib-ish and I know I don't look the type. I don't suppose I am, if it comes to that. I might have a rebel wish, but I don't think I've got rebel verve. “Thing is, Roger Matthews—my foster father—I lived with the Matthews the last few years before I moved out on my own. “Anyway, he had a small construction company and he always had trouble keeping his quota of minority workers. So he put me on the payroll—figuratively speaking. I never actually got paid much because most of what I earned went back in the pot—you know, living expenses and all. But he started me out as a gofer when I was … oh, I guess I must have been around fourteen or fifteen. But I worked for him first as a gofer and later on as an apprentice carpenter until I came of age and moved out, and I learned a good bit about construction from him. So I already knew a lot of the basics before I enrolled. It was one of my reasons for choosing architecture. The main reason, actually. I figured I could use the experience I already had. Of course I hadn't counted on the math. That's a bit hairy. I'm not doing so hot in that area." Dominic stared at her, feeling curiously blank. He couldn't quite decide what his reaction was, but he rather thought outrage was the most dominant of the myriad of emotions that had shocked him speechless. He didn't consider himself old fashioned, but to think of putting a young girl—a small young girl in the midst of a construction crew to work, both angered and disgusted him—a girl that age to be exposed to the sort of talk common around construction sites ... and forced to do that sort of labor. He felt a welling of disbelief knife through the first wave of emotions. He couldn't, try as he might, envision Basilyn, who couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds sopping wet, lifting stacks of lumber, roofing materials, siding. He couldn't picture her slinging a hammer, wielding a circular saw ... weighed down with a carpenter's belt loaded with hammer, nails, measuring tape, chalk line … scrambling up shaky wall frames to secure roof joists. He could picture the chart Dr. Chaney had shown him—compulsive liar. "How did you—manage?" he asked finally, stiffly. She stared at him a long moment, her face losing its animation, its friendliness, turning cool. She reached for her drawings, rolling them up with great care. "I used my brains, Mr. Demot. I used leverage like anybody with any sense does. I didn't carry the 4x8 materials around. I couldn't. My arm span isn't long enough, but I can guarantee you, if I could've grasped them, I could've carried them. Carpenters aren't apes and gofers learn early the easy way to lift and carry. But, if you'd like to test me, pick up the materials and I'll build you that damned pump house you've been trying to get your handyman to build!" she shot over her shoulder as she stalked from the office. He stared after her, realizing suddenly that she hadn't lied, couldn't have lied ... not about all of it anyway. There was no way she could've picked up so much practical knowledge of construction unless she'd spent a great deal of time on construction sites. And there were women carpenters. He'd seen several. He might even, at some time in the past, have seen Basilyn at

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work. He resisted the urge to go after her and apologize. What could he say? I'm sorry I immediately jumped to the conclusion that you were a liar, but now that I've thought it over I've decided to believe you? That ought to go over well. He turned back to his drafting table, but he discovered that he couldn't concentrate. Instead, he kept picturing Basilyn working on a construction crew. And pondering some way to apologize for an insult that had been implied but not voiced. That was, he decided, about the hardest offense to make amends for. You know what you thought I thought? Well, I didn't think that at all. Convincing. Very convincing, he thought sarcastically. Maybe he could play dumb? What are you angry about? Did I say something? Oh, that was definitely closer. "Hell!" he snapped in irritation. She avoided him altogether for a week. Finally, her determination to learn from him while she had the opportunity overrode her anger, however, and she unbent sufficiently to creep back to 'pick' his brain for more knowledge, studying at his shoulder, questioning him about any detail she didn't understand. Not until then did Dominic realize there was a method to his madness, that he hadn't merely decided to bring work home again for the sake of convenience. Having tried friendliness and been rebuffed, he'd 'lured' her to him, much like one might lure a wild bird to hand with bread crumbs. And although the plot had been an unconscious one, never really acknowledged, even through that frustrating period when he thought he'd jumped too fast and in entirely the wrong direction to begin a relationship of any sort, he realized finally that his actions had been very deliberate and totally pre-meditated.

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Chapter Nine Basilyn stared glumly at her reflection. The face that looked back at her hardly seemed like her own. It wasn't just the slight changes she could see there, though there were certainly some changes. Her eyes, always rather deep set, had begun to look almost cadaverous in her critical view, for there were dark circles below them and in the hollows above that made them look even more deep set than usual. There were shadows in the hollows beneath her high cheekbones as well, deeper than she'd ever noticed before. Though perhaps it was because she seemed so pale? She hadn't been sleeping well. That 'package' she carried for the Demots seemed to have come to rest upon her bladder. No sooner did she settle herself comfortably at night than the urge to visit the bathroom prompted her to get up once more, over and over again throughout the night until it was little wonder she felt, and looked, like a zombie. She hardly felt as if she'd rested at all when she got up in the morning and spent most of her day thinking wistfully of creeping off somewhere to doze for an hour or two. She'd fallen asleep in class twice lately. She supposed she shouldn't gripe. She'd heard many women complain of nausea and even violent fits of vomiting, and she'd been fortunate enough to have escaped that. But she couldn't think living with indigestion was a whole lot better. Her abdomen felt bloated, and looked it, too. And that was dismaying to someone who'd always prided herself on having a nice, flat tummy, though aside from that she might almost believe she wasn't pregnant at all. For she was nearing three months now and still had nothing more to show for it than a slightly rounded belly, indigestion, and sleepless nights. She shrugged the thoughts off. She made it a point not to dwell on her pregnancy, or its effects upon her, when she could help it. Sifting through her make-up pouch, she took out a stick of highlighter and carefully dabbed make-up around her 'black' eyes, blending it with equal care, then drew back slightly to study the effect. Better, she decided. Of course, she looked as if she were trying to hide two black eyes, but at least they weren't black anymore. She took her compact out and whisked a touch of blush on, as well, to banish that 'half dead' look. Tossing the compact back into her make-up pouch, she took her hair brush and raked it through her dark hair a couple of times then pulled her hair away from her face and secured it in the back with a banana clip. Grabbing up her books, she headed for the stairs. She'd become accustomed to them, somewhat, in the past few weeks, but she still didn't like them and she never descended them at her usual break neck pace, but rather with great care, keeping one hand on the balustrade at all times. And she made it a point to keep her eyes trained strictly upon the treads. The Demots were in the kitchen. No greetings were exchanged as she entered the room—which was fine with her. She really wasn't up to civilized behavior until she'd had her coffee. She wondered at it, though, as she dropped her books on the counter and moved to the coffee pot to fix herself a cup of coffee. They'd managed to maintain a truce of sorts for the past

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several weeks, the three of them, simply by ignoring each other's existence more than anything else. But she was curious at times, wondering if the constraint she placed upon them had drastically affected the household. Had there been morning greetings before? Morning conversation? Any conversation other than necessary communication? Because that was what passed for conversation around the Demot house these days. On the other hand, despite the fact that the Demots disappeared into the master bedroom together at night when they all went up to bed, she was beginning to doubt Dominic ever spent the night there. Several times, when she'd first moved in, before she'd learned better than to arrive early for breakfast, she'd discovered him on the large sleeping couch in the great room. Not that it was any of her business how they lived. She dismissed the thoughts as she settled at the breakfast bar, stirring her coffee idly for several moments before she took a careful sip. She closed her eyes in bliss as the coffee rolled down her throat, leaving warmth behind. There was nothing quite like starting one's day with a good cup of coffee. She'd taken her third sip when Theresa breezed by and whisked the cup right out from under her. She turned to stare after the woman blankly. "I wasn't through!" "Coffee's not good for the baby," Theresa retorted with a smug air as she dumped the coffee down the drain, rinsed the cup, and deposited it in the dishwasher. Basilyn felt her jaw go slack. "It's what?" "Coffee's not good for the baby. I've been reading up on it and new studies show that it isn't good for pregnant women. They're not quite certain yet what the effects of caffeine might be on the baby, but they're certain it isn't good for them." Basilyn stood up and marched across the kitchen, took down another coffee cup, and poured it full. "If they don't know and you don't know, I certainly don't know. And I don't believe it for a minute! And I'm damn well going to have my coffee unless Dr. Chaney says differently!" She turned to discover Theresa had followed her. Theresa reached for the cup. "It isn't good for the baby and you can't have it!" "I'll follow Dr. Chaney's orders on that, not yours!" Basilyn snapped angrily, pulling the cup out of her reach. Theresa grasped the cup and tried to wrest it away from her. Basilyn gripped the cup determinedly, refusing to let go of it … and Theresa released it abruptly. Scalding coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup, splashing onto her hand and up her wrist in a burning tide. Basilyn cried out, dropping the cup. It struck the floor with a near deafening crash and shattered and was followed by absolute quiet. Gripping her wrist, Basilyn whirled and rushed to the sink, shoving her hand under the faucet as she twisted the cold water knob, blinking against a sudden influx of tears of pain as her burning flesh slowly cooled. Behind her, Theresa gasped and burst into tears. "My cup! You broke my cup! And I can't get this pattern anymore! It's discontinued and you've ruined my matched set!" she wailed tearfully. She bent to retrieve the pieces. "She broke my cup, Nick! She just threw it down! Look what she's done!" Dominic, who'd jumped to his feet at the mishap, dragged his gaze from Basilyn and turned to look at Theresa. "You made her burn herself," he said angrily, accusingly. Theresa came to her feet abruptly. "Me! I didn't do anything! But it's just like you to

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blame it on me! And take her side! Oh!" She turned and fled the room, raced upstairs, and slammed her bedroom door shut. Dominic stared after her a long moment, wondering if he should go after her and try to make peace. He sighed finally, rejecting the idea. He would have to try later. He didn't have the time to spare now for it was bound to take a great deal of time to smooth Theresa's ruffled feathers. It always did. And he had an early appointment this morning. Instead, he moved to stand behind Basilyn, studying her bent head. He could see she was valiantly fighting her own tears and that bothered him far more than Theresa's lack of restraint. He felt an urge to draw her close to soothe her tears. He dismissed it, reminding himself he had to keep up appearances. Beyond that, Theresa was liable to make Basilyn’s life hellish if he didn’t watch himself. "Let me see it," he said gruffly. She sniffed and again he had to fight the urge that had come upon him before, the insane urge to comfort a woman he had no right to comfort, who would almost certainly not welcome either his concern or his touch. "It's alright. It doesn't hurt much anymore. I'm sorry about the cup. Maybe I could glue it back together?" she offered. "Forget the damned cup," he said shortly, irritated more with himself than anything else, though he was annoyed, too, that she was so reluctant of familiarity that she didn't even want him to examine her hand. He reached for her anyway, turning her hand so that he could study it, cursing under his breath when he saw that it was badly scalded. "It doesn't look like it'll blister, but I'd be willing to bet it hurts like hell. Do you want me to see if I can find something to put on it? There's bound to be something around here. Theresa keeps the medicine cabinets so full we could almost start our own pharmacy." She sniffed again and shook her head. "Really, it looks worse than it is. It's almost stopped hurting." "Maybe if I just kissed it better ...?" Her head came up with a jerk and a surprised chuckle escaped her. She withdrew her hand from his. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think that's necessary. And I don't have much faith in the curative powers of a kiss." He grinned, reaching up to tap her nose playfully, both surprised and pleased that his gambit to distract her had worked. "Then you must have missed out on one of the great 'miracle' cures of all time. My folks cured all manner of ills that way when I was growing up." Basilyn's smile faded. "I guess I must have." She frowned slightly. "Though I do believe I recall my first foster mother used that a time or two." Dominic looked away uncomfortably. "Sorry. I forgot." "Don't worry about it. I don't. It wasn't all that bad—mostly, you know. At least when I didn't like one of my foster parents, or one of my foster brothers or sisters, I knew I wouldn't be around long. And the new batch might be better." Dominic studied her a long moment. "I can't imagine growing up that way." Basilyn smiled faintly. "I can't imagine growing up any other way," she said a trifle wistfully, wondering what it would've been like to have had a real family where kisses might be standard. Dominic cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Look, I need to go. Would you like to stop somewhere and maybe grab a cup of coffee and a couple of fattening donuts on the way?" he added conspiratorially, his eyes lighting with teasing amusement.

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"It would serve you right if I took you up on your offer. Then you'd really be in the dog house!" she responded tartly, teasing, though she was uncomfortable the moment she realized that that was what she was doing and surprised that it had seemed to come so naturally to her. She couldn't recall ever feeling comfortable enough around anyone to tease them. But then she was embarrassed, too, that she'd tactlessly acknowledged a situation they'd all been at pains to pretend didn't exist. He flushed slightly but seemed to shrug it off indifferently. Chuckling at her quip, he turned and scooped her books off the counter and tucked them under one arm, reaching out to grasp her elbow and ushering her towards the back door. "I spend the vast majority of my life in the dog house, if you must know and I've played hell now... whatever. We might as well enjoy life and drown our sorrows in a good cup of coffee." "With great, gooey donuts!" Basilyn reminded him, trying to keep the tone light, making no attempt to dissuade him, though she knew with a sinking of dread that it was a mistake to allow herself to be swept up in this sort of friendly conspiracy. Particularly when it encouraged Dominic to think she would allow a friendship between them when she knew she would have to keep her distance—for her sake as well as his. Moreover, Theresa wouldn't appreciate the fact that Dominic had ignored her distress and 'sided' with Basilyn, and was bound to make them pay. On the other hand, as he'd just pointed out, they'd already played hell and she wanted her coffee. **** "I've been thinking," Theresa said musingly. "We ought to switch obstetricians." Basilyn paused with her fork suspended in mid-air, glanced at Dominic, and lowered her fork to her plate untouched. "Why?" Dominic asked bluntly before Basilyn could do so. Theresa shrugged with elaborate unconcern. "Well, I just think we'd have less trouble explaining things. Dr. Chaney knows everything, after all. And I don't want our friends asking prying questions. You know how morbidly curious people can be. If we switched, she could just give them my name, pretend she's me and he'd never know the difference. Anyway, I think that's the way it's usually done—to avoid embarrassing explanations." Dominic studied her for a long moment. "There's nothing 'usual' about this sort of thing—and if you're referring to that highly publicized case years ago, I've no intention of repeating their mistakes if I can help it. At any rate, our friends are bound to notice you're not pregnant, so I'm afraid we're just going to be stuck making explanations—if you mean to explain. Personally, I can't see any reason to explain anything. This is nobody's business but ours. And if they're rude enough to ask, we can be just as rude and tell them it's none of their damn business." Theresa pursed her lips but finally waved a hand airily, dismissing his argument. "There's ways around that, too. But I suppose I see your point. We don't want our little Basilyn to get any ideas." 'Our little Basilyn' returned her smug look coldly, but a flush of both embarrassment and annoyance mounted her cheeks. She could not like Theresa Demot. With the best will in the world, she could barely tolerate her. The woman seemed determined to control every aspect of her life and watched her every moment of every day, toyed with her much like a cat will torment a mouse before it moves in for the kill, until she frequently felt her control on her temper slip

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precariously. She suspected, however, that that was exactly Theresa's aim, to break through the wall she'd built around herself, and she was determined to foil her efforts. "If you still feel insecure about this, I'm afraid I can't help you. But Mr. Demot has taken sufficient safeguards, I would think, to satisfy anyone. And I've been well impressed with the futility of trying to fight you, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'll be only too happy to end our association, permanently, and get on with my own life when this is all over, I assure you." Theresa chuckled, not very convincingly. "What was that old saying...'thou protesteth too heatedly'..?" Basilyn glared at her. "Maybe. But I think this is a case of damned if you do and damned if you don't. I'll save my breath next time, however. But you do this so regularly, I thought you needed a regular injection of reassurance." Theresa's lips tightened for a moment, but apparently she decided to dismiss it. Silence reigned for perhaps five minutes. "It's rather nice to see so much of you these days, Nick. Everything is going alright at the office?" Dominic shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was about to come under fire, almost certain he knew the direction of her thoughts. He felt a sinking of dread, knowing Theresa was intent on stirring things up. But he felt a surge of anger, too. Things had been almost peaceful around the house lately—so much so that he'd begun to think he might be able to relax at home for a change. He ought to have known better. Theresa was incapable of achieving either peace or happiness for herself, and she wasn't about to let anyone around her have it. The only real enjoyment she seemed to get out of life was in keeping everyone around her off balance and on guard for her next broadside. "Everything's fine." Theresa lifted her head and studied him a long moment. "That's good. I thought, maybe, things were a bit slow. Why, you've been home early every night this week—and three nights last week—four the week before. It could get to be a habit if you aren't careful." She glanced at Basilyn and smiled a 'cat that ate the canary smile'. "If I didn't know better, I'd think it was Basilyn's … cooking that brought you home. Or do you enjoy your new … teaching duties that well? Mmmm?" That very pointed pause brought a guilty flush to Basilyn's cheeks, though she couldn't imagine why. She had nothing to feel guilty about, or defensive. She didn't look at Dominic. She rarely looked directly at him. It was safer, she'd learned, not to, for Theresa had eagle eyes and a 'gutter' mind and was liable to misinterpret the most innocent words or actions as threatening to herself. She began to wonder, however, just how accurate her first impression of Dominic Demot had been. She'd supposed he must have given Theresa reason not to trust him, but anyone who could be suspicious of her and Dominic, when the man barely ever spoke two words to her— aside from those 'teaching' sessions Theresa referred to—which were instructional, completely open and above board, and in no way 'intimate' since they were in plain view whenever Theresa cared to stop by the door that was always left open and take a look—must surely be jealous to a near psychotic degree. Quite aside from the fact that Theresa was far better looking than her, she'd never made any attempt whatsoever to entice the woman's husband and couldn't see how anything she'd done could possibly have been interpreted in that light. Nor had Dominic shown any predilection for her company, or flirted, even lightly. If anything, it seemed to her that he took greater care to

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keep his distance from her than she did him. And finally, she was pregnant and looked worse than she'd ever looked in her life, for although she wasn't showing much yet, at least not to the extent that she looked pregnant rather than fat, she no longer had anything even remotely resembling a figure. The indentation where her waist had once been had long since disappeared. And the little 'poochy' belly she'd had almost from the beginning had become a definite pot, definite enough that she could no longer fasten or zip her pants and had been forced to the measure of holding them together with an ever lengthening succession of safety pins. At this point, she could almost have been flattered at being suspected of being the object of a man's desire … if she could've convinced herself the idea wasn't downright laughable. However, it was ridiculous and, that being the case, Theresa's persistence in doing so made her feel all the more self-conscious of her appearance … and irritated the hell out of her. Dominic eyed Theresa narrowly for several moments. "That's it. Remember the old days? When you used to cook? Or at least instruct the maid to cook. Before you got to worrying so much about our figures?" he said sardonically. Figure? Basilyn bit her lip to keep from smiling. But she was impressed, too, that Dominic was so secure in his manhood that he could make remarks like that without worrying how they might be taken. How very refreshing to be around a man who felt secure enough in his masculinity not to feel a need to prove it constantly! Theresa sent her a poisonous glance. "So it isn't Basilyn's cooking in particular?" Dominic's lips tightened. "She's a good cook, if that's what you're asking." Theresa smiled sourly. "Well, you really ought to tell her now and then. You know you never say a word about whether you like it or not. I mean, if you'd told me you didn't like the meals I was preparing, I would've made an effort to please you … just like our little Basilyn tries so hard to do. A woman expects compliments. Doesn't she, Basilyn?" Basilyn stared at her a long moment. "I get by just fine with sincerity, thank you, Theresa. If you're asking me if I've been trying to impress—or please your husband—then the answer is … yes." She smiled calmly at Theresa and returned her attention to her plate without glancing at Dominic to see how he'd taken her remark. She wondered for a moment why she'd said something so provoking to Theresa when she knew how the woman was but dismissed it with the reflection that she did know how she was ... by now. One needn't think one could divert Theresa, or avert an argument, once she'd gone in pursuit of one. That being the case, she'd begun to wonder why she made the effort even to try. At any rate, the remark had simply seemed to fall from her lips without volition, prompted by an odd sort of protectiveness. Although why she had thought Dominic might need either her protection or defense she couldn't decide. Except that she thought she was getting rather weary of watching Theresa tear him down and cut up his peace when he obviously had difficulty thinking of any gentlemanly way to defend himself and refused to defend himself in an ungentlemanly way. "And why is that, I wonder?" Theresa asked in a deceptively sugary tone. Basilyn lifted her brows as she looked at her. "I like to cook when I have the time and energy and he likes to eat what I cook. That's a compliment in itself and reason enough to try to please. I don't know very many people who don't like being appreciated." Theresa returned her look with an assessing one of her own. "I expect you're right," she

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said finally, giving Dominic a pointed look. "It must be nice to be appreciated." They finished their meal in uncomfortable silence. As they rose to carry their dishes into the kitchen, Theresa spoke again. "I'm going shopping for maternity clothes tomorrow. Will you come?" Basilyn flushed uncomfortably. Try though she might, she couldn't accustom herself to having others, virtual strangers, paying her way. If there had been any sort of ties that bound them other than the contract between them, even one of friendship, she didn't think it would've had the effect of making her feel so … 'cheap'. But that was just the way it was, and it made her uncomfortable every time she had to accept something from them. However, she was in no position to turn down the offer. Her wardrobe was far from extensive and had already failed to meet her present needs. It had been bad enough when the time came that she could no longer fasten her jeans, but she couldn't even zip them now and she wasn't certain she'd be able to get in them at all very much longer. Even her blouses had become uncomfortably tight, both across her bosom, which was noticeably fuller, and through the hips, since her stomach had expanded to take up all the slack. She was just going to have to swallow her pride and try to accept gracefully, she decided, and tried to look pleased by the suggestion. "When do you want to go?" "How about if I pick you up after your last class? That way we can go directly from there to the mall. If it's alright with you, Nick?" she said, turning to him. "I mean … I know how much you two enjoy your little chats to and from school." Basilyn pursed her lips in irritation as Theresa paused again significantly. She had obviously seen another opportunity to put in a subtle complaint about Dominic taking Basilyn to and from the University—and to work and back for that matter.. She'd been doing so ever since the moped's demise, when Dominic, seeing Theresa had no intention of taking on the responsibility herself, had insisted on playing taxi driver. With Theresa, it seemed, everything was a case of damned if you did and damned if you didn't. She was never happy either way, for, no sooner did she get her way than she began to suspect she'd been manipulated, and that it wasn't her desire after all. She waved her hand airily and gave him a coy look. "… About architecture and all that. But you're just going to have to spare our little Basilyn to me for one day." Dominic stared at her hard for a long moment and finally uttered a sound of disgust, strode into his home office and slammed the door behind him. "Well!" Theresa exclaimed in feigned surprise. "What do you suppose is eating him?" She shrugged. "He's always had a nasty temper. And you know how men are. They always cut up ugly about a shopping expedition, even a necessary one. I don't suppose any of them would ever really be happy unless we women would agree to wear rags and exist on air and water. We won't mind him. We'll have our fun anyway—just us two girls!"

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Chapter Ten Basilyn felt distinctly uncomfortable as she followed Theresa into the mall. A woman with two children passed them at the entrance, smiled politely and glanced over Basilyn curiously. Basilyn reached self-consciously to check to see if her shirt had ridden up again, tugging on the hem surreptitiously. From what she could feel (she didn't want to be so obvious as to bend her head to check) she seemed to be covered. She dismissed it. After the third curious look she encountered, she began to feel a touch of paranoia and decided to duck into the first lady's room they passed to check her appearance. She paused at the door, glancing at Theresa. "I need to stop here a minute." Theresa waved her away breezily. "I'll be down the mall in the maternity boutique." Basilyn stared after her, but finally shrugged and pushed the door open. After surveying herself front, back, and side-view in the huge mirror that covered almost the entire top half of the lavatory wall, she finally concluded that she was either imagining the stares or it was her odd shape that drew their eyes. She decided she looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg. It wasn't a comforting thought, and she was no less self-conscious as she turned towards the door once more. "I see how you got the job." Basilyn froze with her hand on the door handle and turned instinctively towards the voice, though she was certain she hadn't heard the muttered comment correctly. A woman, dressed in one of the uniforms the mall attendants wore was busily wiping down the vanity. Basilyn had barely noticed her before. She noticed now that the woman was scarcely taller than she, thirtyish, perhaps a little on the plump side and had rather stringy, dark auburn hair. There was no one else in the restroom and Basilyn was on the point of shaking the strange incident off when the woman looked up and their eyes met and held for several long, unnerving moments in the mirror. The woman almost radiated hatred. Her dark eyes glittered with it, though her face remained totally impassive. It was that lack of expression as well as the fact that Basilyn was certain she'd never laid eyes on the woman before that brought new doubts to the surface. "I … I beg your pardon? Did you say something?" The woman's lips curled at that. "Bitch!" she spat. Basilyn stared at the woman, stunned by the unprovoked, unexpected attack. "What?" "You're Dominic's whore. I see now how you got my job." Basilyn felt the blood rush from her face, seemingly from her whole body, so abruptly it left a chill in its wake. She opened her mouth to speak, but what she would've replied she wasn't altogether certain. Two women pushed the door open at just that moment, bumping her since she still stood almost directly behind it. "Oh Lord! Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry!" the first woman exclaimed. Basilyn threw her a distracted smile as she ducked out the door. "No. No. I'm fine," she

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tossed over her shoulder as she rushed away and went in search of Theresa. She moved quickly, partly from habit, but mostly in an effort to outrun her chaotic thoughts and to put the disturbing scene behind her in distance as well as thought, dodging and weaving through the crowd of shoppers. It was one of the few advantages to being extremely short, the fact that she could slip through openings others either could not, or couldn't see. A disadvantage was that those same 'others' either didn't see her, or had a tendency to dismiss her as insignificant. She got elbowed three times; once in the breast, once in the back and once in the shoulder, and stepped on twice before she managed to make her way to the boutique. She noticed none of that, however. For, despite her determination to dismiss it, her thoughts were still far too chaotic. At any rate, she was so accustomed to being jostled or nearly run down in public places that she scarcely even gave it a thought anymore. She stopped in the doorway of the boutique, going up on her tiptoes to look out over the racks of clothing. She didn't see Theresa and she frowned slightly. A sales clerk approached her, smiling one of those practiced 'welcome' smiles while her eyes slid over Basilyn and calculated the extent of her wallet. "Can I help you?" Basilyn glanced around again, taking a few steps into the boutique so that she could look down the aisles. Theresa wasn't much taller than she, and if she'd bent down to look something over .... "Uh … I was supposed to meet someone here. I don't see her. A woman about my height? Dark hair?" The sales clerk's demeanor relaxed slightly. "Your sister? She told me you'd be along. She's in the dressing room trying on an outfit," the sales clerk said, turning and leading the way to the back of the store. "It must be fun for the two of you," she added, throwing a smile over her shoulder. "She told me y'all's due date was only about a week apart. I wish I had a sister to share things like that with. Not that I'm expecting. I'm not even married yet. But it would be nice, I think." Basilyn stared after her blankly for several moments. She was on the point of telling the woman she was mistaken, but a sudden uneasiness kept her silent. After a moment's hesitation, she followed the clerk to the back, feeling a strange disorientation descend upon her, as if she'd stepped suddenly into some sort of parallel dimension where everything was topsy-turvy, feeling an uncomfortable morass of emotions converging upon her as she reached the dressing room area. Embarrassment and dismay seemed uppermost, routing completely, if only temporarily, from her mind her earlier distress. But she felt a twinge of anger, too, both at herself for being a sap and at Theresa. Because she knew, suddenly, just what Theresa's game was and suspected it had been hatched, at least in part, to embarrass her. The sales clerk stopped in front of a door and tapped. "Your sister's here." "Theresa?" Basilyn said hesitantly, hoping she would find that she'd been mistaken. Theresa opened the door almost at once and pirouetted before her, her eyes gleaming with a combination of excitement, triumph, and malicious amusement. "What do you think? It's not really my color." Stiff pride made Basilyn assume an air of unsurprise and plastered a false smile on her lips. She studied the ensemble with feigned interest, so blinded by humiliation and anger that

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several moments elapsed before she actually took in Theresa's appearance. It never failed to amaze her that any woman who looked as Theresa did could have such poor taste. Apparently that was the only area where she suffered any qualms of self-doubt. For she inevitably and unerringly went for whatever was 'in style' without making any attempt to judge for herself if the style suited her or not, either smug in the belief that anything must flatter her beautiful self, smug with the resources that made it possible for her always to keep right in style. Or just plain lacking in the ability to make those choices for herself. A genuine smile curled Basilyn's lips. "Why! It's just darling! It suits you perfectly!" she exclaimed with poisonous sweetness. She hadn't known she could act so well, but apparently she convinced Theresa because she preened and turned to survey her image in the mirror once more. The dress looked like hell. Basilyn couldn't imagine how that particular shade of mustard yellow had ever come to be popular. She hadn't seen anyone that the color flattered … except blacks people. It didn't make their complexion look as if they had some sort of liver disease. But then blacks people didn't seem to care much for the dull color. "Do you have someone to do alterations?" Theresa asked the sales clerk. "It looks a little long to me." Basilyn chuckled and spoke before the sales clerk could. "Oh, I wouldn't hem it. It isn't that much too long anyway. And you know, as short as you and I are, it's not going to be long before we look like little barrels. You're probably going to need the extra length. Don't you think so?" she addressed the sales clerk. The sales clerk looked down at the hem line a little doubtfully, obviously reluctant to voice a different opinion, particularly when that opinion might affect the sale. Theresa surveyed her image a little doubtfully. "Maybe you're right. But it looks rather lose to me. Maybe I should get a smaller size?" "What size is that one?" Basilyn asked with interest. "It's a seven and I usually wear a seven, but…." "Well, you definitely ought to get that then. They're made a little bigger for a reason, I expect." She lifted a questioning brow at the sales clerk. The sales clerk smiled, obviously feeling on firm footing now. "They are. Most women tend to put on at least a few pounds of … baby fat. And, towards the last, there's often a problem with swelling. You have to keep in mind that these things are designed to do you till the end. It's not going to be really loose on you in a couple of months." Theresa studied her reflection for several moments more and finally nodded. "I'll take it." The sales clerk smiled. "What about these others? Did any of them do?" she asked, reaching for the clothes hung on the pegs inside. "I haven't tried all of them yet," Theresa said hurriedly and snatched them up before the sales clerk could grab them, sorting through them and removing three dresses. "But I'll take these." The sales clerk's smile was getting warmer by the moment. "Could I find you anything else?" Theresa studied her consideringly a moment before a wide smile of anticipation spread her lips. "Well, actually, I'm going to need everything—panties, bras, slips … the works." She

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gave the clerk her size and the clerk turned away happily to go in search. Turning her attention from the clerk to Basilyn, Theresa studied her assessingly for a moment, obviously wondering just how far she could push her little game. "Maybe you could find me some more things to try on? They don't have much in my size." Basilyn forced a smile. "Why, surely ... big sister." The sales clerk pointed her towards the racks before she went off in search of lingerie. "There are a few sevens on that rack and more on those two over there." Basilyn nodded and moved to the racks indicated, seething even as she began to yank up every seven she came to without looking at anything more than the size. She found, to her anger and dismay, that she had to fight an almost overwhelming desire to burst into tears. She mentally kicked herself. It was stupid, just plain stupid, to feel so disappointed when she'd felt so uncomfortable with the thought of having Theresa buy her clothes. She should be relieved, not hurt and embarrassed, that she wouldn't have to be obligated to the woman—or her husband. She could manage without maternity clothes until she could spare enough money to buy some for herself. Poor women did it all the time. Of course, the poor things just looked like pure hell running around in their husband's oversized shirts, but that was beside the point. A pregnant woman couldn't really look good anyway. The best she could hope for was presentable. She could take her next pay check and pick up a couple of smocks at one of the bargain stores and maybe a couple of pairs of stretch knit slacks. Those were bound to be cheaper than maternity pants. Maternity wear, she noted with dismay as she glanced at a few of the price tags, obviously had a higher mark-up than regular clothes. She returned to the dressing room with an armload of clothes and handed them to Theresa as Theresa handed out the clothes she'd already tried on. "I'll take all of these. You can put them on the counter. What do you think of this?" she added a little doubtfully. Basilyn looked the dress over. It was a dropped waist affair, fitting through the hip and thigh area, blousing out around the middle. Huge pink cabbage roses stood out against a black background. "It's you. It's definitely you. With anyone else, I'd have doubts about those roses. They're so big, you know. But I've noticed you can carry off just about anything." Theresa beamed with pleasure and turned to survey herself again. Basilyn felt just a touch of malice in her own smile. The dress looked worse than the yellow thing … if possible. The woman had atrocious taste. She returned to the counter and deposited Theresa's latest acquisitions, feeling a touch of shame for her spitefulness. She hadn't realized that she had any spitefulness in her and she wasn't pleased to discover she did. For a moment, she considered making a reversal and trying to talk Theresa out of buying those things that looked so awful on her. She dismissed the idea in the next moment. Theresa wasn't that easily influenced. If she hadn't already decided she liked them, she certainly wouldn't have allowed Basilyn, of all people, to talk her into buying them. She, like many people, didn't really want an honest opinion. She asked only because she wanted someone to agree with her. She stood for several moments, staring rather blindly out the show windows at the front of the store, trying to fight off the myriad of uncomfortable emotions Theresa's shopping trip had engendered in her. After a moment, she discovered that she'd been staring for some time at a fabric shop. She studied the store for several moments more while her random thoughts

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congealed into a more concrete idea and finally returned to the dressing room, beginning to feel a lightening in her depression. "Theresa?" she called through the door. "Mmmm?" "I'm going to wander down the mall a bit." She didn't know why she was reluctant to tell Theresa where she was going, but she discovered that she was. Perhaps because she thought she'd come up with a way to thwart her and she didn't want to warn Theresa ahead of time. "I'll be back in … twenty or thirty minutes. Ok?" "Don't worry about it. I expect I'll be here a while." The sales clerk appeared beside her, carrying an armload of lingerie. "I've got those things you were wanting." Theresa yanked the door open. Basilyn left them discussing the merits of breast feeding—and thus nursing bras—as opposed to bottle feeding. She left her depression behind at the door of the piece goods shop. A sales clerk met her at the door with a smile, looking her over with friendly curiosity. "Maternity, right?" Basilyn felt embarrassment tinge her cheeks with pink, but she returned the clerk's smile with the first genuine one of her own that she'd felt in the past two hours. "That obvious, huh?" The clerk, a young girl who looked to be around seventeen, giggled, her own face coloring up. "Not really. When are you due?" "Around Christmas …." The girl looked a little pitying. "Oh. You've got months and months then ...." "Don't remind me, please." The girl laughed. "What can I help you with? We've got stretch panels over here." "Stretch panels?" Basilyn asked with immediate interest. The girl nodded, leading the way. "So you can convert pants you've already got or make something new." She picked one up and opened the package, displaying the panel for Basilyn's inspection. "My girl friend bought a bunch of these and got her mother to put them in. I expect, if you did it right, you could probably just make it a temporary sort of thing without messing them up, you know ... if you wanted to use them again afterwards." Basilyn studied the panel, mentally attaching it to her jeans, wondering if she could attach the panel without ruining the pants completely for future use. She nodded finally, deciding she could. It might be a little bulky..and not look particularly elegant, but the main two objectives were to have room to breathe … and grow, without ruining the jeans permanently. And she could hide the mess with a loose top. Or if the alteration just looked too tacky, she could sacrifice a couple of pairs that were on their last legs anyway. She chose two light blue panels, to match her faded blue jeans, and moved on to the pattern catalogues. Selecting a basic smock pattern, she wandered from there to the bargain table and picked out a couple of lengths of fabric. Theresa had a sewing machine, though Basilyn had never seen her use it—or a sewing cabinet. Which Basilyn had noticed and figured must surely hold a sewing machine. Surely she would allow Basilyn to use it and if she didn't, then she could do them up by hand. Hand sewing would be time consuming and not nearly as satisfactory as machine stitching, but the work could be done in her spare time. Feeling almost light hearted, despite her considerably lightened purse, she left the shop

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and returned to the maternity boutique. There, her spirits plummeted once more. "Your sister's gone," the sales clerk greeted her. Basilyn stared at her blankly. "Gone?" The sales clerk shrugged. "She probably went to find you." Basilyn felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She left the shop again and glanced up and down the mall. Theresa was nowhere in sight, but then it would've been hard to spot her in the crowd. She didn't really try. A nasty suspicion had leapt into her mind and, following it up, and hoping all the while that it was just a nasty suspicion, she moved quickly down the mall and went out the door she and Theresa had entered. Despite her suspicions, when they were proven correct, she simply stood, dumbfounded, staring at the beat-up blue car that was parked where Theresa's tan car had been parked two hours before. After a few moments, she blinked and glanced around, hoping she'd been mistaken about the parking spot. Once she'd wandered up and down four parking lanes, however, she was finally forced to accept the unacceptable. Theresa had abandoned her.

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Chapter Eleven Basilyn moved back to the sidewalk and stared around her at the parking lot, her mind curiously blank. It finally occurred to her, however, that she was very likely due at work. She glanced down at her watch and had her worst fears confirmed. She was due alright—twenty minutes overdue in fact. She stared at her watch in dismay and finally shook it and held it to her ear, hoping, without much hope, that the watch had stopped and she just hadn't noticed. It ticked on cheerfully. She dropped her wrist, looking around again with a touch of panic now added to burgeoning anger and deepest dismay. Her supervisor was going to fire her, she thought in sudden consternation. And she was stranded. She wished suddenly, and vehemently, that she still had her moped, that she hadn't allowed Dominic to talk her into waiting on the repairs. She had wanted to have it repaired at once or, failing that, begin looking for another one. But she hadn't really felt like she could afford either in her present circumstances, and, at any rate, and despite her reluctance to depend on either of them for transportation, she'd been obliged to see their point. So here she was. She twitched her shoulder bag around and began to search through it. She found a wadded up dollar bill in the bottom and a little over a dollar in change. She took out a quarter and returned to the mall, waiting impatiently for a turn at the pay phones. She darted forward and grabbed the first one that came available, grabbing up the phone book at the same time and thumbing through it for the number of a taxi company. A man's voice answered the third ring. "How much would it cost to have someone take me from the University Mall over to Po' Ed's Bar-b-que on Fowler?" "Just a minute." There was a short pause. "Three eighty." Basilyn bit her lip. "Well … how about half way there?" "I ain't got time for prank calls, lady!" the man snapped and hung up. Basilyn stared at the receiver a minute before she slammed it down. Hefting her package under one arm and adjusting her shoulder bag, she marched angrily towards the mall doors. She'd taken no more than three steps when her foot shot out from under her and she landed in the floor so hard in stunned her. She couldn't move for several moments. Before she could gather her scattered senses or take a mental inventory to see what she'd done to herself, a half a dozen people had crowded round to peer down at her in concern, questioning her and each other excitedly, trying to decide how it had happened, what was wrong with her and how badly she'd hurt herself. A tide of humiliation flushed her skin a bright red, routing all thought of injury. She struggled to get to her feet, assuring everyone that she didn't need an ambulance, that she wasn't really hurt ... though she was—her pride—her dignity—and herself. She felt as if she'd driven her spine through her skull. Her hip hurt, and she'd cracked her elbow in her skidding fall. She

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ignored it all, getting determinedly to her feet. She slipped again as she regained her feet. Fortunately, a couple of the shoppers had grasped her arms to help her up and she didn't land in the floor again. "Well! Good God! No wonder she slipped down!" someone exclaimed. "There's something all over the floor here. You ought to complain to the management!" All Basilyn could think about was escaping. "You're probably right," she grunted on a painful breath, trying to act unhurt, resisting the urge to massage away the pain. "I expect I will." She stepped away from the puddle carefully, brushing at her wet clothes, more embarrassed than ever when she discovered the fall had exposed the gape in her jeans and her rounded belly. She tugged it down, felt a spark of her earlier anger return to beat back those emotions she felt least like dealing with at the moment, felt relief descend upon her as her helpers began, finally, to disperse. One woman lingered, handing Basilyn the package she'd dropped. "You're sure you're alright? Wouldn't you like me to help you down to the manager's office so they can call someone to see about you?" Basilyn bit her lip, blushing again, fighting the urge to burst into tears at the woman's kindness. "No. I'm alright ... really. I have to go," she added, adjusting her handbag as she moved away. "Thank you." As she turned away from the woman, she saw the maid from the lady's room, propped against the wall, her hands fisted around the handle of the mop that sat in her portable bucket. She was smiling, her dark eyes glittering with malicious delight. Basilyn checked at the sight of the woman, her gaze flicking from the woman's face to the bucket of water. She knew then that there had been nothing 'accidental' about her fall. For a moment, such rage consumed her that she could neither move nor think clearly, was aware of nothing beyond the primal urge to grab the woman by the hair and beat her head against the brick wall behind her until it was a pulpy mass of blood and brain matter. She'd taken a step in the woman's direction before reason returned, coating her with a cold film of sweat as the consequences of such an action occurred to her. She turned abruptly and stalked out of the mall. Her anger sustained her for nearly three blocks. She looked like death warmed over, and felt worse, by the time she reached the restaurant. Her supervisor glared at her angrily for a moment, looked her over, and waited. "My moped broke down," Basilyn lied stiltedly. "I got here as quickly as I could." The older woman looked her up and down, this time with a touch of belief, but asked suspiciously, "Why didn't you call a cab?" "I didn't have enough money on me." The woman studied her a moment longer and finally shrugged. "Well, get in the back and change. We're shorthanded tonight." "I don't have my uniform with me," Basilyn admitted apologetically after an uncomfortable pause. Bill rolled her eyes. Basilyn had thought the name ridiculous until she'd discovered the poor woman's real name was Willie Mae. She wasn't surprised, then, that the woman preferred to go by Bill. "I ought to just send you home. Come on in the back and I'll get you another uniform. We'll deduct it from your paycheck like the other one." Basilyn followed her, grinding her teeth. It wasn't enough that she'd had to walk miles.

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Now she was going to have to buy another uniform she couldn't afford and didn't want. Which meant there would be no money for buying maternity clothes like she'd planned for at least two more weeks. She would've liked to have strangled Theresa Demot in that moment. Moreover, she was suddenly sorry she'd allowed reason to sway her from her purpose at the mall. She would've felt infinitely better just now, even if she was sitting in jail, if she'd given in to temptation and at least got in her licks at Theresa's ex-maid. For she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that that was exactly who'd done her in at the mall ... after Theresa had, that is. She was still seething with impotent rage, despite her weariness, when Dominic picked her up in front of the restaurant at five o'clock. He looked her over assessingly. "You look dead on your feet." She gritted her teeth. How very perceptive! And how good of him to notice! "I am," she replied shortly. He was silent as he put the jeep in gear and pulled out into traffic. After a few moments, he sent her a speculative glance. "I don't suppose you're willing to admit the job's too much for you?" She ground her teeth together, tempted for several moments to tell him in no uncertain terms just why she was so exhausted. After a moment's reflection, she dismissed the temptation. She wasn't at all certain he'd see her side in this. And she didn't particularly want him to. She was already caught between him and his wife more than she wanted to be. If she told him and he did side with her, which he might since he'd made it plain the child's health was extremely important to him, it would almost certainly cause a big fight between him and his wife. Not that Theresa didn't richly deserve to be chewed out at the very least. But she rather thought she preferred to fight her own battles. She didn't need a champion. "I'm not nearly as tired as I look," she replied finally. "But, how kind of you to point out that I look like hell. I feel better already." They had pulled to a stop at a traffic light. He took the opportunity to study her. "I didn't say you looked like hell," he replied quietly. "I said you looked tired." "There's a difference?" she asked in feigned surprise, but then felt a twinge of shame at her cattiness. Why was she taking her anger out on him, anyway? He hadn't done anything to her and couldn't be held responsible for what Theresa had done. It made it worse that he looked rather bewildered that he'd come under attack. He frowned, his lips tightening a moment. "Do you always act this way when people are concerned about you? Or is it just me?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I've never had anybody concerned about me," she retorted flippantly, thinking about how totally unconcerned Theresa had been when she'd abandoned her. Not that she expected Theresa to give a damn what happened to her, but it seemed she would have some concern about the baby … like her husband did. The woman was really an odd ball. But she supposed the walk hadn't really hurt her and no doubt that had been Theresa's thought as well. Very likely she'd figured she could punish Basilyn that way without worrying about hurting her precious bundle of joy. "Just why do you think I've been trying to get you to quit your job if you don't think it's concern for you?" he asked tightly. She cocked her head to one side, studying him curiously for several moments, but finally

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shrugged and looked away. "I know you're worried about your baby … and I can appreciate that. But, believe me, I'm not going to do anything that might hurt the baby. That wouldn't be in my best interests either, you know." "Did I say anything about the damned baby?" Basilyn whirled to glare at him, feeling a sudden surge of outrage. "Don't call it that!" His brows rose in surprise, his anger vanishing abruptly at her vehemence. "What?" "It's not a 'damned' anything!" she said tightly, feeling a surge of protectiveness towards the tiny mound of matter growing in her abdomen. Perhaps in part because she'd, not many hours past, been entertaining considerable regrets that it was there. He studied her in surprise a moment before his eyes moved to her abdomen. A faint smile tipped the corners of his mouth up. "No. You're right. It isn't. I wonder if it's a boy or a girl?" he added musingly. She was silent for several moments. She hadn't given it a thought before. In all honesty, she'd made every effort not to give it a thought. She knew, instinctively, that she would be much better off if she could remain objective about the baby. Ignore it to the fullest extent she was able. However, she felt a sudden urge to placate, to try to make amends for her unreasonable behavior of before. "Dr. Chaney said to tell you you could find out if you want him to do a sonogram in a few months," she said after a moment. "It wouldn't hurt the baby?" "I can't see how it would. A sonogram's just a sound picture. Dr. Chaney says you can't really tell that much about it, but sometimes, if it's a boy, they can tell." She blushed faintly when she realized what that implied and looked away as Dominic sent her an amused glance. "If they can tell if it's a boy, then why can't they tell if it's a girl?" he pursued. "I think you know the answer to that," she retorted in a suffocated voice. "I don't know the first thing about the procedure. I've never even heard of a sonogram before. But it seems to me that, if they could tell with one, they could tell with the other." "Well, if they see a … a … male member, they know positively that it’s a boy. But if they can't, they're not able to tell whether there isn't one or if the baby's just in such a position that they can't see the … uh … it," she retorted irritably. He chuckled. "A male what?" "I'm not going to discuss this with you!" Basilyn snapped to cover her embarrassment. He chuckled again. The sound sent pleasant shocks through her system, bringing her to the sudden realization that she couldn't even recall having heard him laugh before. He said nothing else for several moments. After a time, he spoke again and she realized that he hadn't dismissed the subject, but had, apparently, been pondering it. "Do you think we should?" "Should what?" "Get the sonogram done?" She shrugged. "He said it wouldn't hurt. So if you're asking me if I'd mind, I wouldn't." He frowned. "I hadn't thought about that. But it doesn't sound like it could. Or is it something unpleasant like an x-ray?" "He swore to me that it wasn't. He said they just put a little jelly on your abdomen and place a sensor on it and roll it around. I got the idea that the sonogram works something like the sonar they use to navigate underwater. Then again, doctor's are always telling you something

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won't hurt and of course, it doesn't hurt them and helps their pocketbook, so they can't see why anyone would object. But I believe him. Besides, one of my foster mothers had a sonogram. She said there was nothing to it." He nodded acceptance. "Well then, all we have to decide is whether we want to know or not." Basilyn shrugged. "You might not know after you've paid. Then again, you might and it would probably save you some money in the long run." "How's that?" he asked curiously. "Theresa might not have to buy two layettes that way," Basilyn said wryly. **** There were three cars lining the drive as they came up. Basilyn stared at them in surprise and turned to glance at Dominic as he cursed under his breath. "Looks like Theresa's entertaining tonight," he muttered, sounding annoyed, though he didn't give any other indication that he was as surprised to see the cars on the drive as Basilyn was. Chalk another one up to Theresa, Basilyn thought irritably, wondering how she was going to get to her room without encountering anyone. The answer was, of course, that she wasn't. She could either wait in the kitchen until Theresa's guests left, or she could trudge through the midst of them in all her work grime. She couldn't decide which idea appealed to her less. She'd had a hard day at work—a hard day period, and she looked it. If the episode at the mall—the episodes, plural, she mentally corrected—hadn't been enough to ruin her day, she'd slipped in some food some child, or adult with the manners of a pig, had dropped in the floor and left. She'd managed to keep her feet under her that time, but she'd spilled a tray of bar-b-que sandwiches, greasy fries, and cokes down the front of her uniform. She still wore a disgusting assortment of stains. though she'd tried to make herself presentable for the rest of her shift by mopping off as much as she could with a damp towel. What she wanted, with near desperation, was a nice hot bath and her bed, for she ached in every bone and joint in her body and it looked as if she would either have to wait a few hours more for it or run the gauntlet of Theresa's guests. She really wanted to kill Theresa just then. She made no effort to get out of the jeep when Dominic had parked. She sat staring blankly out of the windshield at the rear of the garage, wondering tiredly if she wouldn't be better off if she just curled up in the back seat of the jeep for the duration. Dominic didn't make any move to get out either. He sat staring at the back door of the house as if trying to identify his guests so that he could decide whether to go in or not. "We might just as well go in," he said finally. Basilyn turned to look at him and then past him at the kitchen door. She couldn't see any activity. At least, not in the kitchen. They must all be in the great room. "I guess so," she responded glumly. Neither of them moved for several moments. Dominic finally turned to look at her, grinning a little sheepishly. "We can't just sit out here." Basilyn dropped her head back against the seat, closing her eyes, too weary to maintain her anger anymore or even her irritation. "I don't know why not," she muttered. "I really don't feel up to entering the lion's den tonight." Dominic's grin slowly faded as he studied her limp form. After a moment he reached

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over and covered her hand where it rested on the seat between them, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Maybe I can run interference for you? Entice them down to the game room to admire my prowess at the pool table?" he added, lazily teasing. Basilyn lifted her eyelids slightly and studied his hand where it still rested atop hers. He had very large hands, even for a man, so large that her hand almost fit his palm. They looked strong, capable, and yet despite their size, they were the sensitive hands of an artist, as well, elegantly slim with long tapering fingers. His hand was warm. It felt pleasant resting upon hers, strong … almost protective. She felt a sudden urge to offer something in return for the protectiveness … to offer comfort. Because she sensed that he needed it. Just simple, basic human comfort of the sort everyone needed from time to time. He was a good man, she thought suddenly ... honest ... capable of much gentleness and still strong, virile—every inch a man. There had been a time when she hadn't believed any man could have those traits, certainly not all together, at the same time. And, if she'd considered it, she would've considered that any man that did wasn't much of a man. Because it didn't fit in with what she knew and had learned of men heretofore. She'd thought aggression and brutality, either blatant or thinly veiled was the definition of male. They were either rough and tough brutes, or they were weak and ineffectual wimps. She'd been wrong—very wrong. Dominic was much man—so much that she should've felt threatened only to be near him, but she didn't. She almost wished she did. She shouldn't want to smooth the furrow from his brow that was there more often than not. She shouldn't want to ease the tension that seemed to keep him always on guard and wary of attack. She shouldn't want to provoke his lazy smile, his laughter, to ease, if only for a few moments, the look of worry and weariness that seemed to weigh him down. But she did. More and more often she found that she wanted to do just that. She shifted her hand very deliberately, turning it palm up, and laced her fingers through his when he made an abortive movement as if he would withdraw, returning the reassuring pressure for a moment before she relaxed her fingers again. She didn't remove her hand. She looked up at him. He was watching her, his expression difficult to gauge, though she thought she saw both wariness and expectancy in his eyes. She found she couldn't maintain eye contact, not with the question she saw there, when there was no acceptable answer to give. She dropped her gaze to their hands once more, knowing she should remove her hand from his, knowing she wasn't going to. "I've never seen you play pool," she murmured idly, fascinated by the contrast between their two hands. He chuckled self-consciously, dropping his own gaze to their hands, matching his palm carefully against hers as if gauging the fit. Curling his fingers over the tips of hers where they overlapped, he squeezed her hand gently. Then slid his hand downwards and laced his fingers through hers, paused a moment, and began to slide his fingers up and down in a way that sent eddying, alternating currents through her; first comfortable, comforting warmth, then a stirring tingle of sensation she found somewhat troubling despite the fact that that, too, was pleasing. "You haven't missed anything," he said after a moment, his voice sounding slightly husky, as if with disuse. "The last time I tried my famous 'trick' shot I put the cue ball through the plate glass window. Theresa was livid." That surprised a laugh out of her that started as a full blown chuckle and degenerated into

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giggles. "You didn't!" she said, trying to look horrified and failing when she couldn't make a straight face. He ran his fingers along hers and then along her palm before he fitted his hand carefully against hers again, lifting it slightly and turning their hands to study the effect. "I'm afraid I did," he admitted ruefully, a slow, lazy smile curling his lips. Basilyn felt her heart execute a strange little double step as she studied that smile. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. "Well, I don't think I need that drastic a diversion," she said, forcing a teasing note into her voice. "Maybe I'd better just show them my other famous 'trick' shot in that case." She chuckled. "I'm not even going to ask." She studied him a long moment, gave his hand a light squeeze and withdrew hers, realizing with surprise that she'd received as much as she'd given—or at least meant to give. "Thank you, Dominic." He'd been studying the play of their hands, but at that his head came up with a surprised jerk. He stared at her hard for several moments, a spark of light in his eyes she found impossible to interpret. Finally he smiled. "There. And that didn't even look like it hurt." She lifted her brows. "What?" "Dominic. You've so carefully avoided using my name." She blushed faintly. She had, but she hadn't thought he would notice. "Have I?" she said, as if she hadn't realized it before. "You make it sound like you've been waiting with baited breath for the day to come," she added teasingly. His lips twisted in a wry smile. "Maybe I have," he said with a flippancy that seemed to negate the words. He pushed the door open and got out. After a moment, Basilyn followed him. She had already moved around the jeep when she remembered her package. Dominic paused and turned to see what was keeping her. "I forgot something." Grabbing the shopping bag up, she followed him into the house. He pushed the kitchen door open ahead of her and came to an abrupt halt. Basilyn, who was watching her feet as she came up the steps, plowed in to him and took a step back. Looking up, she discovered what had halted him in his tracks as if he'd suddenly come up against a brick wall. Theresa was in the kitchen, busily setting out what was obviously a catered meal … and wearing the yellow 'thing'.

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Chapter Twelve She looked up at their entrance and smiled broadly. Stepping away from the counter, she held her arms out and turned for Dominic's inspection. "Well?" she prompted when he only stared at her, dumbfounded. "What do you think?" Dominic cleared his throat, threw Basilyn a glance that was startled, questioning, and embarrassed all at once, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. After a moment he tried again. "What is that?" She gave him the sort of condescending, pitying glance one might give an idiot. "I told you last night. You know. We were talking about explaining to our friends. Well, we won't have to! I've got it all figured out!" She pulled her dress taut to display her new figure, patting the plumpness, and then giggling at the look on Dominic's face, which was a mixture of horror, disbelief, and embarrassment. "It's a pillow. I had a woman make it up for me. Don't worry! She doesn't know me so no one will find out. I told her it was for a play. This is like the thing actresses wear for the movies when they have to play a pregnant woman and they're not. What do you think?" Dominic made several attempts to speak again before he accomplished another sentence. "You don't mean to tell me you mean to be seen in public like that?" he exclaimed, mid-way between horror and dawning anger. She frowned at him a moment but then chuckled. "Of course I do! It would defeat the purpose if I didn't, wouldn't it? You needn't look at me like that. Women wear these all the time." Dominic was still too stunned to think clearly. "Wear … those things?" "The pillow?" He ground his teeth. "The clothes. You didn't … You didn't … buy more of those things...?" Theresa pursed her lips and turned back to her task, stripping the foil and cellophane from the packages on the counter and carefully placing the food they contained on the serving dishes she'd set out. Basilyn noticed with a touch of stunned amazement that it was a new set. Surely, she thought, caught between belief and stunned disbelief, Theresa hadn't purchased a whole new set for the lack of one cup? "Of course I did," she said tightly. "You don't expect me to wear this the whole time!" "Damn it, Theresa!" "Don't start now, Nick! We've got company!" Dominic wrestled with himself a moment, obviously torn between the desire to vent his wrath at once and a deep rooted abhorrence of becoming involved in a scene, even one of his own making, before an audience. "And that's another thing," he growled finally, keeping his voice low with an obvious effort. "I thought we'd agreed that you would at least do me the courtesy of consulting me before you arranged another dinner party!" She shrugged. "I didn't get the chance. I called the office when I decided and you were

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already gone—to pick up Basilyn." She turned to Basilyn. "How did your day go, by the way?" she asked, sweetly curious. Basilyn glared at her. "You know very well how it went," she said tightly, ignoring the sharp glance Dominic divided between the two of them. Theresa issued a very convincing look of surprise. "What do you mean by that?" Basilyn stared at her tight-lipped for a moment and finally turned away. "Nothing," she said finally, wanting to kick herself. She'd decided she wasn't going to acknowledge the dirty trick Theresa had pulled on her. She wouldn't give it the significance of acknowledging it, or Theresa the added satisfaction of knowing just how effective her 'game' had been. Theresa shrugged elaborately. "Well, did you have fun with your ... friend?" Basilyn stopped and turned to look at her again, frowning in puzzlement and dawning anger as her mind leapt immediately to the maid, her mind scurrying to make the connection. "What?" "Your friend? Did y'all have fun?" "What are you talking about?" Basilyn asked blankly, struggling to figure out what Theresa was implying. Her attitude alone seemed to dismiss the possibility that her suggestion was connected in any way to Basilyn's run-in with the woman. Theresa gave her a conspiratorial smile. "At the mall." She sent Dominic a consciencestricken look and added. "You can tell me about it later." Basilyn felt a sudden surge of anger, realizing finally what Theresa's new game was. She didn't need to look at the sudden suspicion in Dominic's gaze to know they were being cunningly manipulated, or to realize that any protests on her part would only serve to convince him that she was guilty of something. She gritted her teeth at that thought. She didn't give a damn what Dominic thought. "You know damn well I didn't meet anyone, Theresa. You abandoned me there, without a cent in my pocket … just like you planned to do when you picked me up." Theresa's expression of surprise, disbelief, and outrage at being so unjustly accused and defamed were so finely performed that even Basilyn began to wonder if they weren't real. Was there any possibility whatsoever that Theresa could actually believe what she was saying, Basilyn wondered? "I don't know what you're talking about! You told me you were going off ... and not to wait!" Basilyn's eyes narrowed. "I told you I was going to walk down the mall, and that I'd be back in twenty minutes. You said, 'Don't worry. I'll be a while!' I didn't imagine it and there's no way you could've failed to hear me correctly. I was standing right outside the dressing room when I told you." Theresa stared at her with a look that implied dawning dismay. "I was certain I heard you say something about meeting 'him'...." She broke off and sent Dominic a guilty look. "Meeting someone. I guess I must have been mistaken," she added, using a tone and expression that implied 'we'll just keep this a secret between us two'. Basilyn's lips tightened. Almost without volition, her gaze went to Dominic. She wasn't surprised at the anger and suspicion she saw in his expression, but she discovered she was vastly disappointed. She dismissed it, glanced down at her package and dismissed the urge that prompted, as well. She didn't owe Dominic any explanation and it seemed doubtful he would

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even believe her if she tried. She wasn't going to dignify Theresa's nasty innuendoes with an attempt to proclaim her innocence. She wrapped her arms around her package in a gesture that was both protective and defensive and turned away, intent on seeking her room. Theresa passed her in the short hallway with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, elbowing her aside abruptly, though why she took that route instead of the doorway that led directly from the kitchen to the dining area, Basilyn couldn't imagine. It didn't take her long to discover why. Theresa's entrance drew the eyes of her guests, putting Basilyn in their line of vision and at direct contrast ... and disadvantage to their hostess. Basilyn's lips tightened as she brushed past Theresa and headed for the stairs. Behind her she heard one of the guests utter a low voiced question she didn't quite catch. She discovered she didn't have to. She heard Theresa's reply just as she set her foot upon the first step. "Oh, that's just our new live-in maid, mama. You remember! I told you I had to get rid of Valerie. Anyway, it's her night off so I just fixed dinner myself!" she replied airily. Basilyn checked mid-stride, feeling a new tide of anger surge through her as it occurred to her to wonder if Theresa had somehow been responsible for her run-in with Valerie. Had she pointed her out to the maid as her replacement? Planted the suggestion in the woman's mind that Basilyn had slept with Dominic to get her job? She wouldn't put it past her. She was beginning to think there was very little Theresa wouldn't do. After a moment, she climbed the stairs without looking back, ignoring the dozen or so pairs of eyes she felt in the middle of her back. **** Dominic was still trying to sort through his unpleasant thoughts when he reached the dining room and received his third disagreeable jolt for the night. "Well!" Jon Mead bellowed jovially, surging forward to clap Dominic between the shoulder blades with a 'fatherly' blow that would likely have felled a smaller man. And possibly would have Dominic if he hadn't braced himself. He was almost sorry he had afterwards. He wondered if his spleen was still intact. "I see the father-to-be's finally arrived! Well! And it's about time you made me a grandfather, you sly dog you! Why'd y'all keep this to yourselves so long?" Resisting an urge to roll his shoulder blades in an effort to ease the dull pounding from his father-in-law's 'greeting', Dominic ground his teeth together and sent Theresa a narrow-eyed look that promised 'later' and finally managed to curl his lips into a semblance of a smile. He made no attempt to answer the question. Theresa had dragged him in to this elaborate little hoax of hers. She could damn well tell her own lies. "Now, daddy!" Theresa exclaimed, pouting like a young girl. "You know very well I already told you. We wanted to be sure. After all, we've been trying a long time." Dominic realized he was grinding his teeth and unclenched his jaw as Theresa's 'little brother', Gary and his young wife of six months, Melody, surged forward to offer congratulations(Gary, like his father, stood well over six feet. But, since he was six years Theresa's junior he was inevitably referred to as her little brother) followed by his partner, Don Kendall, and his wife, Sherry. Fielding their questions and exclamations of pleased anticipation for the long-looked-for event with polite mouthings he didn't recall a moment after he'd uttered them, he sent Theresa another fulminating glance as he ushered his guests towards the table and

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urged them to take a seat. Theresa hadn't been able to reach him to ask him about the dinner party, but she'd reached his partner? Had she lied about Basilyn, as well? Possibly. He was inclined to think she had. But then he realized that was because he wanted to believe she, and not Basilyn, had been lying. Not that Basilyn had any real reason to lie. There hadn't been any limitations placed upon her insofar as her private life was concerned. He had simply assumed, since she had no man in her life at the time the agreement was made, that she would eschew male companionship for the duration of their agreement. On the other hand, she might think lying preferable to explanations. And she had a history of compulsive lying. He'd thought, once he'd talked to her, that he'd dismissed the matter completely from his mind. But he discovered now that her history of compulsive lying had been a nagging uneasiness at the back of his mind from the first. He didn't trust Theresa an inch. But then he had no more reason to trust or believe in Basilyn. In fact, far less. He knew Theresa. He ought to since he'd lived with her for more than ten years. He didn't know Basilyn. He shrugged off the plaguing thoughts and turned his attention to his father-in-law, trying to assume the role of gracious host when all he really wanted at the moment was to tell them to get the hell out so that he could have privacy to 'discuss' Theresa's latest affectation with her. Along with her flagrant disregard for his express wishes where it concerned making arrangements for entertaining without consulting him—without even giving him fair warning of what he was walking in to. He felt like strangling her. A dinner party would've been bad enough. To waltz him blindly into a celebration of their 'good news', thereby making him an unwilling participant in her hoax was the outside of enough. He thought, after a moment, that it was probably just as well they had guests. He'd never felt more inclined to do Theresa bodily injury than he did at the moment. He needed a little time to rein in his temper. "New car?" he asked his father-in-law when Jon had run out of ideas for teasing his 'little girl' about the bun in her oven. "I didn't see the Caddy?" So he hadn't been warned beforehand. "It's that time of year," Jon Mead bellowed jovially. He always seemed to bellow, possibly because of a hearing deficiency. He'd spent most of his life on construction sites, in the midst of heavy construction, and the noise level on such sites had a tendency, over a period of years, to cause hearing loss. But Dominic thought it far more likely he'd developed the habit out of a determination to drown everyone out around him so that when he spoke, he took the field. "I traded the old Caddy in last week. Got a hell of a deal." Dominic smiled politely and retreated into his own thoughts as Jon Mead went into detail about the 'great deal' he'd gotten on his new car. He always got a great deal. If the salesman couldn't convince him he was getting a great deal, he didn't buy. That determination to dicker over every nickel before he finalized a deal indicated a tightfisted nature, but in Jon Mead's case it was a false one. Despite his love of wrangling, despite his hardheaded determination to get the best deal for his money, Jonathan Mead spent money like water and was as open handed with his family as he was with himself. Which, in its way, had created more than a few headaches for his son-in-law. Theresa had, from birth, had everything her little heart desired the moment her little heart

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took up a craving and daddy could scrape the money together to buy it. His love for indulging his loved ones had created a voracious monster that had very nearly bankrupted Dominic twice before he finally managed to get a rein on Theresa's spending habits. Not that he could flatter himself that he held a tight rein even now, he thought wryly, wondering what Theresa's new wardrobe—and Basilyn's—had set him back, struggling with the urge to throttle Theresa all over again. He’d agreed to her damned terms, but he didn’t recall that that had included buying her a wardrobe to con everyone into believing she was pregnant. Unfortunately, Theresa seemed to have inherited all of her father's bad traits and none of his good. For, fortunately for him, he was as good at making money as he was at spending it. Then again, it would've been better still if she'd taken after her mother, who was almost as frugal as her husband was spendthrift. He sent Trudy Mead a casual glance at that thought and felt an instant prickle of uneasiness. She, unlike the others at the table, looked immensely uncomfortable, and though she smiled and chatted, she didn't seem as thrilled as one would think she would be at the prospect of a first grandchild. Far otherwise, in fact. She seemed deeply disturbed, anxious. Her eyes kept flitting nervously over Theresa then flitting away again as if something about Theresa's appearance or behavior bothered her. He didn't make the mistake of thinking it had anything to do with that abominable dress she was wearing, though he was inclined to think she couldn't have made a better choice. She looked sickly enough in that color to actually be pregnant. It might have been a very natural anxiety over her daughter's condition since, now nearing thirty, Theresa was 'late' for becoming a first time mother. But Dominic didn't think so. The worry in her eyes seemed too excessive for that. It occurred to him then to wonder if she were as aware of the hoax as he was. He dismissed that thought almost immediately. Jon Mead had no use for subtlety or deviousness, which was just as well since he didn't have the sort of nature that could carry off either with success. If he weren't certain his little girl was finally going to become a mother, he would've given away the entire hoax by now—without ever intending to do so. Obviously, Theresa hadn't confided in her parents. Unless …. But he dismissed that, too. Theresa meant to convince everyone the child was actually hers. He was certain of that much. She wouldn't have brought even her mother in on her hoax for fear she might somehow, inadvertently, give her away. And it would certainly have been inadvertent. Trudy Mead had, in her own way, done as much to spoil Theresa as her husband had, allowing her desires full sway no matter how outrageous her demands might be. Which left him right back where he'd started insofar as Trudy's odd behavior. Unless, despite all their efforts to keep their secret to themselves, Trudy had somehow found out about the 'incident' and knew Theresa was incapable of having a child? After a moment's reflection, he dismissed that suspicion, as well. They'd been living near Charleston at the time. Theresa's parents didn't know about the incident. Nor did his own parents for that matter. He and Theresa had decided long ago to keep their marital problems to themselves, knowing that to air their grievances with each other would bring both families into the fray and shake a marriage that was already far too feeble to withstand what they'd put it through.

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They'd weathered their problem on their own and kept their differences to themselves. And he didn't believe Theresa had ever broken faith. He was confident, in fact, that she couldn't have. If she had, her parents would almost certainly have insisted upon a divorce. And Theresa had no desire for a divorce. Divorcing him would've been far too mild a punishment to her way of thinking. He'd offered, at the time, to give her an uncontested divorce, knowing himself to have been totally responsible for the disaster, so devastated and sickened with himself he'd been willing to give up everything he'd worked for to try to assuage his guilt and remorse. She'd laughed in his face, and told him, quite bluntly, that she could never make him pay enough that way for what he'd done to her. She meant to stay with him … forever. He'd thought, then, though he'd since learned his error, that it was hysteria talking, that she hadn't truly meant it. At any rate, he'd still loved her then and had stayed with her because of that as much as guilt. But guilt had played a major part in his decision to stay with her, particularly when love had finally faded altogether and been replaced by bitterness. Because guilt had eaten at him. Still did. He'd known he owed her, that he'd made a mistake he would never be able to repair, even while he beat his brains out trying to make restitution. Until he’d finally realized he not only couldn’t, but he couldn’t endure his own private hell any longer. Until he’d finally decided that he’d paid long enough. Theresa's parents couldn't know any of that, however. Because, if they had, they would've despised him as much as he despised himself for his part in it. They wouldn't have been able to bring themselves to behave civilly towards him, much less with warmth. Whatever was bothering Trudy, it could have nothing to do with that, he thought, feeling a touch of relief. She couldn't know. She glanced at him then and their eyes caught and held for a long moment across the table. He felt a sickening jolt of guilt rush through him, felt as if the floor had suddenly opened up beneath him. Because he realized, suddenly, that he'd been wrong. She knew. She knew everything.

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Chapter Thirteen Basilyn dropped her shoulder bag and her package by the door as she entered her room. Closing the door behind her, she moved across the room and dropped onto the edge of the bed, staring at nothing in particular, thinking of nothing in particular—feeling drained suddenly, too tired for emotion of any kind. After a time, she shook herself and rose. Collecting fresh clothing, she went into the bathroom, turned the shower on full blast, stripped, and climbed beneath the soothing, pulsing spray of warm water. By the time she'd finished soaking, she was not only revived, she felt a renewal of her anger of before, this time almost equally divided between Theresa and her husband (Valerie she dismissed altogether as being unworthy of another thought, particularly since she strongly suspected Theresa had been the instigator of that incident.) It infuriated her that Dominic would believe, even for a moment, the outrageous lies Theresa had told. Couldn't he tell the whole thing had been nothing but an outrageous act? She didn't think she'd seen acting that overdone since .... Well, she couldn't remember when she'd seen acting that over done! She flopped onto her bed, staring up at the canopy. But she was too irritable to rest, too angry. What she needed, she decided, was something to do to work off steam. She needed to be busy. She rose after a moment and moved to the dresser, searching the drawers until she found the blue jeans she had in mind. Snatching up her package, she went through the bathroom again and into the next room, resolutely ignoring the prick of uneasiness and discomfort she felt merely entering the room since the sunbathing incident. She hadn't asked Theresa's permission to use her sewing machine. But she thought, rather defiantly, that she wouldn't. The woman owed her. The contract plainly stated that all expenses accrued during her pregnancy, directly related to the pregnancy, were the responsibility of the Demots. If clothing to hide her nakedness wasn't a necessary expense, she didn't know what was! And since they obviously had no intention of providing, they could hardly quibble over her means of providing for herself. She doubted, in any event, that Theresa would ever know the difference. Obviously the room had been shut up, and unused, at least for a workroom, for some time. A large couch was pushed up against one wall. There was nothing about the piece to indicate why it might have been abandoned to a back room. It looked almost new. Basilyn mentally shrugged. Theresa had probably decided either the color or style didn't quite fit the decor she had in mind and had had the couch hauled into storage. There were other odds and ends in the room, but Basilyn only glanced at them cursorily. A tall sewing cabinet stood against the far wall and she moved towards it. Opening the doors, she set up the fold-out sewing table and turned to look at the machine, feeling a thrilling surge of excitement as she saw it that banished every other emotion.

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It was one of those fabulous computerized, high-tech sewing machines. The kind that made a zillion different stitches at the touch of a button. The discovery of a chest of diamonds couldn't have thrilled her as much. She dragged up a chair and sat down to study it. After examining the machine thoroughly and studying the booklet she found that accompanied it, she searched until she found bobbin, thread, and a scrap of fabric, (no difficult feat since Theresa always went all out when she went after a thing and the room looked like a miniature fabric shop) and sat down to practice with the machine. When she was certain she had the knack of it she took up a pair of jeans and went to work. **** The house was quiet when Basilyn let herself out of her room and crept downstairs to the kitchen. The guests had long since gone. The Demots had retired to what she'd come to think of as Theresa's room for their almost-nightly harangue. She paused at the thought, realized that tonight was the first night she'd heard them shouting verbal abuse at each other in almost two weeks, and dismissed it with the reflection that their latest bout was undoubtedly the result of the hoax Theresa had dragged Dominic in to. He wouldn't appreciate that. And who could blame him? She hadn't liked the little charade Theresa had dragged her in to in the boutique either and that hadn't been nearly as elaborate or long range as the deception she was expecting Dominic to help her perpetrate. Moving to the stove, she switched on one of the lights above it and, by its dim light, moved to the refrigerator in search of supper. She'd had none and she was starving. She couldn't sleep when she was hungry. She shouldn't have been surprised to discover there was nothing left, but she was. She found it difficult to believe everything had been eaten when there had been such an obscene abundance. Undoubtedly, Theresa had seen no sense in saving the leftovers, however, for there were none. After staring in dismay at the refrigerator for several moments, she finally bent over to survey the shelves for possibilities and came up with a slice of sandwich ham (turkey ham. Obviously Theresa didn't believe in the real thing) and an egg—or naturally canned cholesterol. She was a little surprised Theresa even allowed eggs in her house. The woman had a fetish about health foods. Moving as quietly as possible, she took down a small frying pan, sprayed it lightly with non-stick shortening and dropped her egg in, breaking the yolk. A short, semi-desperate search convinced her that there was no white bread. She had to settle for a melba toast ham and egg sandwich. But she discovered that it tasted amazingly delicious when one had had nothing since lunch. She saw him as she rose from the breakfast bar to clean her place, and jerked reflexively in surprise. The sudden movement made a muscle grab in her abdomen, and she doubled over, instinctively massaging the pain. Startled, he dropped a crudity, surging forward to bend over her, sliding his arm around her waist to support her and pulling her close. "What's wrong?" She put her hand against his chest, not really pushing, but urging him to release her. "It's nothing," she said quickly to dispel his anxiety, though her voice was tight with pain. "A cramp. I moved too fast, that's all. I'm alright," she added when he seemed disinclined either to believe

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her or to release her. He released her at that and she stepped away, straightening carefully and finding, to her relief, that the cramp had eased. "What are you doing down here?" "What are you doing downstairs?" They voiced the question at almost the same time and stared at each other in the dim light while each waited for the other to answer. After a moment, Basilyn's lips tightened and she moved away. "I didn't get any supper. Remember? I was hungry. Or did you figure I was on my way out to meet my boyfriend?" He studied her in silence as she went about the kitchen cleaning up after herself. "You don't have a boyfriend," he said finally. Basilyn paused in the act of loading the dishwasher. After a moment, she resumed her task without looking at him. Was he saying he believed her? Was she supposed to be flattered? She frowned at the thought, feeling a surge of irritation. She supposed she should be. It was only right and natural to stand beside one's spouse. To take up an opposing view, with a stranger …. She almost thought she wished he hadn't. It didn't matter that she was in the right. His loyalty should have been with Theresa regardless. At the very least, he should've just simply refused to acknowledge it at all once he realized Theresa was lying. Then again, maybe he wasn't acknowledging anything? Maybe he was digging? She pursed her lips at that thought, more irritated still. If he was digging, he wasn't going to come up with anything. She didn't owe him an explanation. There was another point to the flat statement that irritated her, as well, she finally realized. It pricked her ego. She could've had a boyfriend if she'd wanted one. But his statement seemed to her to imply he thought otherwise. She wasn't, she decided, going to dignify that remark with a protest either. She didn't have anything to prove to anyone—least of all Dominic Demot. "Do you?" he pressed finally. She almost smiled at that. He was digging. For some reason she didn't understand, nor probed too closely, the realization lifted her spirits and dispelled her lingering irritation. "Not at the moment," she replied finally, reaching up to shut off the sink faucet. Turning away to dry her hands, she added with feigned thoughtfulness. "At least … I don't think he'd constitute a boyfriend ...." She wondered almost immediately why she'd lied. Because it was a lie. An outrageous one. She wasn't even 'friendly' with anyone at the moment. She realized exactly why she'd done so when Dominic surged forward and gripped her elbow, whipping her around. "You're lying," he said through gritted teeth. She looked up at him for a moment, feeling an answering surge of anger. But she saw something in his eyes that sent a jolt of both surprise and understanding through her. Jealousy. She knew at once that she'd wanted to see if she could provoke it. She didn't search herself for her reasons for trying to arouse his jealousy. Instead, she studied him, almost calmly now, trying to decide why he would be jealous. The answer that came to mind didn't particularly please her. His possessiveness, she finally realized, was due to her pregnancy. She carried his child, therefore she was 'his'. He probably didn't even realize himself that that was the reason, or know why he would feel that way about a woman that he had

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no other real claims to. "Yes," she replied calmly. "I was." He studied her for a long moment and finally released her. "Why?" "Why what?" she asked with feigned incomprehension. He ground his teeth. "Why lie?" She eyed him steadily a moment and finally shrugged and turned away. "Why not? I'm a compulsive liar … remember?" He blocked her retreat. "I don't believe that." She felt a surge of anger … and hurt, too, if she were to face facts. She'd been so certain he believed in her when she'd explained those damned incriminating records to him in Dr. Chaney's office that first day, that they'd been nothing more than the lies any frightened child would tell, blown all out of proportion by the simple fact that everyone had been noted and recorded and examined. Unlike the lies most children were prone to tell for much the same reasons—self-preservation. "Yes, you do. No matter what I say, you turn every word over and inspect it for flaws. If I'd said it was dark outside, you'd check it first. You're just like all the others." He said nothing for a moment. Finally, he replied quietly, "I'm not .... I was just ...." Jealous, he completed the thought, and felt a surge of surprise. But he damn sure couldn't admit that. "I just … I didn't know what to think," he replied lamely, falling uncomfortably silent. She should be flattered, she supposed, that it had occurred to him, even fleetingly, to think any man would find her attractive in her present state. She didn't feel flattered, however. She felt angry and defensive—and terribly depressed. She had never felt terribly pretty. But she'd never before felt so awfully un-pretty. She forced an off-handed shrug. "I can see your point. Men are so prone to find pregnant women irresistible," she said dryly, and then ground her teeth in annoyance with herself. Why not, she thought in self-disgust, simply ask him point blank to lie to her and tell her he thought it was possible, that he thought she was pretty anyway? So, she was human, she thought irritably, trying to dismiss it. So, she felt the need of a little reassurance just now. She felt like clubbing him when she saw his lips quirk in amusement. "Some certainly do." "Do what?" she asked suspiciously. "Find pregnant women ... sexy." She studied him a long moment and finally pushed past him. He was teasing and he didn't mean to be malicious. She knew that. She knew she should laugh it off and accept his teasing with an attempt, at least, of grace. She couldn't. She hurt. She felt like crying and she wasn't going to risk doing that in front of him. He caught up to her again in the hallway, blocking her retreat once more. "Hey … I was teasing. I mean … I meant it," he said, sounding, he knew, as big and awkward and clumsy as he suddenly felt looming over her small frame. She threw him a tremulous smile, fighting a sudden urge to burst into tears, wondering where the urge had come from. "I know. Think nothing of it. I … I'm just tired I think." "I think you've developed a cute little waddle in your walk," he added helpfully, realizing almost immediately that he should've kept his damn mouth shut. She uttered a watery chuckle. "Don't!" she said, half laughing, half crying now. "You're

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making it worse." "Basilyn," he said uncomfortably, lifting his hand hesitantly to touch her cheek. She brushed past him and he let his hand drop, watching her as she made her way up the stairs. **** "These boxes ... the ones marked 'good will' … what're you going to do with them?" Basilyn asked, trying to sound casual. Theresa sent her a look that questioned her intelligence. "Obviously they're marked 'goodwill' because they're destined for goodwill." Basilyn flushed, hesitating. She wasn't certain she wanted to ask. She hated to give Theresa the opportunity for another petty revenge. On the other hand, she was beginning to get desperate. She decided to take a chance. "Well, if you're going to get rid of the stuff anyway, would you mind if I looked through the boxes first to see if there's anything I can use?" Theresa looked so pleased with the request to search her 'garbage' Basilyn couldn't decide whether she wanted to kick herself or Theresa worse. She ground her teeth, waiting in obviously feigned unconcern for Theresa's reply, trying to save face. Theresa let her stew for several long moments before she shrugged and turned away. "Help yourself." Pride, Basilyn thought as she dug through the boxes, was a miserable thing. Even her dignity had never sustained the wounds and buffets and beatings her pride had taken over the years, and she still clung to the thing as if it would save her something. She dragged forth a couple of promising looking shirts that had belonged to Dominic, and a bulky terry bathrobe that looked amazingly comfortable. She didn't bother with Theresa's things. Theresa wore only one size larger than she did. There wasn't enough difference to be of any help to her whatsoever in her present state. She needed room. She needed sloppy big. She discovered, once she got back to her room, that she'd gotten a little more than she'd bargained for. Dominic's shirts swallowed her whole. They fell almost to her knees and they looked ridiculous. She hadn't realized he was that big. She also hadn't realized that his scent might still cling to the clothing. She caught a whiff of his aftershave and felt her stomach muscles clench spasmodically, felt an unaccountable, unidentifiable wave of emotion wash over her. It was almost, she thought, like being within his embrace and while it made her feel uncomfortably strange, there was also something about the sensation that brought forth a rush of comforting warmth. She dismissed both reactions at once, putting them resolutely from her mind. She couldn't allow or accept those sort of feelings where Dominic Demot was concerned. And beggars couldn't be choosers. Maybe, she thought, she could alter the shirts later. Dominic stared at her as she came into the kitchen once more. He studied her throughout breakfast until she could hardly choke a morsel down. He eyed her not-so-covertly all the way to the University. He didn't speak, however, until he'd pulled up to drop her off. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what this is all about?" She sent him a feigned look of incomprehension, though she felt her face heat. "What?" He ground his teeth. "That damned shirt!" "It was a discard!" she said defensively. "Or did Theresa arbitrarily dispose of it?" she added, suddenly conscience stricken at the thought, wondering with more than a touch of dismay if he thought she'd simply helped herself to his belongings. "I bought you some decent clothes to wear," he ground out angrily.

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"What?" Basilyn said blankly. His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't take them," he said tightly. It was a conclusion, not a question. "You'd rather walk around looking thrown away like a ... homeless waif." He looked away, staring angrily out the windshield. "Theresa should've insisted," he muttered irritably. Basilyn's lips tightened with anger when she realized what he was getting at. Now, she thought angrily, she was supposed to take the blame for that, as well? He turned to glare at her again before she could decide whether to try to defend herself or simply tell him to go to hell. "Pride's all very well, damn it. But this was in the agreement!" She glared back at him, snatching up her books and shouldering her shoulder bag before shoving the door open. "You're a hundred percent right! This is different. And, not only did she not insist, she didn't even offer! And I damn sure wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of asking! So don't go jumping down my throat!" She got out then, slamming the door behind her, and stalked away, ignoring him when he called after her. She soon regretted her outburst, however. She'd told herself, repeatedly, that she wasn't going to allow Theresa and Dominic to drag her in to their fights. She wasn't going to allow herself to become yet another bone of contention between them. They could leave her out of it. And the best way to stay out was to keep Theresa's petty little retaliations to herself. Anyone as accustomed to that sort of thing as she was ought to have been able to manage that feat with ease. For she was accustomed. Having been an unwelcome addition to several families in her life, she'd discovered early on that being tolerated didn't mean she would be ignored or left in peace. There had been at least one someone in every family she'd ever lived with that resented her presence and saw to it that she suffered their displeasure. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of any way to reverse the damages once done. Though she thought of little else, she had still come up with nothing when he arrived to pick her up that afternoon. She glanced at him several times and, finally realizing the only thing that could possibly avert a confrontation between Dominic and his wife was to assume the blame herself, lied through her teeth. "You were right … this morning ...," she began uncomfortably. "I didn't want Theresa buying me anything. I figured I could get by on my own. I prefer it that way." She sent him another glance to see if he was biting. He wasn't. He sent her a glare, his lips compressed into a thin line of anger. "Don't bother trying to whitewash it. I've already talked to Theresa." "Oh," she said uncomfortably. She felt her discomfort mount when they turned into the mall parking lot. "Well, it's over and done with now," she said uneasily. "And I've taken care of it." He parked the car and turned to look at her. "Not to my satisfaction," he replied tightly and got out. She stared at him in dismay as he came around the jeep and opened her door. "This isn't necessary," she said, feeling an upsurge of paranoid embarrassment, certain everyone who looked at them knew a man, who wasn't her husband, father, or brother, was about to buy clothes for her. She'd only thought she was embarrassed when she'd thought Theresa would buy for her. In retrospect she realized that hadn't even been nearly as daunting a prospect. She couldn't let him do it. She couldn't bear to have him do it. She would feel like a tramp. He drew her, protesting, from the jeep and ushered her towards the mall. She felt her

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discomfort deepen as they stepped inside and he grasped her elbow, leading the way. "This really isn't necessary," she said again in a half-panicked whisper, fearful of being overheard. "In fact, I'd much rather you didn't ... please ...." He ignored her, striding purposefully down the mall and surveying each shop they came upon, coming to an abrupt halt as they reached the maternity boutique. Basilyn felt her eyes widen in horror as she stared at the shop, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her. It was the last place she wanted to enter. She resisted as he started inside, pulling her elbow from his grip. "Look, if you insist, then I'd rather go to the discount store down the mall." He slid his arm over her shoulders, pulling her close to whisper in her ear. "No," he said implacably and drew away to lead her inside. He didn't release her and Basilyn was too startled at his familiarity to comment or resist. The sales clerk met them at the front of the store, the same woman who'd waited on Theresa before. Basilyn felt her face heat with a fresh wave of embarrassment. "How's your sister?" she asked pleasantly. It took Basilyn a moment to find her voice. "Oh … fine … fine." "No problems with the things she bought?" the clerk asked next, lifting her brows questioningly, though she didn't look as if she anticipated, or would welcome, complaints. Dominic's arm tightened around Basilyn in a way that implied an intimacy between them that had never existed. "My wife needs a few things." Basilyn looked up at him in surprise, feeling suddenly as if the ground had dropped out from under her. For several moments the horrible suspicion assailed her that he'd brought her to the boutique to treat her to another round of Theresa's revenge. She was so flabbergasted, she didn't even flinch as he reached down to pat her abdomen familiarly, though she followed the movement of his hand like a sleeper. "She didn't get anything for herself the other day."

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Chapter Fourteen Basilyn felt her jaw drop. Her? He meant her? She glanced up at the clerk's smiling face and then at Dominic in stunned surprise. His eyes, she saw, were gleaming with suppressed amusement, and something else she couldn't, in her present state of mind, interpret. He leaned down and kissed her, briefly, familiarly, possessively, on the lips as if the kiss were something he did often. She felt a jolt of something more than surprise then, something far more stunning … a heady surge of heat that sent a weakening rush through her. Though far from fear inspired, it gave her much the same feeling she'd had the day the freight train narrowly missed her and she wondered, a little vaguely, if her legs would function once she unlocked her watery knees. She blinked up at him as he lifted his head once more, her gaze going to his lips. Finally, she lifted her gaze to meet his. She felt another jolt of heat then at the gleam of fire in his blue eyes. He glanced away after a moment, grinning at the clerk. "This must be y'all's first?" she smirked. Dominic's grin widened. "Yes," he agreed, turning to give Basilyn a smoldering look that made her toes curl. "It's our first." "You haven't been married long then, I take it?" He didn't look at the clerk. His smile faded as he studied her with a sudden intensity that had nothing to do with the smoldering heat of before. "Not long … no." His gaze fell to her lips once more. Basilyn looked away. The clerk, she saw, was studying them, a combination of embarrassment, envy, and amusement in her expression. "What size?" she asked, when she saw she had Basilyn's attention. "What? Oh! Five." The clerk frowned, moving away. "We don't have many fives. How about sevens? We have a few of those left." "What are you doing?" Basilyn asked in an urgent whisper when the clerk was out of earshot. Dominic's eyes were full of mischievous amusement and something else. Recklessness? Determination? Maybe even a touch of rebellion? "You didn't want her to think your lover was buying your clothes. I fixed it." Basilyn pursed her lips, resolutely ignoring the surge of disappointment that came with understanding. She didn't try to shake off the irritation that took its place at the realization that she'd been swept into yet another 'game'. She shrugged his arm off irritably. "Gee thanks," she said dryly. "I'm ever so grateful." He grinned unrepentantly, following her to the rack of clothes the clerk had indicated in the back corner of the store. "You're welcome." She threw him a glare and turned her attention to the clothes, or tried to. She found she had trouble concentrating on anything when she could feel him hovering at her back. She jumped when he slid his arm around her waist and bent to drop his chin to her shoulder. "I like

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that one." She glanced towards him. He was so close her nose brushed his cheek. The combined scents of his aftershave and cologne assailed her, making her feel suddenly lightheaded. She drew back. "Will you behave yourself?" she asked through gritted teeth, falling back on anger in self-defense. He eyed her with limpid blue eyes, though devilment lurked in those sapphire depths, as well. Lifting his head slightly, he brushed his lips along her ear, breathing his warm breath against it in a way that sent an involuntary shudder of reaction through her and raised a horde of goosebumps along her flesh from her ear to her toes. "I'm trying to convince her," he whispered. She sent the clerk a helpless 'what can I do?' smile and dug her elbow into his midsection. He grunted obligingly, but then ruined the effect by laughing. "Alright, princess … give me a kiss and I'll go away and leave you alone to do your shopping." She shot him a startled look, saw the teasing laughter in his eyes and frowned with a mixture of doubt, suspicion … and disappointment, too, if she was to be honest with herself. "What?" she exclaimed in a whisper of disbelief. He grinned, dropping his arm along the top of the rack in front of her and shifting his body so that he half-concealed her from the clerk's view. The clerk, grinning, obligingly wandered away. "Consider it a bribe." She glared at him. "I don't mean to consider it at all!" He chuckled, not put out in the least. "Good. I would've been bored waiting outside." She stared consideringly at him a long moment, her lips tightened in irritation. But she was thoroughly rattled by now, felt her nerves riding the fine edge of frazzled from the attentions he'd already bestowed upon her. She desperately needed a little breathing room. She couldn't think straight with him touching her—standing so close. She realized her hands were trembling and that irritated her more. It occurred to her in that moment that she was seeing that side of Dominic always kept hidden—for everyone had one, had two selves, the one they were and the one they would secretly like to be. Perhaps because, much as she'd once done, he had found an excuse to allow his private imps to persuade him to do something outrageous? The results were likely to be as disastrous as her own had been, or maybe even more disastrous. She should not encourage him. But perhaps the best way to make him back off and give her breathing room, and bring him to his senses before it was too late, was to stand her ground and issue a counter challenge? "If you're serious …," which she didn't believe for a moment, "...and that's what it’s going to take to get rid of you. Then, go ahead," she said through gritted teeth. He shook his head, grinning. "That was the most ungracious invitation I've ever had. Besides, Princess, the stipulation was that you'd kiss me." She stared at him in distress, realizing finally that he was not only serious, he was determined. She should have felt threatened by the realization, or disgusted, or outraged. She should have felt anything other than what she did feel. But what she felt was a poignant wave of wistfulness, a budding exhilaration, and an unfurling of anticipation that brought a very different nervous tension with it than what she'd felt heretofore, a tension that had nothing to do with either a fear of being observed or fear of Dominic. It was rather more a fear of herself and a fear of what she might feel if she gave in to what she suddenly realized she wanted as much, or

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perhaps far more, than Dominic did. Regardless, she couldn't abandon reason. It was insane to consider even so mild a form of intimacy with him, particularly when she knew instinctively that it would only lead to more forbidden intimacy. Or at the very least, the wish for more. It was more than insane to consider giving in to such a whim in public. "Dominic … someone will see us." His smile vanished, but his eyes never left her face. He was excruciatingly aware of that himself, but he didn't mean to allow it to deter him now. It was the very fact that he had her in public, had her 'cornered' and off-balance, that had made the impossible seem possible. If he'd thought to approach her in such a way anywhere else she would've gone into immediate retreat and she wouldn't be anxious to fob him off by giving him what he wanted only to keep from making a scene. "I don't give a damn." He paused, swallowing hard as his gaze moved to her mouth. "It's little enough to ask, surely?" he added in a cajoling tone he made no attempt to disguise. Basilyn stared at him, caught by the inflection in his voice, noting, without really accepting its significance, that he had left himself open and vulnerable to rejection. Without making any attempt to protect himself against the possibility … or even from embarrassment in that eventuality by using a teasing tone. Or even an indifferent one to leave her in doubt about the seriousness of his request. But she felt a sickening surge of disappointment, too, at the far more likely implication of his words. "In payment?" she asked in a suffocated voice. His eyes glittered with sudden anger. A muscle worked in his jaw, as if he was grinding his teeth against a sharp retort. "No," he said finally, the anger disappearing as something painful to look upon took its place. "Because … I want it … and it’s all I ask." Basilyn swallowed against a sudden ache in her own throat, studying him for a long moment. And finally lifted her lips impulsively, to soothe, only to soothe, she told herself, without questioning why the yearning in his eyes disturbed her so much, hurt her, pressing her mouth lightly to his. His breath touched her lips as he released a pent up sigh at her light caress, though he remained utterly still as she lingered a long moment. He followed her as she tried to withdraw, pressing his mouth more firmly against hers, moving his lips along hers in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. A dizzying whirlpool of sensation opened up to engulf her, sweeping her around in a heady rush that delighted even as it disoriented, dragging at her so strongly that she was tempted, oh so tempted, to release her grip on reason and allow that siren song to tug her under and sweep sanity away. She jerked away from him abruptly as his tongue touched her lips to test the sensitive barrier where they met. He stared at her a long moment and finally thrust shaking fingers through his hair, glanced down at his feet and then looked away, clearing his throat. "Consider it a moment of insanity." He turned to look at her again, smiling a little lopsidedly. "I have them now and then." He moved away from her then and Basilyn, badly shaken, forced herself to focus upon the task that had supposedly brought them here. Insanity, indeed, she thought as she made her way finally to the dressing room. The question was, what had prompted it? Did it have to do with her--really? Had the imps of mischief prompted him to do something he'd been wanting to do for some time that had seemed too outrageous to contemplate before? Or did it have to do with his anger of before? Was it a

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stab at getting even with Theresa because she'd angered him by putting him in this position? Mischief? He wasn't a little boy, nor prone to boyish pranks. Ordinarily she would've insisted that he was far too serious minded, and reserved, to have engaged in any sort of 'open game' like he'd just done. Regardless, she dismissed that guess. Lust? Be real, she berated herself in disgust. She was hardly desirable at the best of times—and this wasn't the best of times. Besides … he was a married man, with marital rights. Except that she'd begun to suspect he didn't exercise those rights. There was something very cold about the relationship between him and his wife. He never kissed Theresa, not even one of those 'married for years' pecks. He seemed, in fact, to make it a point not to come into any sort of physical contact with his wife if he could help it. And from some of the remarks Theresa had made within her hearing—not that she could believe anything Theresa said. Even though the most telling remarks hadn't been directed at her at all, but rather as a complaint to Dominic. Regardless, he would not turn to her for needs he could easily have fulfilled at home. Or anywhere else for that matter. No man that looked like Dominic could have difficulty in that direction in this day and time. Not lust then, but perhaps one of Theresa's favorite games? Flirting to arouse jealousy? Or games only for the sake of excitement? He couldn't have picked a more public spot to decide to become amorous. For, even if they hadn't been seen by anyone in the mall, the sales clerk knew about it. She was liable to mention the episode the very next time Theresa came into the store—in fact, likely to since she remembered both of them and thought they were sisters. All she would have to do, really, was to mention that Theresa's 'sister' and her husband had been in. The kiss hadn't been necessary at all. Theresa would, to put it crudely, shit a squealing worm a mile long, the moment she heard the tale, for she'd have to know it must be Dominic the clerk referred to. So, why bother with the other? Icing on the cake, maybe? She felt sick, in an indescribable way, though perhaps soul sick was closest to a description. She was being used and manipulated by both of them. She knew it. And she could think of no way to stop them. It was with the greatest reluctance, therefore, that she gathered the outfits she'd chosen and girded herself to face Dominic again. She almost barreled into the woman on her way out of the dressing room. She fell back in surprise. It was a providential, though entirely reflexive, move. The blade Valerie swung at her missed her by mere inches. Spouting a steady stream of profanity, Valerie swung at her again, narrowly missing her a second time as, again, Basilyn jumped back. "What …? What's going on here?" Valerie stopped as abruptly as if she was a robot that had suddenly been turned off. The knife disappeared. Whirling finally, she stared at the store clerk for a long moment and then pushed past her, walking briskly away. Both Basilyn and the store clerk stared after her, the clerk mystified, Basilyn too stunned to do anything more. She was still stunned and blank when the clerk turned to her once more, her expression now angrily suspicious. "What happened?" she said again, this time accusingly. Basilyn only stared at her. Moments passed before comprehension struck her and even when it did, she was inclined to dismiss the notion. She realized finally that she'd read the clerk

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unerringly, however. The way the clerk had seen it, she hadn’t been attacked. She had engaged in a fight with the woman ... in her store. Anger surged through her, routing her incredulity, dispelling the shock that had kept her from feeling anything at all up till that moment ... including the fear she would've felt if she'd had time to assimilate the fact that she was under attack before it was finished and the threat long since vanished out the shop door. She was on the point of giving the woman a detailed accounting of the incident, as well as her opinion of the clerk herself, when a chaotic flow of conflicting images assailed her at once. Visions of mall security and police being summoned. Visions of a grueling question and answer session at the police station. Questions. Questions that might dig up her past. Records that would throw doubt on her credibility. Maybe even her sanity? What proof did she have? She didn't believe for a moment that Valerie was stupid enough that she'd still have the knife on her when they picked her up. What motive? A job? Who in their right mind would believe the woman had tried to kill her only because of a job? She swallowed, feeling sick suddenly. "Where's the bathroom? I need a bathroom ... now!" **** There were many reasons Basilyn didn't mention the episode with Valerie to Dominic. Opportunity wasn't one of them. The clerk, damn her hide, ran for Dominic like her coat tail was on fire the moment Basilyn made a mad dash for the restroom and puked her toenails up. She was hanging wearily over the toilet when he rushed in. She didn't even look up. "What is it? What's wrong?" "Get out!" she shrieked. He didn't budge an inch. "Are you alright?" His voice sounded strained. She wasn't surprised, all things considered. "I will be if you'll go away," she said irritably, having vented most of her strength and her anger in that first demand for privacy. He went, but he didn't go far. She heard him carrying on a low voiced discussion with the shop girl right outside the door. She wasn't certain whether she felt comforted by the fact that he was near at hand should the need arise—or threatened. Because it occurred to her as she finally rose shakily to her feet and moved to the lavatory to rinse her mouth and splash cold water over her face, that Valerie might not be crazy at all ... unless one counted insane jealousy as true insanity. She'd accused Basilyn of sleeping with Dominic to get her job. Why would she do that unless that was the way she'd gotten the job? And it was far easier to believe Valerie was furious enough to try to kill her over a man than a job … be it ever so cushy. She began to shiver as a strong wash of chills passed through her, wave upon wave that lifted goosebumps on her flesh and made her teeth begin to chatter. She couldn't think about that. If she allowed herself to think about it, to begin to relive the attack, she would never be able to carry off any sort of charade to protect herself from prying questions. Determinedly, she thrust the attack itself to the back of her mind and gave it instead the tangled puzzle of probable cause. Maybe, she thought then, she'd been barking up the wrong tree before? Maybe the little episode in the boutique hadn't been for Theresa's benefit at all. Maybe it had been for Valerie? She frowned at that thought, discovering flaws in her reasoning almost immediately.

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Why would Dominic get rid of his lover if he still cared enough for her to want to make her jealous? And it had been Dominic's decision to let Valerie go. Theresa complained about that almost incessantly—every time she was called upon to do something that Valerie had done before. So, where did that leave her? It could still be put down to jealousy. Even if she acquitted Dominic of trying to make Valerie jealous, she wasn't certain she could acquit him of having done it for Theresa's benefit. And the fact that he hadn't meant, maybe hadn't even expected, to make Valerie jealous didn't eliminate the possibility that that was still her motivation for the attack. They might still have been lovers. And Valerie, as the woman spurned (as women were all too prone to do) would prefer to aim her fury upon the 'other' woman than the man she loved. It clicked. The question was, just how insanely jealous was Valerie? Was it a momentary loss of control? Or could she expect similar incidents in the future? That thought stopped her cold and she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the vanity as her eyes widened as a flood of new thoughts rushed in. Was that the first such incident? She'd jumped to the conclusion when she'd had her first encounter with the maid that Theresa had pointed her out, or that Valerie had seen her with Theresa and guessed the rest. But Theresa hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even hinted at it, and she knew Theresa well enough by now to know that Theresa could get no enjoyment unless the victims of her spite knew she'd done them dirt. So, when might Valerie have discovered her replacement? The Medical Center wasn't far from the mall where Valerie worked. However unlikely, it was still possible Valerie had seen her at the Medical Center with the Demots. She'd been going there to meet the Demots when she'd almost been run down by that car …. And Dominic had to have been close to her, otherwise he wouldn't have been close enough to have swept her out of the car's path. She shrugged that off. Too farfetched. That, at least, must have been pure accident. At any rate, and despite the fact that she'd never gotten a very good look at the car, she'd had the definite impression that it was a late model, high priced car, not something anybody working as a maid could afford. But then, there was her moped. She'd been to the Medical Center that day before she went to class. And the moped had been run over while she was in class and unfortunately there'd been no witnesses. She could've done that. She could also have followed Basilyn back to her apartment at any time before she moved in with the Demots. Basilyn felt sick again at the thought her mind leapt to next. But she felt almost better after she'd examined it. Better because she knew she could find some way to deal with the woman, to guard herself against any possible future attacks. She could not deal with the thought that it might've been him, that he might somehow have found her again after all these years of running.

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Chapter Fifteen Nearly a week passed before Basilyn found she could look Theresa in the eye without feeling an overwhelming surge of guilt for the episode at the boutique. Shamefully, it wasn't guilt so much as the fear of discovery that made eye-contact so difficult, however. She lived with the terrible apprehension that, at any moment, Theresa was going to see her guilt in her eyes, or hear of it. If she'd doubted before, she knew positively now that she wasn't cut out for the sort of casual 'cheating' that was so predominant in today's disposable marriages that most people would have laughed themselves weary at the thought of a kiss, and such a tame one at that, being considered cheating. However others might look upon it, Basilyn could not consider cheating by degrees was any more right or acceptable. Cheating was cheating—particularly when its effect was to make at least one of the parties involved sorry there hadn't been more to be sorry about. Because that disturbed her almost as much as the other. She was sorry she'd given in to temptation and sorrier still that circumstances had prohibited a 'real' kiss, the sort a lover might bestow. Rather than merely a little peck that would've been little different, really, than one family member might bestow upon another where a blood bond existed, except that there'd been no blood bond. And yet, even so, she couldn't honestly say that she'd felt Dominic's kiss was either casual or tame, not when the effect of that tentative caress had been so devastating to her. She'd had sleepless nights over that kiss. And, unfortunately, feelings of guilt hadn't entered into it at all. It seemed perverse fate had finally dropped a man in her path that could break through to her. Rather like the prince in the fairy tale who'd fought the evil witch's spell to claim the fair princess—ludicrous though it might seem to class herself with a princess, fair or otherwise. A man that could make her feel all those things her analyst had promised she would one day be able to feel, just as every other woman could rightfully expect. And, naturally, he would have to be a man she couldn't have and had no right to want. Regardless of the circumstances, or even the chaste quality of that kiss, it had introduced her to something she'd never expected to experience but recognized intuitively—passion. It plagued her nights, spawning dreams so real she frequently had trouble sorting the dream from reality when it woke her. It also spawned the nightmare—the one she hadn't had since she was a small child. She woke with it several nights after the incident, her body convulsing with the awful effort to force out the hoarse cries that seemed trapped in her chest. "Don't, daddy! Please don't! It hurts! It hurts!" Finding a man looming above her in the dark, another wave of terror swept over her. She threw her hands up defensively to ward him off and screamed again, her throat feeling raw from her previous efforts to scream. Not until Theresa pushed past him and pulled her into a surprisingly maternal embrace did she realize it was Dominic. She clutched at Theresa frantically, trying to shake the last of the nightmare off, weeping in gasping, painful breaths.

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"It's alright," Theresa soothed. "It wasn't real. You had a nightmare." "No," Basilyn contradicted, sobbing still, so disoriented she felt as if she'd been thrown back to her childhood, had difficulty sorting dream from reality, reality present from reality past. "It was real. It was real. He was just there. He's going to get me again." Theresa pulled away, giving her a slight shake. "It was never real," she said sternly, almost angrily. "Never. It was never anything more than a nightmare." Basilyn stared at her, feeling the last of the nightmare finally vanish until she could no longer even remember why it had terrified her. She drew in a shuddering breath, mopping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yes … it was a nightmare. Just a nightmare," she said with a sudden relief that left her feeling drained. She paused, sniffing, and finally pulled away from Theresa, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm sorry I woke y'all." "Don't worry about it. You're alright now?" Dominic said in a voice curiously lacking inflection of any kind. Except for feeling like a complete fool. She nodded, refusing to look at him, feeling guilt swamp her suddenly. It made it worse, somehow, that Theresa had been nice to her—after what she'd done. Though she supposed she felt more guilty for the coveting that had come after than she did for the kiss. Because the unconscious yearning of dreams was still coveting, even though one had no control over them. And in them, she'd sinned far worse than she had in actuality. So much so that she had almost as much trouble looking Dominic in the eye these days as she did Theresa, fearful that he would somehow discern her thoughts. Those uncomfortable symptoms of guilt vanished entirely before the week was out, however, routed completely by the discovery that Valerie was once again working for the Demots. How it came about, she never knew. Nor, for certain, whose idea it had been to bring her in on a part time basis for the 'heavy' cleaning about the house. For although she was almost certain it was Theresa's idea entirely, if Dominic put up even so much as a token protest, it wasn't done within her hearing. Of course, she could hardly accuse either of them of having premeditatedly exposed her to a woman who'd already attacked her twice, verbally and physically. She hadn't said a word about either incident to either Dominic or Theresa. The problem was, since she hadn't, and since she didn't know which of the two was actually responsible for reinstating Valerie, she had no idea of which to approach now. Or if it would do any good at all to approach either one of them. Dominic, she finally realized once she'd overcome her own discomfort, was both remote and chillingly polite now. And though she couldn't decide what had brought about the change, the fact remained that he seemed both unreceptive and unapproachable now of any sort of confidences. Theresa, of course, had never been receptive, and she became less so as time wore on. She made no attempt whatever to hide the fact that she resented that Dominic had bought Basilyn the maternity clothes she needed. And she did everything within her power to make Basilyn miserable because of it. Moreover, her behavior toward Basilyn became aggressively competitive. Sometimes Basilyn thought it was almost as if Theresa's charade had become so real to her that she honestly believed it was she who was pregnant and not Basilyn. She feigned every symptom she detected in Basilyn. The sharp emotional rises and dips Basilyn finally discovered were a symptom of her pregnancy, due to the hormonal changes she

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was experiencing, that Basilyn found so unsettling and difficult to deal with, Theresa experienced to excess and with apparent relish. Possibly because she found it necessary to exaggerate them for others to notice since her temperament was naturally mercurial. She feigned muscle spasms. She feigned dizzy spells. And, not a week after Basilyn embarrassed, and bruised, herself by fainting and collapsing on the kitchen floor, causing Dominic, at least, considerable consternation, Theresa 'fainted' and conveniently collapsed on the couch. Basilyn could've seen some reason for it if she had reserved those 'symptoms' for occasions when she had a gullible audience. But she practiced them frequently when she had no other witness than Basilyn—and sometimes around Dominic—who took her acting in very bad part, which generated more arguments between them. And Theresa seemed to take some sort of perverse delight in provoking those arguments when Basilyn couldn't help but be a spectator, try though she might to avoid their confrontations. The most embarrassing of those confrontations came the night of the cup cakes. Dominic had been working late. Basilyn, having finally overcome her discomfort around him from the mall episode, approached to watch him at work again. After pointedly ignoring her for so long that she'd realized it was a rebuff and not merely his distraction, Dominic had finally deigned to notice her. He'd given Basilyn some rough sketches then and suggested she attempt some of the drafting. For several moments, Basilyn was tempted to toss them in his face and tell him to go straight to hell. She'd assumed that Dominic's coolness towards her had arisen from much the same source as hers toward him—guilt. That being the case, particularly since the transgression had been so minor, she'd expected he would recover fairly quickly and put it behind him as she had. Obviously, she'd misjudged the situation entirely. Obviously, his recent behavior was from something else entirely. Inspired by anger, though she couldn't for the life of her figure out how or why. And, at the moment, she didn't think she wanted to try. She was too hurt and angry at his apparently unprovoked attack to care what the 'why' of it might be. She dismissed her pique after a moment, assuring herself that it was just as well. They'd become entirely too friendly for her peace of mind anyway. And, as there was no way of rectifying their situation, it was probably for the best if they regressed into coolly polite strangers once more. She sat down with the sketchings and took up her mechanical pencil. After a time she became so engrossed that she scarcely noticed, at first, when Theresa came to stand in the door. She might not have noticed at all except that the creak of Dominic's chair as he turned to look broke her concentration. Glancing at him, she saw his gaze was riveted to the door of the office. Basilyn turned to look, as well, and felt a jolt of shock. Theresa had discarded her maternity wear. In fact, she'd discarded almost everything. The nightgown she wore was as nearly transparent as anything she'd ever seen. And she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath. Basilyn sent Dominic a horrified look, saw that he was still staring at Theresa and got to her feet abruptly. "I think I'll just go to bed." Theresa transferred her gaze from Dominic to Basilyn at that, obviously enjoying both Basilyn and Dominic's discomfiture. "Why bother? You needn't go on my account. The two of you look so chummy in here together, scribbling away with your little pencils. I wouldn't have

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thought to interrupt you, but I've got a sudden craving for cupcakes and thought I'd make some. And I just thought I'd see if you two were interested? In cupcakes, I mean?" She paused, lifting her brows questioningly. Basilyn stared at her, feeling an intense desire to bolt and an equally intense revulsion at the thought of brushing past Theresa, who was blocking her path of retreat. After a moment, she sat down again, staring blindly at her sketches, trying to become blind, deaf, and dumb to the scene Theresa was enacting behind her. When Dominic said nothing at all, however, she felt compelled to make some comment, if only to break the uncomfortable silence that had fallen. "Sure," she managed, though she found she couldn't make herself turn around. "Would you like for me to help?" "Oh ... I think you've helped quite enough," Theresa said with poisonous sweetness. "Why! You've turned my husband into a real homebody—and practically overnight! And you keep him … entertained, too!" Dominic got to his feet abruptly. "That's enough, Theresa!" A silence fell, though what sort of silent communication passed between them, Basilyn had no way of knowing since she resolutely kept her back to both of them. "I'll give you a hand in the kitchen," Dominic added after a moment. "I need a break anyway." Basilyn stared blankly at the sketch pad before her after they'd gone, wishing she could simply vanish from the spot, wondering if there was any possibility she might slip unobtrusively upstairs. Somehow, she doubted it, and she didn't really feel up to another scene with Theresa just at the moment. Since it occurred to her then that, once Theresa had finished what she'd come to do—aside from disrupting Dominic's work—very likely she and Dominic would retire and leave her in peace, she returned her attention to her sketching, trying to turn a deaf ear to what was going on in the kitchen. "What do you want me to do?" she heard Dominic ask. "Well ...You could just stand there and look pretty." Dominic made an angry sound of disgust. "Fix the damned icing then!" Theresa snapped. "What kind of icing?" "Damned if I care. Alright! Chocolate! It's in the keeper there. I think there's enough left for icing." Silence descended then except for the clatter of pots, bowls, and utensils. After a time, that, too, ceased. Dominic, apparently having completed his kitchen assignment, returned to the office and sat down again to work. Soon the smell of baking cake drifted into the office. Basilyn did her best to ignore the tempting odor and concentrate on her efforts. But if she could've been said to have 'craved' anything during her pregnancy, that was baked goods. She'd never particularly cared for candy, and bakery products had always been her failing insofar as her sweet tooth was concerned, however, so she couldn't say she craved something she'd never craved before. She wasn't interested in developing interesting quirks to her pregnancy in any case. But her predilection for cakes and donuts was notably more intense since she'd become pregnant. And the smell of baking cake had her anticipating it long before Theresa appeared in the doorway once more and offered it.

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"The cupcakes are done," she announced brightly. "You want one, Basilyn?" Basilyn found she still could not bring herself to look directly at Theresa, realized belatedly that she could've made good her escape when Dominic returned—before Theresa came back for him. "Thanks. But I think I'll pass this time. It's getting late." She rose to leave, facing Theresa finally since it seemed there would be no way to avoid doing so. Theresa adopted a patently false pout. "But ... I made them just for you. I know how you crave things like that just now. I thought we might consider it as a sort of … truce?" Basilyn stared at her, trying to figure out what Theresa's game was. Because she knew Theresa was up to something besides the obvious. Theresa never did anything without a reason. And, if she was obvious, it was because she was trying to draw attention away from her true intentions. As for the truce …. Why suggest a truce, Basilyn wondered, when they had never openly acknowledged a battle? Mentally shrugging, she dismissed the suspicions. She made it a policy never to make waves when she could help it. She bent, willing to allow the tiny manipulation, or at least the appearance of capitulation, only to remove herself as quickly as possible. She had no desire to witness Theresa practicing her seductive wiles on her husband. And realized now that that was just what Theresa wanted—not just to seduce Dominic, but to do it with her as witness. Either because she was an exhibitionist by nature; because she meant to stake her claim to Dominic in the most blatant sort of way; or because she meant to drive home to Basilyn just how badly she looked when compared to herself. Although probably it was a combination of all three. "I'll just take one up with me, if it's alright?" Theresa beamed. "Take two. I made a half a dozen. Two each …." Basilyn brushed past her, intent only on escaping. She hesitated when she reached the kitchen, however, glancing over at the cupcakes that were arranged so invitingly on a plate on the counter with more than a touch of wistfulness. After a moment, she issued a mental shrug and moved towards them. It couldn't take more than a moment to collect them and go … and a glass of milk. She moved to the dish cabinet and took down a saucer. "Well...," she heard Theresa ask provocatively, "You haven't said. What do you think of my new negligee? Does this get a ... rise?" It got one. A cold, deadly one from the tone of his voice. Basilyn dropped her saucer on the counter with a clatter that drowned out Dominic's remarks. Scooping a cupcake off the plate, she hesitated a moment and finally let it go at that. One, she felt certain, would be sufficient to satisfy her craving and was almost certainly sweet enough to make her ill for, despite her penchant for sweets, she had a very low tolerance for sugar. And she wasn't about to fall for any efforts on Theresa's part to make her fat. Because she didn't doubt that Theresa was just devious enough and malicious enough to try it if she thought she had any chance in succeeding. Moving down the counter, she set her saucer down again and took out a glass. Theresa sauntered back into the kitchen as she was pouring her glass of milk, Dominic at her heels. "I'll get you a plate …." She broke off when she saw Basilyn. "You didn't want two?" Basilyn didn't look up. She was sorry she'd allowed herself to be sidetracked from making an immediate retreat. She'd thought being swept into the midst of Dominic and Theresa's fights was the most uncomfortable and embarrassing predicament she'd ever had to endure. She discovered that she was wrong. Being a third party in the midst of a seduction was far worse. For she hadn't been left in

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any doubt that seduction was on Theresa's mind. She didn't want to know what was on Dominic's mind. But she did wish she hadn't gotten a good look at the seductive body beneath Theresa's transparent nightgown. She felt, just as she suspected she'd been meant to feel, like a freak. She felt more than a little nauseous. She wondered why she'd thought she wanted a cupcake. "Yes … no …. Thanks. I think one will do me. Well …’night!" she scurried for the door. Behind her she heard a soft thud, as of two people colliding and then a crash that halted her in her tracks. She spun around and discovered Theresa had dropped the plate of cupcakes. She was staring down at them in dismay. "Oh, Lord! What a mess!" She hesitated, wondering whether to continue her retreat or offer help. After a moment, she turned back, setting her saucer and glass of milk down. "Here, I'll get it. You can …. You're already ready for ... bed ...." She broke off, feeling a fiery blush rise in her cheeks that made her feel hot all over with mortification. Theresa glanced at Dominic helplessly. "I'm sorry, boogie bear. I've gone and dropped them. And they were your favorites, too. I can't think how I managed to make such a mess.." "He can have mine," Basilyn offered. "And I'll clean up the mess.." Theresa glanced at her sharply. "Don't be silly!" Dominic, blushing nearly as furiously as Basilyn, declined abruptly. "No, that's alright. I didn't really want one." "Oh, but I insist ..!" Basilyn insisted. He looked at her uncomfortably a moment, obviously wishing himself far elsewhere … or Basilyn. "It's not my favorite. Actually, I hate devil's food, particularly with chocolate frosting." Theresa gaped at him. "Why, boogie bear! It always used to be your favorite. Didn't it?" Dominic ground his teeth. "No. It never was and I wish to hell you'd stop calling me that idiotic name." He glanced at Basilyn then. "Go on to bed. I'll help Theresa clean up." She studied him and Theresa a moment as they knelt to scoop up the gooey mess and finally grabbed up her cupcake and retreated.

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Chapter Sixteen Basilyn slept fitfully. Strange dreams plagued her throughout the night, rousing her repeatedly. It wasn't quite four o'clock in the morning when the first wave of cramps hit her. After her third trip to the bathroom in little more than two hours, Basilyn was forced to admit to herself that she was sick. It wasn't just something she'd eaten. Nothing she could've eaten could possibly have had this effect upon her—unless she'd gotten a touch of ptomaine poisoning. The thought brought a surge of fear that made her break out in a clammy sweat so that her nightshirt clung to her in uncomfortable patches. She dismissed the horrifying suspicion almost immediately, however. Food poisoning would've had a far more violent effect upon her. It couldn't be that. She was certain. Her fear abated. Her illness didn't. She got worse. She ignored the pain, hoping against hope that it would subside and she wouldn't be forced to admit to the Demots that she'd been stricken with a stomach virus. Because she knew that had to be it. Anything would be preferable to that. Dying even. She simply couldn't bring herself to mention something so indelicate as her bowels around virtual strangers—particularly an attractive male stranger. She discovered after a time, however, that she was going to be forced to admit to something. The diarrhea ceased after a time. The cramps did not. They grew steadily worse, until she could no longer lie still. She tossed and turned, fighting the cramps, until she knew she could ignore the pain no longer. She needed help. Unfortunately, by the time she finally admitted to the need for help, she was no longer in any condition to seek it. The pain was blinding, nauseating, knee weakening. She pulled herself from her bed with an effort, clasping one arm to her abdomen in the forlorn hope of easing the pain there as she moved slowly, painfully towards the door. It seemed to take eons to reach it. When finally she did, she was drenched with perspiration and so weak and faint she had to pause there for several minutes, bracing herself against the wall until she could catch her breath and move on. She couldn't face the stairs, she realized when she reached them. She simply couldn't. Not in her present condition. She sat down slowly, painfully at the top of the stairs, fighting tears, holding her stomach as she rocked back and forth mindlessly. "Dominic …." It never occurred to her for a moment to call Theresa. It was Dominic she needed. When he didn't appear at once, she moistened her pain dried lips and tried calling for him again. He came to the foot of the stairs at her second call, staring up at her in the weak light of early morning that had begun to filter through the tinted windows that fronted the house. "What is it?" he called softly, mounting the stairs, slowly at first, and then more quickly when she only stared at him mutely in distress. "What's wrong?" he asked again as he reached her. She looked up at him for a long moment, biting her lip, trying to control her wobbling

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chin to speak. "I think I'm losing the baby," she said finally. He stared at her for a long moment, stunned. "Oh God! Oh my God!" He reached for her then, scooping her up and turning to race back down the stairs. Basilyn clung to him desperately, in too much pain to feel the terror she usually felt in facing the stairs, and yet frightened enough despite her pain to cling to him, burying her face against his neck. She found it surprisingly comforting and reassuring. They met Theresa at the landing. "What's wrong? What's going on?" Dominic brushed past her. "Basilyn's losing the baby," he said abruptly, taking the last few stairs almost at a run. "Wait! Let me grab some clothes!" Theresa shouted after them, darting back into her room. Dominic was half way across the great room, heading for the garage when her voice reached him. He stopped as abruptly as if he'd hit a brick wall. "Hell! Hold on, princess," he ground out, turning around and striding towards the couch. "I'm damn near naked myself." He lowered her gently, carefully to the couch and turned to snatch up his shirt, thrusting his arms through the sleeves and yanking the shirt down over his head haphazardly. Grabbing up his pants, he thrust his feet into them and jerked them on as quickly ... only to discover he'd put them on backwards. "Shit! God damn it to hell!" He jerked them off again, almost taking his shorts with them, turned them around and thrust his legs into them again. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed impatiently when he discovered that he still had them wrong. "Don't these God damned things have a front!" He was more careful on the third try and succeeded in getting them on right. Thrusting his feet into his shoes, he lifted Basilyn into his arms again and headed for the car. Theresa, pelting down the stairs behind them, passed them in the kitchen and hit for her car, digging in her purse for her keys as she went. Dominic paused in the garage, stared at Theresa a long moment and finally got into the back seat with Basilyn, cradling her against him as if she was a child. "It's alright, baby. It's going to be alright. We'll get you a doctor in a minute … just hold on," he murmured soothingly. Basilyn's only response was to cling more tightly to him. She said nothing. She didn't feel up to the effort of talking. But she felt comfortingly protected and clung desperately to the reassurance, refusing to question it. It was just as well he decided to hold her. She would've landed in the floor otherwise. Theresa tore out of the garage backwards, burning a long streak of rubber as she went and backing over the shrubbery that bordered the drive before she could brake the car to a halt. Throwing the car into drive, she burnt another streak of rubber as she sailed through the portecochere and out the other side. "Easy!" Dominic ground out angrily. "The idea is to try to get her there alive. Turn on your flashers." It was a nightmarish drive. Fortunately, the traffic, so early in the morning, was virtually nonexistent, so that Theresa's panicked driving wasn't as hazardous to others as it was to them. She managed to arrive at the hospital, despite several near disasters, however, with the car relatively intact. Dominic shoved open the car door and crawled out with Basilyn almost before they had come to a complete stop. Slamming the car into park, Theresa hopped out and raced inside on

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their heels. One had only to look at the three of them to determine at once that one of them was in immediate need of attention. Basilyn was wearing nothing more than the panties and oversized shirt she habitually slept in. They hadn't thought to grab her a robe and she'd been in too much pain to consider it—or care that she was so scantily clad. Dominic had his shirt on inside out, no socks and had not taken the time to fasten the belt that hung from his belt loops. Theresa had dressed as hastily, and was in little better condition since she hadn't taken the time to put on her make-up or even to brush her hair. A nurse surged forward at once. "What is it?" "Miscarriage," Dominic said tightly. "This way. Bring her in here. Who's her doctor?" Dominic followed her. "Dr. Chaney. We haven't called him." "Give Dr. Chaney a call and tell him one of his patients has come in," the nurse called to the woman behind the reception desk. "What's her name?" Dominic hesitated a fraction of a second. "Demot. Basilyn Demot." The nurse glanced at the receptionist again. "Did you get that?" The receptionist nodded, already dialing the number. The nurse turned then to look at Theresa. "Are you related?" she asked as she pointed Dominic towards a treatment room. Theresa stared at her. "Yes … sister," she said finally. "You'll need to move the car away from the emergency entrance, but you can come on back then," the nurse said, dismissing her then and moving into the room. **** "You were supposed to give them my name," Theresa said tightly, training frigid eyes on the nurse as she retreated down the brightly lit hallway, making no attempt to fight the morass of anger and feelings of abuse her abrupt dismissal as insignificant and unnecessary in the emergency had caused her. It was her baby after all. To be pushed aside, treated like a third wheel barely tolerated, ate at her so that she could hardly acknowledge her fear for her baby beside the overriding feelings of abuse. Dominic dragged his gaze from the doorway he'd been watching and turned to give her a cool stare. "I had other things on my mind." It wasn't an apology. It wasn't even the truth, as the statement implied. His thoughts had been chaotic with borderline panic alright. But the truth was, he'd said it because, at that moment, he'd suddenly realized he wanted it that way. Theresa turned to look at him, her eyes white hot now with a sudden flare of anger. "Yes! Her! That's all you ever have on your mind anymore." Dominic's expression hardened. "I won't deny it." A denial would be useless in any case, since no amount of protests swayed Theresa once she'd sunk her teeth into an idea. She swung on like a determined terrier. At any rate, it was the truth. "You needn't try!" Theresa snarled angrily. "I know. That's why I'm not going to," Dominic said coldly. Theresa stared at him a long moment. "You want me to think it’s all in my mind," she said finally, her voice tight with anger. "You won't convince me that way. I've seen the way you look at her. It's sickening." She studied him a long moment, saw she wasn't going to get a rise out of him and made a fresh attempt, forcing a scathing chuckle. "Puppy love! At your age. But I suppose that's it, isn't it? Mid-life crisis? It wouldn't be as insulting if she was even

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pretty!" Dominic's eyes flared with anger. "You're not even close. Let it go. You're not going to start anything here, so you might as well quit trying." She stared at him a long moment and finally lapsed into silence. Perhaps two minutes passed before she spoke again. "You should've given them my name." Dominic stood away from the wall abruptly, glaring at her furiously. "Why? So you could claim the miscarriage?" "Yes!" she snapped. "How will I explain things now? There won't even be a record of me coming if someone should check!" "Damn you!" Dominic ground out furiously, fighting a sudden urge to strike her. The baby … his baby, obviously meant nothing at all to her beyond an extension of herself. She didn't even care if it died so long as she got the proper 'credit' for the tragedy. "God damn you!" He moved away from her then, feeling an urgent need to distance himself from her. She made his flesh crawl as if he'd been too near something stinking and foul. Striding to the door he'd been watching anxiously for more than an hour, he hesitated a moment before he pushed it open a crack. The privacy curtain was partially closed, but he could see Basilyn and Dr. Chaney. Basilyn was crying and he felt a horrible conviction wash over him and with it bitterness, frustration—and anger—with God, with the fates, with the world. He'd wanted the baby. He hadn't realized until now just how badly he'd wanted it. In the early years of his marriage, he'd been little more than a kid, with no thought for, or interest in, a family. Like most young men he'd simply accepted that he would have children one day. Not today. Not until it was convenient to him to have them, and it certainly wasn't convenient to him then. He was too interested in the pleasures of the flesh, in having his beautiful wife all to himself. He wasn't ready for the intrusion children would represent. He wasn't ready for the added responsibility. Until the day came when he discovered there would never be one. Perhaps it was only human nature to be so perverse, but from the moment he discovered it was no longer possible, he'd wanted children nearly as badly as Theresa had. Had felt the blow of opportunity lost as badly, he knew, as she had, though he'd been young enough and stupid enough to think of it as an unmanly sentiment and had done his best to convince himself that it didn't matter to him. Unlike Theresa, he'd come, in time, to accept what couldn't be changed, difficult though it had been to reach that comfortable plain. He'd put it from his mind and tried not to think of it, succeeded for years in pushing it firmly from his mind. Until Theresa had begun to hound him about finding a surrogate mother. The idea had repulsed him. He could barely tolerate Theresa as his wife, only did so because, by that time, he was so deeply stuck in the rut his guilt and sense of responsibility had chained him to that he no longer saw anything but the treadmill before and behind him …could no longer see that there was a possibility of getting off. Because that was what living with Theresa was like—a life sentence with no hope of parole. He didn't want her as mother to his children … not even as secondhand mother to his children. And he hadn't cared for the idea of having some stranger carrying his child. The irony was that that was what had finally pushed him beyond bearing, had driven him

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to a lawyer to file for a divorce, shaken him from apathy so that he’d been ready to take the leap, whatever it cost him to be free of her—And that was exactly what it had cost him, giving in to her demand. By that time, however, he’d had the smell of freedom in nostrils and all he’d been able to think about was scraping her lose and going on his life, having the possibility of a real life. He’d told himself he could divorce himself from the baby just like he’d divorced Theresa. It didn’t matter. Whatever it took. He could let her have her way one last time, and then he was free. But he hadn't merely tolerated it. From the moment Dr. Chaney had given him the news, he'd felt more alive, more excited, more hopeful than he had in years .... And now, that, too, was gone. He stared at Basilyn bleakly. She looked as crushed as he felt. She hadn't noticed him standing in the doorway. He wasn't certain he wanted her to. He wasn't certain he wanted to hear the doctor's news. He couldn't decide whether to go in and offer Basilyn comfort. Or go in search of a bottle to try to find his own comfort. But he thought suddenly, despairingly, that he needed comfort, any kind of comfort, so badly it left a sour taste in his mouth. Dr. Chaney spoke before he could make up his mind and he felt a sudden sickness well up inside him as he froze in the doorway. He thought, for several panicked moments, in fact, that he was about to be physically ill. "What did you take?" Basilyn looked at him blankly, though there was fear in her eyes, as well. And guilt? "I didn't take anything." "You took something," Dr. Chaney said angrily. "What were you trying to do? Force an abortion?" Basilyn stared at him in horror. "No! No! I wouldn't do that! How could you even think it? Why would I want to do that? I wouldn't hurt the baby! I swear it. Dr. Chaney I didn't do anything! I didn't!" Dr. Chaney studied her a long moment, feeling his anger slowly fade. "You must have taken something … maybe without realizing it would hurt," he suggested finally. "Think, Basilyn. I need to know." "But I didn't take anything, I'm telling you! You told me I wasn't to take any kind of medication without asking first, and I always have. You know I call your office and ask when I need something!" She burst into tears then, knowing it was useless to continue to protest her innocence. He'd never believe her. The Demots—Dominic would think she'd deliberately killed his baby. She couldn't bear the thought. "I didn't take anything. I didn't!" Dr. Chaney studied her a moment more and finally patted her shoulder a little awkwardly. "Rest. We'll see what we can do." He turned then and, seeing Dominic where he stood frozen in the doorway, moved quickly towards him, ushering him out. "What's going on?" Dominic asked tightly. Dr. Chaney closed the door behind him. "It seems she took something ... perhaps inadvertently. I'd guess a strong laxative." Dominic stared at him, too stunned to speak—trying to fight the surge of blinding anger that welled up inside him.

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"A what?" Theresa gasped in a strangled voice. Dominic whirled to stare at her in sudden suspicion. She didn't notice. She was looking at Dr. Chaney, her face a mixture of fear and horror ... and guilt. Dr. Chaney shrugged. "It would've had to be something powerful … something like castor oil maybe. Sometimes, when a woman is past term we suggest it to help bring on labor. Young girls have been known to try it to abort unwanted pregnancies. Unfortunately it works sometimes, more often it doesn't. Either way it’s dangerous. But a frightened teenager is liable to try anything." He paused a long moment, apparently trying to decide whether to voice his suspicions or not. "I don't see how it could possibly have been an accident, but it might well be that she thought she needed the medication and hadn't expected the results." He paused again, studying them for a moment. "It's a little early to say, but I think you've been lucky. I'll have to run a few tests. I'd like to keep her a day or two for observation. But I think your baby is going to be alright." "Oh, thank God!" Theresa exclaimed and promptly burst into tears.

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Chapter Seventeen "What did you give her?" Dominic asked, slamming the kitchen door behind him with barely controlled violence. Theresa whirled to look at him for a long moment before her eyes slid away. "I don't know what you're talking about." He pushed past her and moved to the garbage can, rifling through it for several moments. Apparently, he didn't find what he was looking for, for he left the kitchen abruptly. He was back in a few moments, holding a package of chocolated laxative—an empty box. "You put it in the God damned cupcakes, didn't you?" She glared at him tight-lipped. "You're crazy!" she snapped finally and turned to stalk away. He caught her before she got far, whirling her around and gripping her shoulders crushingly. "You tried to give her two. You could've killed her! You almost killed my baby! You stupid, self-centered … bitch! How much did you give her? Do you even know? Were you trying to kill her? Or are you just so God damned stupid you don't know that an overdose, any kind of overdose, can kill? She might have hemorrhaged to death, damn you!" She stared up at him with a mixture of fear, horror, and defiance. "You're hurting me," she said through gritted teeth. "I want to hurt you," he ground out, shaking her so hard it rocked her head on her shoulders. "If you knew just how badly I wanted to hurt you now, you'd run like hell and stay out of my sight." He shook her again, releasing her finally with a little shove that sent her sprawling. She stared at him blankly a moment and burst into tears. "I didn't want to hurt the baby. How could you think I'd do anything to hurt the baby?" "You just thought you would humiliate Basilyn?" he ground out. "No! Yes!" she screamed at him. "Yes! You act like she's your wife! You don't care about me anymore! You won't even touch me anymore!" He stared at her with revulsion. "I stopped caring anything about you a long time before Basilyn ever came along," he said coldly. "We both know why I stayed with you all these years, and it had nothing to do with love … or even lust—because, frankly, I can hardly bear the sight of you. I damn sure don't want to crawl between the sheets with you. “It is over! It’s been over. It was over years ago. If I’d thought for one moment that you had some … insane idea that having a baby would bring me to heel, I would never agreed to this, regardless of what it might cost me!” She sprang to her feet and ran at him, her fingers curled into claws. He caught her hands, twisting her arms behind her back and pulling her against him so that she couldn't kick him. He held her until she'd tired of screaming abuse at him, tired of trying to attack him, and finally released her, moving away and propping against the counter to study her. She glared at him, her breath heaving. "I hate you. God, how I hate you!"

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He returned her glare coldly. "You know I couldn't care less, Theresa. You might as well save your breath." She surged forward again, intent on attack. "Don't," he said coldly, freezing her in her tracks. "Don't give me an excuse to hurt you, Theresa. I've never touched you. I've got nothing but contempt for men that beat on women. But you've pushed me too far tonight. And I give you fair warning, if you jump on me, I won't take it like a gentleman." She stared at him a long moment and finally looked away. "What're you going to do?" "Do?" He studied her coldly for several moments. "I'm going to call Dr. Chaney and tell him what you 'inadvertently' gave her. It might make a difference. I don't mean to tell anyone what you've done, if that's what you're asking. It might well be that you could be charged with attempted murder. And, as sick as it makes me to look at you, I won't push it … for your parents' sake." She looked at him blankly a moment and started to laugh. "Attempted murder? With laxative? You'd be laughed out of the police station if you even tried it!" "Even if Basilyn's out of danger, you stupid bitch—which we don't know that she is, the baby isn't! Or don't you figure killing the baby would be murder? Does it mean that little to you?" He was silent for several moments, studying her speculatively. "I believe there's probably another box or two around here somewhere. You always take care to keep the medicine cabinet well stocked with everything, don't you? Shall I feed it to you so we can test your theory? I don't think it'd be pleasant. Basilyn was in a lot of pain. And think how ludicrous it would sound in your obituary, how embarrassing. But I don't think you'd be embarrassed. There are few ways of dying that are worse that those caused by a ruptured bowel. It takes a long time to die that way." She glared at him furiously. "You couldn't prove it! I told you I didn't do anything!" "You did it!" he ground out. "You wanted to humiliate her, if nothing else. That's your favorite form of punishment for every imagined slight done you, isn't it?" "There was nothing imagined about it!" Theresa ground out. "I've seen the way you look at her!" Dominic stood away from the counter. "It's none of your damned business how I look at her! We’re divorced—d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d. Got it? What we had was a prison—with you as the jailor and me as the damned inmate! But I’ve done my time. I’m finished." "As far as anybody knows, I'm still your wife! You agreed to my terms. I have the right to expect fidelity! Not to have you humiliating me publicly!" "Faithfulness? You are living in your own little fantasy world, aren’t you? I’m not your husband anymore—thank god!" Theresa glared at him furiously for several moments before her expression changed abruptly. "It was you that did it!" she accused. "You didn't want me to have the baby! Any of the time! Or did you do it to get even with Basilyn? Is that it? She's not a woman. Dr. Chaney said she'd never be able to be a normal woman after what happened to her. But you thought you could change that, didn't you? And, when you saw she couldn't even bare to have you touch her, you started to hate her! “Something happened at the mall between you two, didn't it? You came home in a real snit that day—have been in one ever since! I thought it was me, but it wasn't was it? I see what

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it is! It's that damned temper of yours! You just didn't think, did you? You weren't thinking about anybody or anything but yourself—and getting even! What did she do, turn you down?" Dominic stared at her. "You're insane!" The exclamation lacked the conviction of his earlier remarks, however, for try as he might, her comments brought forcefully to mind his 'snit' as she'd put it and the reason behind it. He could scarcely explain to Theresa, however, that regardless of how hurt or angry he'd been about Basilyn's violent reaction to even so tame an attempt at intimacy as he'd initiated, and her refusal to allow him to come anywhere near her afterwards, it hadn't occurred to him for a moment to retaliate … not consciously, at any rate, for the slight or her coolness towards him since. She glared at him furiously. "I'm not stupid! You made the icing! You could easily have put it in the icing! And you knocked the plate out of my hand! I thought it was an accident, but it wasn't was it?" "I didn't knock it out of your hands. You dropped it!" "After you bumped in to me!" she came back. "I see what it is! It wasn't Basilyn you were after any of the time, was it? You only did this so you could make me look crazy! You were going to try to use this as an excuse to have me committed!" Dominic studied her angrily a long moment. "Your paranoia's showing!" he ground out. "You ought to be committed. Do you really think anybody would believe such a ridiculous tale? And how am I supposed to have slipped the drug in? Did you think of that? You gave me the chocolate I used! You were there when I made the icing. How could I have slipped anything in without you seeing me?" "You were there when I mixed up the batter!" Dominic stared at her. "You put it in the keeper, didn't you!" "I don't buy the groceries anymore!" Theresa snapped furiously. "That wouldn't have kept you from throwing away the real chocolate and replacing it!" "Or you!" Theresa shot back. "Or Basilyn for that matter!" "So now you're saying Basilyn did it to herself?" Dominic ground out. "Why not?" Theresa said, looking thoughtful now. "Who would be blamed? Not her! The money would still be hers anyway! She's already carried it long enough for that!" **** The nurse's aide chattered cheerfully all the way out of the hospital. Basilyn felt compelled to respond, and tried, though she couldn't have said why she thought it necessary to keep up appearances. She was far too depressed to manage the attempt with any sort of success, however. She shouldn't have been depressed. Disaster had been averted. The baby still nestled in her womb safe and sound, an oddly comforting burden beneath her heart. The tests had detected no damage. Insofar as could be determined the baby was none the worse for its ordeal, strong and healthy. But she was depressed all the same. Dr. Chaney hadn't believed her, hadn't believed any of her denials. It hurt to have someone she respected, had come to depend upon in the past months, believe something that vile about her. It hurt more that she thought that Dominic suspected her, as well. He'd been at pains to prove otherwise, which was, perhaps, the reason she was so certain he believed just as Dr. Chaney did. If he hadn't made it so patently obvious that he was trying to convince her he didn't

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believe she'd tried to kill his baby, she might not have thought he was trying to convince himself. But she thought by far the biggest part of her depression came from the fact that the incident had made her aware of the baby she was carrying to a painful degree. She'd managed, up until the incident, not to think of it as a baby at all. She'd managed to divorce herself from it in a way she'd badly needed to distance herself, merely by refusing to acknowledge the baby as anything but an 'it'. The baby had taken on a depth of personality now that made it human—not an it. And, because she could no longer ignore just how closely she was bound to it, she had lost her objectivity to the child. She'd seen him in her womb. They'd taken her down to do a sonogram to study it. It was a boy. Dominic's boy—Theresa's boy—not hers. But she felt him. He grew inside her body. He lived because she lived, and without her would've ceased to exist. The child had quickened. She'd felt the first tiny flutters of life. She'd seen the baby moving inside her. She'd seen the lifeline that bound her to him. It was going to be a desperate struggle to regain her emotional detachment from the baby—if she could do it at all, and that frightened, almost as much as it depressed, her. Theresa greeted her with a forced smile when they reached the curb and stopped, opening the door for her. Basilyn thanked the nurse's aide for her help as she got up slowly and climbed into the car, staring at nothing in particular while she waited for Theresa and the nurse's aide to load her belongings in the back … along with the flowers. She had an embarrassment of riches there and she didn't quite know what to think of it. "Thanks," she said when Theresa got into the car, started it up, and put it into gear. Theresa didn't look at her. "For what?" Basilyn gestured towards the back seat. "For the flowers." "I didn't send them," Theresa responded tightly. "Oh," Basilyn said, nonplused. After a moment, she felt a slight lift in her spirits. Dominic had sent them. To indicate his belief in her? She felt her spirits dip again at another thought. Forgiveness for what she'd done, even though he believed her guilty? For the sake of appearances? "I guess red roses are your favorites?" Theresa prodded after a moment. Basilyn shrugged. "I don't know. I've never gotten flowers before." But she thought suddenly that they were. Their heady scent filled the car intoxicatingly. Her heart took up a lighter step. Red was for love. The thought brought a faint thawing of the chill that seemed to have enveloped her since Dr. Chaney's accusations. She didn't truly believe the gift of the flowers held that significance, but it was a comforting thought all the same. She went up to her room when they reached the house. Dr. Chaney had suggested she take it easy for a few days more before resuming her regular routine. At any rate, she could hardly bear to be in the same room with Theresa. She knew that if her near miscarriage wasn't purely an accident, then somehow Theresa had to have been responsible. She didn't know how. And she knew it was worse than useless to try to make anyone else believe her. But she knew. If it hadn't seemed too paranoid to consider, she would've suspected the cupcakes Theresa had baked for her. For although she'd taken no more than a bite of the thing, she'd eaten enough to notice the cake didn't taste quite right. It had had a rather bitter aftertaste, as though she hadn't

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put enough sugar in the batter. On the other hand, she'd tried to give some of the cupcakes to Dominic and she found it hard to believe Theresa would've taken that risk if she'd put something in the cupcakes. And it would've had to have been in them all. She could've had no way of knowing which Basilyn would choose. Then again, maybe she'd counted on the fact that Dominic disliked that particular kind of cake? He'd said he hated it. Surely, despite what Theresa had said, she'd known that. Surely she couldn't have lived with him all these years without stumbling over his likes and dislikes. For with Theresa she knew she would've had to have stumbled over them. She wouldn't have made it a point to try to please him. She never considered pleasing anybody but herself. And she'd dropped the others. A pretty handy accident. She hadn't touched them herself. Possible. Then again, anything was possible. The question was, was it probable? Dr. Chaney had seemed certain she'd taken something. She hadn't. She wasn't the sort of person who took medication for every minor ache and pain. She certainly wasn't the sort of person to take more than she needed. She didn't make such a habit of taking things that she could've 'forgotten' she'd taken something. So, if Dr. Chaney was right, then she'd been given something without knowing it was being given to her. And the only time that could possibly have happened was when she'd eaten the cupcake for she'd made supper that night herself. She might've been positive at that moment that she'd solved the mystery except for one circumstance that was impossible to accept. She couldn't understand why Theresa would do such a thing. She wasn't in any doubt that Theresa disliked her immensely. Under the circumstances, it might've made some sense—if only in a crazy sort of way, that Theresa had thought she had reason to seek revenge—except that she was carrying Theresa's baby. Theresa had to know that whatever she did to Basilyn effected the baby, too. She wasn't stupid. Could she possibly hate her enough to consider sacrificing the baby to get even with her? That was hard to swallow. She would have to be insane to do something like that. And despite Theresa's emotional problems, she simply couldn't accept that Theresa was insane. At any rate, Dominic had been in the kitchen with her, she suddenly recalled. He would've seen …. Unless he …? She dismissed that thought abruptly. He wouldn't have, couldn't have considering that the same could be said for him as could be said for Theresa. They'd been working together in the kitchen. So where did that leave her? Back at square one? No! She wasn't going to start questioning her own sanity. So, how could it have been done? How could either of them have laced the cupcakes without the other knowing? The dry goods were kept in keepers … all of them. Theresa didn't like leaving opened packages around. She was afraid bugs would get into the food. Anyone could've tampered with the baking goods. Anyone. Even Valerie. She stopped to examine that thought. Was it too farfetched? She considered it. She'd bought flour herself since she'd come to live with the Demots and sugar. And, at any rate, if Valerie had decided to 'spike' anything like that for malicious mischief when she'd been dismissed they would've all had symptoms, not just her. On the other hand, the cupcakes had been loaded with chocolate, no one had eaten that but her and she hadn't bought chocolate. They rarely used anything 'fattening' like that around the Demot household. Dr. Chaney had suspected some sort of laxative. Chocolated laxative? Would anyone

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have noticed? Why would anybody notice? They would've had no reason to suspect there was anything in the keeper except chocolate. Valerie could've done it. Perhaps it was only an accident, after all, that she'd been the victim? Maybe it had only been a malicious prank to get even with the Demots? But then, Valerie could've done it at any time since she'd returned to work. She didn't cook any more. She didn't even do the shopping. She only came in three days a week. And though it seemed she had no particular time frame, she generally came during the day—which had made it relatively simple for Basilyn to avoid her. Her duties these days were strictly confined to sweeping, mopping, vacuuming ... and the laundry—which gave her access to the kitchen and opportunity. But why now? When she had her old job back? When she'd as much as said the loss of it was her motivation for maliciousness? Then again, Basilyn had suspected from the first that jealousy was a far more likely motive behind her behavior. And that wouldn't necessarily have been appeased—besides the woman scorned thing. Maybe she'd wanted to get them all? Spiking their food with something that would make them all violently ill would be a good way to get revenge. On the other hand, Theresa could just have easily done it, and very deliberately. Even Dominic could have done it. She didn't believe that. She wouldn't. She decided upon two resolutions in that moment, however. She would see to it that her door was secure at night before she slept. She would examine everything in the pantry and throw away anything that looked even remotely suspicious. And she wouldn't be taking any more chances with food Theresa—or Dominic—had prepared that might, or might not, contain some sort of nasty surprise. She felt a little easier in her mind then, less vulnerable, less frightened by her suspicions. She wasn't helpless. She could protect herself if necessary. And it probably wasn't even necessary, she thought, resolutely dismissing her uneasiness. But she felt an icy cold chill course through her when she went into the work room later to entertain herself by making some repairs on her wardrobe and opened the sewing cabinet. The sewing machine had been beaten to pieces. It was beyond repair, so badly fragmented that it looked as if someone had taken a sledge hammer and methodically smashed the machine almost to pulp, before the pieces had carefully been gathered once more and arranged in a neat pile. She stared at the pile of rubble a long moment and finally closed the cabinet again. She wasn't going to 'report' her discovery. There was no one in the house that could've possibly done it but her, Theresa, or Dominic. She hadn't. She doubted Dominic even knew of its existence and he wasn’t a man of violence anyway, certainly not the type to take out his frustrations on inanimate objects. It could only have been Theresa. Valerie, the only other person with access to the house, never came upstairs, probably didn't know of its existence any more than Dominic did. In any case, she would've had no reason to have done such a thing ... as much as Basilyn would've liked to have been able to pin it on her and rid herself of the woman once and for all. And Theresa was very good at covering her tracks. She wouldn't, she decided grimly, be taking the blame for this.

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Chapter Eighteen Basilyn set her books on the counter and moved to the coffee pot, ignoring the surprised looks from the Demots. She paused as she poured her cup, turned to see if they were drinking it, saw that they were, and finished pouring. She avoided the cream, using the powdered substitute Theresa and Dominic generally used instead. She wasn't going to touch anything anymore that one or both of them hadn't used before her. "You're going to class?" Theresa asked, voicing the question obviously uppermost in both their minds. "Do you think you should?" Basilyn sent her a cold glance. "Yes. I think I should. I'm fine. Your baby's fine. And I don't mean to lose this quarter—not when I'm more than half way through. I'll have to miss next quarter." She sat down, studied the box of donuts on the counter for a moment, realized that Dominic had undoubtedly gone out for them and helped herself to a glazed yeast donut. Dominic kept his silence, though it had been on the tip of his tongue to protest and insist that she rest for a few days more. He stifled the impulse, however, realizing it would be best if he ignored Basilyn as he had when she'd first moved in with them. Or pretended to ignore her as he had when she'd first moved in. Theresa wasn't as likely to focus her venom on Basilyn as long as he kept his distance. He'd been tempted, at first, to tell Basilyn of his suspicions concerning Theresa. He'd realized fairly quickly that he couldn't implicate Theresa, however. In the first place, he wasn't as convinced that Theresa was responsible as he would have liked to be. Theresa's remarks that night, and his own suspicions about Basilyn earlier, still nagged at him, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss them. In the second place, regardless of how he felt about her, he had an agreement with Theresa that he was legally and morally bound to honor. And he felt for her. The comfortable indifference he'd enjoyed during the years after love had finally burnt itself out altogether, had vanished in the face of something far more potent. He began to think he truly despised her. Doubtless Theresa was overjoyed to find she could still summon some sort of emotion from him. She couldn't tolerate indifference. Indifference meant being ignored altogether. She couldn't live with being ignored. She wouldn't be ignored. She made damned certain of that. But he'd bested her at that game before. If he couldn't be indifferent, he could at least pretend indifference. It wasn't really all that difficult. He would find it far more difficult to pretend indifference to Basilyn. But he could, and would, manage that, as well. Because he was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel. He was aiming for it. And he didn't mean to let anything or anyone interfere with that now that he'd set his sights on it. Basilyn seemed intent on keeping her distance, as well. Their sessions at the drawing table in his office ceased abruptly. It annoyed him and depressed him, as well. He'd hoped to hang onto that at least. But he accepted it. He'd learned to accept a lot of things he would've once considered unacceptable. And he'd learned patience.

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He wasn't nearly as adept at hiding his fascination in Basilyn … or her condition, as he thought … or hoped. He didn't even seem to realize how often his gaze rested either upon her or her growing abdomen, Basilyn thought, torn between irritation, nervousness, and amusement each time she felt his gaze upon her. It bothered her, in more ways than she could count. His interest made her nervous, because she was self-conscious enough about her condition, particularly as she became more and more awkward and unwieldy with her burden. It made her nervous that each time she felt the light touch of his interested gaze, she felt the venomous touch of Theresa's, as well. It also made her nervous because, in a very real sense it made her aware of herself as a woman and him as a man and she couldn't be comfortable with that at all. And yet, she couldn't help but be amused at times by his bemusement ... and uncomfortable and embarrassed. As the child grew, it's movements became stronger and more noticeable—and not just to her. Ordinarily, the baby reserved what she'd come to think of as his 'play periods' for the deep of night to entertain her. He became so rambunctious one morning at breakfast, however, that she began to be flustered. They were having coffee and donuts. Dominic had made a regular habit of going out for donuts each morning—glazed donuts. He had, apparently, made a point of noting her choice and, having decided he'd discovered her favorite, always bought glazed. She didn't have the heart to tell him they really weren't her favorite. Not in the face of such thoughtfulness. Selecting a donut with more enthusiasm than she felt, for she was getting extremely tired of glazed donuts, she took a tiny bite and sipped her coffee. She managed nearly half before she gave up the effort and concentrated on her coffee and she was nearly half finished with that when the baby woke and gave her elbow, where it rested against her stomach, so vigorous a kick that she nearly spilled her coffee. She set the cup down abruptly. Fearing Dominic, who'd never lost his fascination with her growing abdomen, might notice the sudden, vigorous activity, and thereby provoke Theresa's temper, she snatched the newspaper from the table and opened it, trying to pretend an interest she didn't feel in hopes of hiding the activity beneath her smock that had begun to look like two cats fighting in a croaker sack. The baby refused to cooperate. If anything, he flailed and kicked all the harder, as if trying to kick the newspaper away. He did kick it. So hard the paper began to rattle. Sensing two pairs of eyes focused upon her, she lowered the paper a fraction to assure herself she was wrong, and discovered instead that she had their undivided attention—or rather the baby did. She raised the newspaper again, fighting an urge to laugh at the expression on Dominic's face—for he'd looked as horrified as fascinated by the movement. Almost as if he wondered if the baby might suddenly burst free and spring forth. After a moment, he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Uh … I'll be in the car," he said and departed abruptly. Basilyn folded the paper and set it aside, rising to follow. "Basilyn?" She turned a questioning look on Theresa, who'd followed her to the door, her gaze cool and unwelcoming. Theresa bit her lip, obviously wrestling with the question she wanted to ask. "Could I...,"

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she paused, biting her lip, "Could I...?" Basilyn stared at her a long moment before comprehension struck her. She felt something then that she'd never expected to feel towards Theresa ... pity ... and understanding. She resisted both. She tried to resist them. She found she couldn't. After a moment, she reached for Theresa's hand and brought it to rest against her abdomen. Obligingly, the baby gave her hand a kick and Theresa jumped in surprise, her eyes flaring wide. After a moment, she put both hands against Basilyn's stomach, smiling tentatively. "He's strong. Isn't he?" Basilyn smiled faintly, feeling a sudden ache in her throat. "He is … and active. I expect you'll have your hands full with him." Theresa's head came up with a jerk and she stared at Basilyn for a long moment. Slowly a smile dawned, a real smile, of happiness and her eyes grew misty. "I won't mind." Basilyn swallowed against the hard ache in her throat. "No," she managed finally. "He'll give you as much joy as pain. Children are all that way. So I've heard ...." She left then, deeply disturbed, deeply depressed, though she firmly refused to acknowledge or examine either. It seemed a turning point, however. It couldn't really be called a truce that sprang up between her and Theresa, but a strange sort of bond had been forged that drew Theresa to her even while she seemed at pains to keep her distance. She didn't like Basilyn any more, or resent her any less, but she felt the pull of motherhood, and the only way she could experience that, even vicariously now, was through Basilyn. She became, after a time, to be so possessive as to be aggressive. The tentative olive branch Basilyn had held out had been, she discovered, swallowed whole. The manner of supplicant vanished very quickly to be replaced by an arrogant sort of ownership. The baby was hers. Ergo, she had the right to touch him, even if he was in Basilyn's stomach, whenever she pleased. Basilyn very quickly became repelled, angry, and resentful. As often as she tried to convince herself that Theresa had a right to expect her to 'share' her experience as much as possible, she disliked the familiarity of having Theresa pass and give her a pat, or demand, when she noticed some activity to 'feel it'. She began to avoid Theresa whenever possible. She ceased to linger in the great room at all, though she'd never been overly fond of gathering in the evenings with the Demots anyway and had never made much of a practice of it. She asked for, and was given, reluctant permission to turn the spare bedroom upstairs into a sitting room for her use. Ostensibly because it was becoming more and more difficult for her to negotiate the stairs—which it was—but more because she resented Theresa's possessiveness. **** Dominic studied Theresa for several moments before he realized what was different about her. "When did you decide not to be pregnant? I thought you were enjoying it," he said dryly. Theresa shrugged and took her place at the table. "I didn't feel like being pregnant tonight. Maybe I won't do it anymore ....," she added airily. Dominic stared at her. "You can't be serious! When you've taken this damned charade this far!" "Oh! Don't get your jock in a wad! I was only kidding, for God's sake! It's like a

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mausoleum around here! I haven't seen anybody so much as crack a smile in a decade. I just didn't feel like messing with that thing tonight, alright?" Dominic glared at her tight-lipped for several moments. "You should've thought about that before you decided on the damned charade in the first place. I knew you'd get tired of it," he muttered under his breath. "I'm not tired of it! It's just … that damned pillow's hot as hell and aggravating as bedamned … and I felt like looking like a normal person for a change. It's bad enough having to watch Basilyn turn into a freak without feeling like one, too. You know that little bitch had the nerve to bite my head off a while ago only because I told her I wanted to feel the baby moving? She's the most selfish, self-centered …." "Maybe," Dominic said with careful restraint, "she's just tired of your demands. There's nothing in the contract that says she has to let you feel her up whenever the notion strikes you!" Theresa glared at him. "It's my baby! She doesn't have any right to keep it all to herself! I'm the only one that does have the right to feel it. And it's not feeling her up, so don't get a hard on! How else am I supposed to experience bonding, damn it?" "You can damn well wait to do the bonding when she isn't carrying the baby anymore! Where is she anyway?" Theresa shrugged. "Shut up in her room, I expect … doing whatever perverted thing it is she does up there to entertain herself for hours on end." Dominic rose from the table abruptly. "Going to ask her for your turn at feeling her up?" Theresa asked sweetly. He paused on the step that led down from the raised dining area and turned back to glare at her. Theresa lifted her brows. "Maybe we could make it a kinky threesome? Mmmm? You seem to be in to big bellies these days … and I can see you want the real thing. Why you practically pant every time you look at her! I suppose I could get in to the three way thing, seeing as how that's what it takes for you to get it up these days." Dominic ground his teeth. His eyes narrowed. "You know, Theresa, if I didn't know better I'd actually think you wanted sex. But I do know better, don't I? You didn't want sex before. And you damn sure haven't wanted it since. Why is it, I wonder, that its killed your soul since I stopped wanting you? It's got to be your ego. You don't love me. You don't want me. I don't really think you ever did." She looked him over from head to toe, a faint, contemptuous smile curling her lips. "You're right. I never did. You never were worth a shit in bed." Her gaze touched his crotch. "On the other hand, that is mine and what's mine, I keep and I don't like to share. So pant for her all you want, darling, but don't touch. I might have to do something nasty." "Don't threaten me, Theresa. You won't like what you get if you push me too far." She chuckled. "It wasn't a threat, boogie bear! It's a promise." "In that case, Theresa, consider this a promise, as well. Do … and I'll make you regret it." He stared at her a long moment and turned away, striding towards the stairs. He was furious, with both Theresa and himself. He had taken care to keep his distance from Basilyn. He'd thought he had taken equal care to keep his interest in her to himself. Either he hadn't done nearly as well as he'd thought, or Theresa was fishing. Either way he didn't doubt for a moment

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the threat hadn't been directed at him, but that Theresa meant to get to him through Basilyn. She would regret it if she did. It hadn't been an idle promise. But retaliation wouldn't protect Basilyn and he had doubts that threats would protect her any more. Theresa was either too vicious, too confident in her ability to get away with whatever she did, or too damned stupid to be deterred by threats. And not only did he have no desire to have to make good on his own threats, he didn't want Basilyn hurt in the cross-fire. He would have to keep a closer watch on Theresa—and Basilyn. If it began to seem that that wasn't enough, he would simply have to remove Basilyn to a safe place. He considered, for a moment, sending her to his parents, but only a moment. It wasn't a practical solution. Basilyn would be forced by the move to change doctors, and he didn't want that, not at this stage. Dr. Chaney knew her history and had attended her from the first. It might well be more than upsetting to Basilyn to have to go to a strange doctor now. It might put her or the baby at risk to put their health in the hands of a man unfamiliar with her case history. He wasn't going to take a chance. Not unless he thought it was absolutely necessary. Moreover, sending her to his parents would create problems in the child's birth, as well. Of course the threat of removing Basilyn, permanently, out of Theresa's reach, might well put her on her best behavior—at least temporarily. And he only needed temporary safety for her. She was entering her seventh month. Once the baby was born, she would be out of Theresa's reach. He would take care, he decided, to fix that firmly in Theresa's mind, that at the first sign of malicious intent, whether serious malicious intent or not, he meant to remove Basilyn from her vicinity. It should be enough to protect her from Theresa's venom if he also kept a close eye on her, as well. For Basilyn didn't trust Theresa. Dismissing the worrisome thoughts, he made his way to her room and tapped lightly at the door. When she didn't answer, he tapped again and finally called to her. Her response came from the room down the hall and he turned and moved to the other door, pushing it open as it stood slightly ajar already and stepping into the room, though he paused in the doorway in plain view of Theresa if she cared to look. She was sitting on the couch, head bent over the book in her lap. "Basilyn? Dinner's ready." She sniffed, but she didn't look up. "I'll get something later. I'm studying." He frowned. "You're upset …. Because of what Theresa said awhile ago?" She shook her head, still without looking up. "Dough," she said, sniffing again. It didn't take a great intellect to figure out she was crying. The fact that she refused to look up at him was evidence enough without that stuffy nosed 'no'. He hesitated a moment, pushed the door open and moved across the room to crouch before her. Tucking his hand under her chin, he forced her to look up at him. She gazed back at him forlornly, fighting a wobble in her chin and he felt a sudden urge to stalk back down the stairs and knock Theresa down. "What did she say to you?" he asked tightly. He knew Basilyn was acutely sensitive of her appearance just now and considering Theresa's remarks at the table didn't doubt that she'd made similar remarks to Basilyn. Not that anything he was likely to come up with would make her feel any better—particularly not at this point. A thousand compliments couldn't make amends for a single insult, especially when that one insult touched a raw nerve.

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"It's not Theresa." He didn't believe that for a moment. "What's wrong then?" Her face crumpled. "I can't do this math! And I just know I'm going to flunk my finals 'cause I've only got a C now!" she wailed. He stared at her blankly a moment before a touch of both amusement and sympathy dawned. "That's the disaster?" She stopped crying and glared at him, mopping the tears from her cheeks with her hand and sniffing. "Don't you dare act like its nothing! Just go away!" She covered her face with her hands again. He pried her fingers away from her eyes and peered at her. "If I go away, I can't help you with your math." "I don't want your help!" she snapped petulantly, dropping her hands to glare at him again. He chuckled and reached up to pluck at her lower lip, which she'd rolled out in an unconscious pout. She sucked her lip in and bit it and the tip of his finger with it when he didn't withdraw it quickly enough. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, laughing harder. "You are a brat, you know it? I offer to help … Out of the goodness of my heart …." "After laughing at me! When I'm in deadly earnest," she interrupted. "...And what do you do?," he continued as if she hadn't interrupted him. "Order me out!" She tilted her head to one side, studying him for a long moment. "Can you help me?" He feigned an injured air. "I got my degree, didn't I?" "Will you?" He took her book from her lap, closed it and set it aside. "After supper. I swear it. First we eat." He stood, holding his hand out. She stared at his hand a moment and finally placed hers in it and he helped her from the couch, pulling her up to face him and tucking a hand under her chin to urge her to look up at him. Her look was questioning and he smiled faintly. "Just as I thought—red nose. Go wash your face first—like a good little girl. Otherwise Theresa will know you've been crying and it would please her far too much to think she might've had something to do with it."

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Chapter Nineteen Dominic dropped his mechanical pencil and rose abruptly, curling his hands into fists and lifting his arms as he arched his back in an all over stretch that cracked bones. It wasn't weariness that prompted him to finally give up the effort to work, however, but rather an undefined restlessness that had made sitting before his drawing table an exercise in grim determination rather than creativity. He couldn't quite pinpoint the exact feeling that was almost as much a strange sort of uneasiness as restlessness. But whatever the unidentifiable mood, he wasn't in any doubt as to its cause. He knew exactly what that was. Theresa had left the house in the teeth of a storm to visit her parents and had called to say she would stay the night rather than risk getting caught in it on her way home … and he was alone in the house with Basilyn. He felt it so strongly, in every pore, that his flesh stung with sensitivity, as if every hair on his body had lifted in response to the brush of another's flesh against his own. He'd studious avoided her, hadn't even joined her in the kitchen for supper, waiting instead until she'd finished and gone upstairs before he went in search of his own supper. He strongly suspected she'd been just as studiously avoiding him, for she'd accepted his excuse for not joining her without objection and had disappeared upstairs shortly afterwards and had not been back down since. He moved away from the drawing table and prowled the lower floor of the house for a time, beginning in the kitchen where he examined both the refrigerator and the pantry for a snack he didn't want—and finally acknowledged he didn't want. He moved back into his office then and leafed through his mail without sufficient interest to even open the envelopes. From there he wandered into the great room, taking a seat at the bar and switching on the big screen TV with the remote control. After he'd flipped through the hundred odd channels available and come to the conclusion there wasn't anything on any one of them of any interest to him whatsoever, he switched the TV off again and sat staring at the blank screen for perhaps fifteen minutes while his mind wandered upstairs and conjured mental suppositions as to just what Basilyn was doing. In all likelihood, he decided, she was probably studying. She spent at least a couple of hours studying every night and she had finals coming up. Then again, she might be sketching … or updating her diary. He knew she kept one, knew she kept it carefully updated. He'd caught her scribbling in it several times in the past months and admitted to a burning curiosity as to just what she considered important enough to keep an account of it. Was it just the day to day 'little things'? Or did she pour out her frustrations there? Or her hopes? Did he figure in her writings? In what way? Then again, she seemed to be in the habit of doing her writing before supper, for that was when he'd always caught her updating it before—when he'd gone to call her down to supper. Maybe she'd just decided to make an early night of it and had already gone to bed? Or maybe she was taking a bath?

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He got up abruptly on that thought, on the prowl again, seeking something, he knew now, to divert his mind. He could find nothing. He made another attempt at working and gave up after the third blunder, wadded the paper up and stuffed it in the waste basket. Standing abruptly, he decided to simply go to bed. He was useless for anything else. He couldn't concentrate. Maybe he'd take a hot shower to help him relax …. Then again, a cold one might be a better idea, he amended ruefully as he moved from room to room switching off the lights, securing the outer doors and finally found himself at the foot of the stairs. He could use his own room tonight. He was sick of sleeping on the couch, and Theresa was gone. Not that she'd made any demands of that sort for a while. It seemed he'd finally convinced her he had no interest in that direction himself and she'd given up on trying to tempt an appetite long since dead. At any rate, he had to go up if he meant to take a shower. He climbed them quickly and paused for a long moment on the landing, staring upwards at Basilyn's door at the head of the stairs, before he resolutely turned towards his own room. He had grasped the door handle when he heard a sound that froze him in his tracks. Laughter. Frowning, he remained rooted to the spot as he cocked his head to listen for the sound, certain he had to have been mistaken. In a moment, he heard it again. He turned to stare at her door again, feeling an odd mixture of emotions he would've had difficulty identifying even if he'd given it the effort. He didn't. He moved up the stairs as if pulled by an invisible string, feeling much like a sleepwalker suddenly awakened when he found himself standing before her door. He hesitated for a long moment and finally reached up to tap on the door. Before he could do so, he heard the sound again. He turned away, realizing the sound was coming from the small sitting room, formerly Theresa's sewing room during her 'domestic' period. The door stood open a crack and after debating with himself a moment, he pushed it open. She sat on the couch cross-legged with her feet tucked beneath the voluminous terry robe she wore, a discard from his closet, he saw, that nearly swallowed her. It was lapped at the front and belted loosely, but so large on her that one sleeve had slipped downwards to expose her throat and almost the whole of one of her shoulders. It hung precariously there as if on the verge of falling from her shoulder altogether. Her hair was still damp as if she'd just come from her bath. She was studying the rounded mound of her abdomen, a hand resting lightly against it, her lips quirked in a Mona Lisa smile. He felt his whole body go hard and rigid with tension as he stared at her, felt the blood begin to pound in his body so that he could scarcely think. But he felt two urges then, so strong they weren't the product of thought so much as instinct—the urge to move towards her and the instinct to remove himself from temptation before he did something he would almost certainly come to regret. He couldn't seem to manage a response to either of them, however. She looked up then, as if sensing his presence and chuckled self-consciously. "I think he's angry." He frowned slightly in incomprehension, looking at her questioningly as his feet took him slowly into the room, almost without volition, halting while still several feet away. She blushed. "Your son," she elaborated. "He has the hiccoughs and I think it's made

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him angry." His gaze went to her abdomen drawing him with his gaze until he stood looking down at her, though still he said nothing. He could think of nothing to say. He didn't quite know what to make of her remark, whether it was true and she knew it, or if she was only guessing. Would she know something like that, he wondered, willing to be distracted from the urge he knew damn well he should ignore? How would she know something like that? Basilyn stared up at him, seeing the doubts, the incomprehension in his expression, realizing for the first time that, whereas husbands were always pretty much 'left out' of the birth process, Dominic was more deprived than most. If she'd been his wife, she would've had countless opportunities to make it real for him, to let him experience, at least vicariously, the anticipation and excitement of having a child. But she wasn't his wife. And his wife would never experience her own pregnancy, much less have the opportunity to share the wonder of it with her husband. And he did want the baby. He might not have in the beginning … or before the beginning when it was no more than an idea. But his excitement when it became a certainty had been very real … and his fascination with her condition. It suddenly seemed selfish to keep it all to herself, particularly when it wasn't even hers to enjoy, to shut him completely out when Theresa took every opportunity to experience the pregnancy herself. She smiled faintly and reached up to take his hand, drawing him towards her. "Come … I'll show you," she said quietly, placing his palm against her abdomen as he dropped to one knee before her. He stared down at his hand where it rested against her abdomen, beneath her own hand, for a long moment as if it had suddenly become alien to him before he looked up at her curiously. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a long moment. "There …. Do you feel that little rhythmic thump, thump, thump?" He looked down at her abdomen again, frowning slightly. "Yes," he said finally. "I think so." She grinned. "That's the hiccoughs." He looked up at her again, smiling faintly now. "It does feel like hiccoughs …." At that moment, something very definite struck his hand and he jerked it back in surprise. Basilyn chuckled huskily. "There! I told you it made him angry! Wait a minute …." She took his other hand and placed it on her abdomen. In a moment there was a double thump and then her abdomen elongated, as if the infant had suddenly decided to stretch out full length. In the next moment it had curled into a ball again. Dominic chuckled, slightly amazed. "Does he do that often?" Basilyn chuckled, too, but shook her head. "Only at night, when he thinks I might be trying to sleep. Undoubtedly he's a little night owl. He does all his calisthenics then." He stared at her a long moment, trying to decide whether she was serious or not, but he could feel the infant; tumbling, kicking out, flailing his arms. If he could feel it, then undoubtedly she could. "Does it hurt?" he asked in bemusement. "Only when he decides to kick something vital," she said wryly. "Something vital?" he echoed a little blankly. Basilyn bit her lip. "Like organs—that aren't used to being used for a punching bag." He stared down at the writhing bundle beneath his hands. Basilyn studied his face, trying

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to read his expression. She rather thought she saw doubt there at war with belief and possibly dismay. "It's painful sometimes, but usually just uncomfortable." He looked up, studying her face for a long moment before his gaze returned to his hands. He slid them experimentally along her stomach, as if gauging the size of the infant within as much as searching for further movement. In a moment, one hand slipped beneath her robe, parting it. Basilyn drew in her breath sharply at the touch of his warm palm against her flesh, looking at him in wide-eyed shock. He met her gaze, his own intense, determined ... supplicating. "I want to see ...." She gripped his wrists frantically, though it was more an automatic response of selfdefense than otherwise, for she was too stunned to think. "No," she gasped hoarsely, trying to get the word out through a throat suddenly dust dry. "Yes," he replied, his voice nearly as hoarse as hers, his breathing erratic now as he twisted his hands and caught her wrists, forcing them apart even as he caught the edges of the robe and thrust them wide, exposing her totally. She made an abortive attempt to wrest her hands free, realized it was useless and turned her face away in humiliation, catching a painful breath. It wasn't fear she felt and it wasn't just modesty. It wasn't just that she didn't want him to see her. She didn't want him to look at her as she was now. She felt a sting of tears that he'd done so, looked upon her ugliness, that completely routed the spark of anger that briefly flared at his high-handedness. She sniffed against the sting of tears in her nose. "I look like one of those dime store Buddas," she muttered in self-disgust. She heard him swallow. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen …. And I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life." She whirled to look at him, more than half suspecting him of malicious teasing at her expense, staring down at his dark head in stunned bemusement as he bent it and touched his lips to the mound that housed his son. He looked up at her then, reached for her, pushing her robe from her shoulders even as he covered her mouth with his own, parting her lips, forging boldly within with a thrust and rake of his tongue that knew all that moist, excruciatingly sensitive surface at once. She gasped at the heat of it, the hunger, the urgency, so surprised she didn't think for a moment to resist as he pushed her back upon the sofa and followed her down, half covering her body with his own, one hand moving over her feverishly, restlessly from shoulder to hip and up again, one thigh thrown over hers so that his knee nestled intimately against that most private of places. Thought abandoned her. Her senses reeled. Myriad sensations converged upon her with such blinding speed, from so many directions at once that she couldn't assimilate them, couldn't sort or categorize, could do nothing but feel. His taste, his smell, the feel of him invaded her senses with stark, undiluted delight, overwhelmed her, flooded her with a wild exhilaration as he skimmed his tongue lightly across hers in a restless, intimate caress that sent liquid fire pouring through her veins. It brought her breasts to throbbing life and a flood of warmth to her woman's flesh even before she felt the touch of his hand there, skimming through the soft tangle of curls, parting the tender petals of flesh, stroking that ultra sensitive flesh in a way that made her stomach muscles clench with pleasured tension and elicited a moan from her throat that was part surprise, part pleasure, part anticipation.

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He wrenched his mouth from hers, nipped lightly, with the edge of his teeth, the flesh of her throat on his way downwards and settled his mouth upon the peak of her breast, drawing upon it as hungrily as he had fed upon her mouth. She cried out softly as a fresh, more intense wave of pleasure rolled through her to gather with building anticipation low in her stomach, clutching at his dark head, feeling reality surface even through the delirium of feverish pleasure. She found the strength to push him a little away, but he only sought out her other breast, drawing the achingly sensitive bud into his mouth and giving her such pleasure that it was almost more than she could bear. "Dominic! No! It's … wrong …," she managed to gasp finally, seeking the will to stop him when she had no desire to do so. He released her breast, lifting his head to nuzzle her throat, nip at it gently with his teeth. "It's right …. Princess, it's the rightest thing I've ever felt in my life." She shook her head, reaching to lace her fingers through his dark hair even as he lifted his head and nuzzled her ear, nipped at her ear lobe, sending gooseflesh cascading like a rippling waterfall of stinging, pleasing sensation down her length. "Don't say no, baby ... please," he gasped hoarsely. "I need you … so badly I hurt." She felt her last, fragile will to resist vanish at his words. He sensed her capitulation, felt it in the tentative, soothing caress of her hand as it skated along his back. He tore frantically at the closure of his jeans with fingers that felt swollen and almost useless, thrusting the jeans haphazardly from his hips once he'd fumbled his way through the process, too desperate to have her at once to think of discarding them, too desperately fearful that she'd turn him away if she had time to think rather than just feel, to allow her the chance, too desperate to allow himself time to consider right or wrong. Freeing himself at last from the clothes that had seemed determined to thwart him, he pushed himself into her with frantic haste that precluded any semblance of finesse, shuddering, convulsing with mindless pleasure even as he felt the warmth of her flesh close around him like a tight fist. He uttered a choked cry, of exaltation, of praise ... of remorse. **** Basilyn clutched him tightly to her as she felt his shuddering release, closing her eyes to savor the feeling of oneness he'd given her, the feeling of belonging—of being cherished, however false the illusion. A painful tightness formed in her chest at the thought and she sought to turn her mind along another path, staring into space now as she wondered if this was what she'd feared all her life, this intimacy. It seemed she'd frightened herself with phantoms. There was nothing in it to fear, and much of gladness—and enjoyment. She shivered slightly as he finally pulled away, feeling the illusion of oneness vanish as abruptly as her other phantoms had disappeared. He was through with her. She'd served her purpose and was no longer useful—and he left her with an aching feeling of something missing, something almost touched that had eluded her in the end, just as the illusion of being loved, finally, had eluded her. She tried to pull her robe together as he settled behind her on the couch, to cover her vulnerability as much as her person. He wouldn't let her. He pulled the robe from her and tossed it aside, pulling her back so that she rested snugly against him. After a moment, he released her, struggled from his shirt and tossed it the way of the robe, pushing his jeans down his legs and

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discarding them, as well. She would've risen then and put some distance between them, because, for some reason she couldn't quite define, the fact that he hadn't even undressed made her feel even more cheap than what she'd just done. He wouldn't allow that either, pulling her tightly against him once more and bending his head to nuzzle her ear. She shivered again as his hands moved downwards, skating over her breasts, lifting them, massaging them. A sound of distress scraped from her throat as his fingers closed upon the achingly sensitive peaks. "Don't …," she managed through a throat that felt painfully tight with emotion. "Shhh. I know, baby. I'll make it right for you, Princess. I swear it," he murmured huskily against her ear. She couldn't think what he meant, couldn't think at all as his hands moved over her once more, but his touch was more nearly torment than pleasure now and she moved restlessly against it, little sounds coming from her throat now and then that would've embarrassed her at any other time, but that she was hardly even aware of. His hand moved to her abdomen, skimming the rounded mound. "I've wished a hundred times I'd put this here myself," he murmured huskily. "That day … in the clinic …. I thought I couldn't go through with it, do my part. But then I thought of you in the other room. I thought of going to you as you lay there, of going deep inside of you, so deep that I could spill my seed at the mouth of your womb and I came so quickly," he paused, chuckling, the sound both husky and rueful, "...that I almost lost the specimen." His hand skimmed downwards, lifting her thigh so that he could intrude one of his between hers. She felt the hard probe of his flesh upon her achingly sensitive cleft and turned startled eyes to him. He caught her cheek with his free hand, holding her there as he lowered his mouth to hers, entering her mouth with his tongue at almost the same moment his hard, probing flesh pushed gently inside her. A ragged moan was drawn from her, part pleasure, part dismay, for she didn't think she could bear more of the same without shattering. Slowly, he moved within her, mating with her mouth as their bodies mated, slowly, slowly while sensations built within her by leaps and bounds, his finger stroking her sensitive flesh until she began to be almost as frantic to evade his touch as to have it. She wrenched her mouth from his, gasping in sharply as a sudden, hard tension froze her muscles, arching her head back into his shoulder as she fought it, fought to grasp it. His arms tightened around her. "Yes," he rasped huskily, beginning to move more quickly, adjusting his rhythm to meet her need. "Don't fight it, baby. Let it go." "Dominic...," she said on a low, rolling moan and broke off, crying out in surprise as a mindless, pleasurable seizure caught her and took her beyond reality in pulsing waves that suspended her heartbeat and breath in her chest for an endless moment before life and breath surged back in a roiling, pounding tide. She felt the shockwaves catch him up, as well, carry them both to blissful, shuddering oblivion, and then the aftershocks that followed, each more gentle than the last but as precious, as soul stealing, until finally she floated downwards from heaven to earth—a changed earth where harsh reality was still held at bay by a peace and contentment such as she'd never known. She sighed deeply as her breath became more normal, relaxing bonelessly against his warmth. She felt him relax in boneless contentment, as well, felt a lingering, warming glow that

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only slowly faded. He gathered his senses to him faster, spoke first, musingly, as if to himself. "I'd begun to think she'd succeeded in emasculating me—although I don't think it particularly bothered me— because I didn't even feel any real desire anymore. Until I saw you. I knew then I wasn't dead at all." He chuckled huskily. "Not by a long shot—because every time I looked at you—or even thought about you, I got hard all over." She stirred restlessly, uncomfortable with his words and the reality they drew in. He settled his palm along her cheek, tilting her head back so that he could kiss her deeply. "Don't," he said, as if he'd read her mind. "Tonight's ours." He rose then and pulled her to her feet. Before she could question his intentions, he bent and scooped her off her feet. She grasped at him instinctively to keep from falling, too startled to voice her question of before or speak at all as he moved from the room and entered her room, kicking the door shut behind him before he strode to her bed and settled her, going down next to her and pulling her close. She struggled to adjust the cover, feeling suddenly shy of her nakedness as she tucked them around her. He chuckled again and yanked the cover away from her, settling it over the both of them and pulling her close again, adjusting her so that she lay with her back against his chest. His hand settled on her abdomen again, restlessly, possessively, contentedly. Basilyn was asleep almost before her head had found a comfortable rest on his hard shoulder. She woke before dawn to his gentle love-making, yawning sleepily even as pleasure took hold of her again, in a lazy, hazy sort of way. Only half-conscious, half-aware, she muttered sleepily, but with self-depreciating humor. "I can't be much of a lay if you're not satisfied yet." He fell still, fell silent. Finally he rose up, pushing her to her back and staring down at her in the vague, pre-dawn light. She saw that she'd made him angry. "Don't say that. It isn't like that …. Or is it?" She looked away from his intense stare. "How is it then?" she asked quietly, swallowing against a sudden tight knot in her throat. He studied her a long moment and finally groaned in frustration, bending his head to rest his forehead along her jaw. In a moment, he seemed to thrust the thought aside. He began to make love to her again, though gentleness had fled. There was desperation to it, a frantic abandon that seemed an effort to deny the real world's intrusion. He took her to soul-shattering heights of pleasure again. And when he'd caught his breath, took her there yet again. She was barely conscious when he finally slipped from her bed and left her, so exhausted she was asleep before the door closed behind him.

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Chapter Twenty It was bright in the room when Basilyn awoke. She lay still for a moment, drowsing. The sensation of well-being didn't last. Dream-like, memories of the night before drifted back to her. They stirred her ... uncomfortably. Every positive emotion elicited was almost immediately leavened with a negative one. Dominic had loved her … loved her. She refused to think of it in any other light. It couldn't—she wouldn't believe it had been anything tawdry or low. It had been sensual, wildly sensual, but she hadn't merely been a body for him to draw comfort from. She knew that in her heart. Even if he'd given her no words. But it bothered her that he hadn't. He'd implied them. But he hadn't said them. She shook the thoughts off. She couldn't shake off the guilt that crept in insidiously. She couldn't shake off the dawning of horrible realizations. How, she wondered suddenly, could she live in the same house with Theresa, when she'd betrayed her with her husband? Under her own roof? "Oh God!" She put her hand to her mouth, fighting a sudden rise of nausea. How could she look her in the eye? How could she face her at all? She rose from the bed abruptly, winced at the soreness between her thighs—all over— then ignored it. Moving into the bathroom, she bathed quickly and dressed. She only stood, unmoving, in the middle of the bedroom when she'd returned to it, trying to think what she should do. She should leave. She had to leave. She certainly couldn't stay—not now. She had grabbed up an armload of clothes and turned to search for something to put them in when it suddenly occurred to her that she couldn't leave. She was trapped. She was carrying the Demots' baby. She was bound legally to them until her term. And leaving would be an admission of guilt. Or she would have to admit her guilt in order to gain a release to leave. A stir of panic brought the idea forth, but in a moment the panic faded and she examined the idea with a curious mixture of dread and tentative relief, discovering that it was almost tempting—the idea of confessing her sins. Confession was good for the soul. It gave one relief from guilt. But then, confessing to the one sinned against wasn't terribly good for them, was it? Did she have the right to make herself feel better, at Theresa's expense, when she was the one guilty?. And the one who should, at the very least, feel the unpleasant weight of her guilt. Did she have the right to confess for Dominic, too? For she would be doing that. She sat down on the bed again, staring blankly at the clothes in her arms. Why had she done it, she wondered suddenly? She'd known it was wrong even then. She hadn't cared. She'd been too caught up in

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Dominic to care. If she were truthful with herself, she'd been seduced as much by the sense of belonging, and being loved, as she had been by the pleasures he'd given her. Because she hadn't realized until she'd felt the urge to offer herself in love and comfort just how badly she'd needed and wanted them for herself. Was she sorry she'd done it? Yes and no. She was sorry she'd done something wrong, because it made her feel guilty. She was going to be very sorry if she were found out. She wasn't sorry it had happened. What was that sort of guilt worth? She dropped the clothes and put her head in her hands, trying to think. She couldn't. Her mind was a tangled morass of guilt, shame—and yearning. She was sorry. She truly was. She was sorrier still that she couldn't in good conscience contemplate it again—ever. Sorry that she'd found herself in an impossible situation. Sorry that she'd stumbled blindly into it, abandoned by her sense of self-preservation, and was caught now in a mire of regrets. She rose finally. She would have to endure and pretend an innocence she didn't feel. She couldn't hurt someone else to ease her own conscience. And she must assume that it would hurt Theresa, regardless of the fact that her marriage had been falling apart long before she came along. She would simply have to live with her guilt until she could leave. Surely she could bear it for a few more months? If she took it a day at a time? Could she pretend she hadn't been intimate with Dominic? She knew him, knew him in the most personal, physical way. How could she pretend an indifference she didn't feel? How could she play the part of the cool, remote stranger, when she'd been just the opposite? She would do it, she decided with grim determination. She could do it. All she had to do, really, was to avoid him whenever possible—just as she always had before. Theresa would see no difference in that. And Dominic, surely, would be very willing to cooperate? She didn't know how he had truly felt about their night together. She wasn't certain she wanted to know. Knowing might take something vital from her. Regardless, the situation was as impossible, or more so, for him. He would use discretion. Theresa might very well shoot them both—or poison them if she found out. She closed her mind to that, feeling more guilty and shamed at the idea even than frightened. Theresa wouldn't care one iota if she plummeted them all into some horribly scandalous, news-worthy, love-triangle mess. She couldn't bear the thought of that, not just the humiliation, but the sensationalism that would make something that had been beautiful and good, regardless of the circumstances, into a seamy, tawdry, despicable affair. Because it had been beautiful and good and she meant to cling to that. Whatever else, regardless of the right or wrong of it, the moment had been a sharing that was special. She went downstairs on that uplifting thought and came to a dead halt in the kitchen doorway. Valerie had arrived early. She was busily sweeping the kitchen. At Basilyn's entrance, she paused for a long moment, pinning her with a glacial stare. Basilyn scarcely noticed, however, for Theresa was standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window. Basilyn stared at her a long moment and moved into the kitchen, trying to ignore her pounding heart as she set about making coffee. She didn't say anything to Theresa. She couldn't think of anything to say that might sound even vaguely normal, and un-guilty. At any rate, they never conversed, not really, she realized with a touch of relief. Theresa wouldn't expect her to speak. "Incestuous little bitch."

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Basilyn's head snapped up, her eyes going first to Valerie. The woman didn't even look up. She turned to stare at Theresa. "What?" Theresa turned to look at her, rather blankly. After a moment, her eyes seemed to focus on Basilyn. "What?" Basilyn frowned. "I thought you said something?" Theresa stared at her a long moment. She scratched her hand, turning away. "I must of been thinking out loud. I said, incessant itch. I've got dishpan hands from loading dirty dishes." Basilyn stared at her back for a long moment. Was that what Theresa had said, she wondered? Had her own guilt made her think it had been some sort of accusation? She frowned. Why would guilt make her think Theresa had said incestuous of all things? Adulterous maybe. Despicable, low-down, back stabbing snake in the grass, maybe—because that's what she felt like. But … incestuous? She shrugged it off after a moment. Guilt. That's all it was. And incessant had just made the first sinful word she could think of pop into her mind. That was it. That had to be it. Guilt. It made one expect to be accused and to automatically assume every word uttered around one was some sort of innuendo implying their guilt. That was all. She resolutely put it from her mind. She was sitting at the bar drinking her coffee when she heard Dominic coming downstairs. She closed her eyes, wishing she could think of some way to warn him. Nothing came to her. He was whistling. For a moment the sound was so incongruous with Theresa's household, so startlingly, blatantly cheerful, she didn't even realize what it was about the sound that made her tense all over with a sudden sense of panic. The whistling stopped abruptly as he reached the kitchen. She heard Theresa turn. She didn't look up—at either one of them, because she suddenly realized why she'd felt panicked. It was the sound of guilt. Or rather a betrayal of guilt. She felt an infusion of warmth—and a touch of amusement, despite her anxiety. Oh, Dominic, she thought, knowing in that moment how very much she loved him, I'm so very glad I made you happy. But couldn't you have contained yourself just a little? **** Dominic stared out the windshield, his arms draped loosely over the steering wheel in a pose that wasn't relaxed so much as ... defeated, maybe? "I suppose it was a stupid thing to have done," he said finally. He dropped his forehead to his hands. "Hell. I know damned well it was. And I did it anyway." Basilyn said nothing for a moment. She didn't look at him. She was trying to conquer the urge to burst into tears, trying to submerge the doubts the comment had evoked in her. "Yes," she managed finally in a husky voice. "I guess it was. I'm sorry." She heard him shift to look at her. In a moment, he grasped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "It meant something to you. You wouldn't have done it otherwise." She studied him a long moment. He wanted reassurance. It had meant something to him after all. "Yes. It meant something to me. But it was still … wrong … and I'm sorry for that." He swallowed, painfully. "I'll make everything right, Princess. I swear …. If you'll only give me time." She closed her eyes. After a moment she pulled away from him, staring out the window.

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"You can't make everything right. It can't be put right now. Don't give me promises you can't keep, promises you shouldn't be making. Don't lay that guilt on me, too." He settled back angrily, propping his arm on his door, bending it and propping his chin on his thumb, his index finger pressed against his lips. "You mean you don't want to wait for me to straighten out this mess?" He made his voice sound carefully neutral, but she heard the doubts there, the request for reassurance. She couldn't give it this time. It wasn't right. She'd shaken his equilibrium and he wasn't thinking clearly. If he had been, he wouldn't be talking like he was now. "I don't want to be responsible for … any sort of decision you might regret latter." He snorted disgustedly. His entire life was a nightmare! If he hadn’t been too stupid to live he would never have agreed to Theresa’s terms. He would’ve simply slugged it out in court and been done with it, taken his licks and whatever he had left and counted it good. But there was the guilt. There’d always been the guilt. He’d felt like he owed her restitution … and now he’d fucked up his chances with Basilyn! She’d never believe him, now, if he told her the only lie he was living was pretending to be married when he wasn’t. "Too late,” he muttered. “I’ve made too many wrong decisions to count. I've wanted out for years. It'd just gotten to be such a habit, thinking there was no way out, that I couldn't see that all I had to do was go." She felt a touch of anger. It revived her drooping spirits. "Then don't use me to do it." She paused for several moments, feeling his eyes on her, his anger, his doubts. "It's the baby, you know," she added finally, weariness and defeat in her voice. "It always was the baby. I saw that from the first. I just don't think I really understood it then. I'm not certain I really understand it now. “But …. The baby's bound us together in a..an..unnatu...," she broke off, searching for a word less offensive and more descriptive of the feelings she was trying to express, "..uncommon sort of bond. The four of us, really—you, me, Theresa and the baby. I shouldn't even be a part of the circle. You shouldn't feel me as part of it. But, since y'all were forced to take me into it …. You've—you and Theresa both—have become bound to me in a way that nobody's really comfortable—or happy—with." He stared at her for a long moment and finally a slight smile tipped his lips up. Slowly, he shook his head. "You're wrong, Princess. But … let it go. I won't lay the guilt on you. I don't want that at all. I can think of something I would like to lay on you, though." She sent him a quick look, feeling a blush rise. "Dominic!" she gasped, torn between shock and amusement. He grinned, though regret dulled the teasing amusement in his eyes. "I know …. You're safe from my lechery .... For now." He reached for her then, yanking her half way across his lap before she realized his intent, his arm coming around her shoulders, half in support and half as entrapment. She stared at him in blankest surprise as he nudged her chin up. He smiled faintly. "You must have known I'd demand something more. If I'm to do penance for the both of us, I want something to make it worth my while. I want good-bye." She felt a sudden catch of fear in her heart, a painful squeezing that took her breath. Regret swam upward to join it, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to swallow, difficult to speak. She'd meant this. But she didn't want it. "Good-bye?" His teasing smile faded and he sighed deeply of his own regrets. "I shouldn't have done

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it. I'm not sorry I did, you understand. But you're right. What happened was a few moments of insanity that I never really intended to let happen. We wouldn't, either of us, be comfortable or happy with anything pre-meditated. It would ... contaminate it in a foul way. And I don't mean to let that happen. I give you my word. I won't … presume upon your good nature again. Not until and unless circumstances change. But you're wrong about the other, princess. “The baby may be a part of it. But he's only a little part of it. I wanted you the moment I saw you … and you weren't carrying my baby then. I'll admit I like to think of it growing there," he said, placing his hand on her rounded abdomen and rubbing it in a slow circle. "But, whether you believe me or not, the way I feel about you is apart from that. If I can ever dig myself out of the mess I’ve made and you’ll let me, I'll show you." She didn't think he would. She thought, in time, he'd come to realize that she was right. When the baby was born, he'd know then that it was no more than their circumstances that had drawn them together. She didn't try to avoid his kiss when he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers, to capture her mouth with his, kissing her deeply. She felt a surge of sadness, a painful wave of want. If she had doubts about the way he truly felt about her, she had no doubts of her own heart. She met him half way, gave him a kiss that held promises she couldn't keep, hopes she knew she shouldn't have … and regrets … so many regrets. **** Basilyn came awake with a jerk and sat up, trying to calm her labored breathing, casting her gaze around the room a little wildly. She was alone in her sitting room. Completely alone. She dropped her face into her hands, fighting the urge to burst into tears of relief. It had just been a nightmare … just a nightmare. She felt a spurt of anger and frustration as she raised her head again. Why had it come back now? Why? She hadn't had the nightmare in years. She'd never had it before, so far as she could remember, except at night …. Because it had been at night that he'd always crept into her room. She shuddered, feeling a bone deep chill. She wouldn't think about that. She didn't want to think about it. Struggling to her feet, she moved to the French doors and looked out onto the balcony. She'd actually been able to bring herself to go out on it and sit for short periods lately. Maybe she was finally beginning to overcome her fear of heights? Or maybe not. Maybe it was only the desperation to distract her mind that made it a little easier? Because she needed a distraction. So often she needed a distraction. The baby—she couldn't keep her mind off him. He was so active—so much a part of her—and Theresa had begun to discuss names. She'd bought a book and regularly tried out a handful on Dominic at supper. And try though she might to block it out, she couldn't help but listen to them discussing the baby's name, trying to find just the right one for him.. And then there was the nursery. Theresa was in and out of Basilyn's room these days almost as much as Basilyn was—re-decorating. Because it had been decorated for a girl and Basilyn was carrying a boy. The room was filled with boy-things these days—baby boy wall paper had replaced the tiny story book characters that had danced across the old wall paper. Boy toys cluttered the room.

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Just looking at it all made her hurt in some inexplicable way. Even while it warmed her, thinking of him playing in that room … having it all. She would never be able to give a child of her own half so much. Then there were the nightmares. They became more frequent as time went by, though she hadn't, to her knowledge, roused the Demots from their bed with her screams more than once or twice since that first time. Not to her knowledge, because she never slept with her doors unlocked anymore and she couldn't recall hearing them at her door. Though of course, she might not. It always took an effort to throw off the nightmare once she woke, to catch her breath, for she woke more often than not feeling as if she were suffocating. But, perhaps, she didn't rouse them. Maybe the screams remained in her throat? Maybe the sound didn't carry? Or they'd become accustomed to hearing them and it didn't wake them? It seemed to her that every time the dream came back it was worse than the time before—her terror—her screams. But maybe they heard and simply didn't come because they knew now that it was nothing more than nightmares and simply turned over and went back to sleep? She wished she could dismiss them as easily. She'd begun almost to be afraid to go to sleep at night. She supposed her pregnancy had somehow triggered them so that they had begun to disturb her again. Or guilt, maybe? Because, when she wasn't dreaming those horrible nightmares, she dreamed of Dominic. She needed to be distracted from that, as well. It wasn't healthy to dwell on what if's—to wish for something she couldn't have and shouldn't want. She turned from the French doors finally and stared at her books a long moment. She should be studying. She'd been trying to when she'd dozed off. She still felt sluggish, however, was still unnerved from the dream. She crossed the room to the bathroom, intent on washing her face in the hopes of chasing the last of her dreams away. A blanket of steam enveloped her like a hot, moist breath as she opened the bathroom door, blinding her for a moment. The sound of rushing water came to her. "What in the world …?" she exclaimed, so startled she didn't move for several moments. She rushed forward finally, waving her hands in front of her face to dispel the wisps of blinding steam, stubbing her toe as she reached the lavatory and twisted the faucet handle to turn the water off. It had sloshed over the rim and onto the floor, and she looked down at the puddle of warm water she was standing in for a long moment before she lifted her head and stared at the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Her breath stopped abruptly in her chest, as if she'd suddenly been kicked in the solar plexus. She struggled to catch it, to draw air into her lungs, pressed her hand against the clenching pain in her chest as she read the message written there. For a moment she seemed frozen. Time seemed to stand still. Almost as if caught in slow motion, she lifted a hand and clapped it to her mouth to stifle a scream, fighting a dizzying wave of nausea, fearing for a moment that she would faint. In the next moment, she jolted into motion, rushing back into the sitting room to stare at the door. It was locked, just as she'd left it. She whirled and rushed through the bathroom and into her bedroom. Something painful clutched at her heart as she stared at her bedroom door. It was locked—just as the other door had been locked, both the door knob lock and the chain locks

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she'd installed on both. A disbelieving cry that was half sob escaped her. She moved to the door, checking it more closely. Neither lock had been tampered with in any way that she could see, not that she could think of anyway anyone could've come in and left, locking the door behind them. Without the chain, maybe. With it? But someone had been in. Someone had! Someone had written her a message on the bathroom mirror! She hadn't written it and most certainly the phantoms of her nightmares hadn't written it. She moved back into the other room to inspect the locks on that door more closely and found it untouched. She strode to the French doors then, pulling them open and staring up at the skylights on the peaked roof above. They were closed, and at any rate, they couldn't be opened more than a slit for ventilation. No one could've climbed out them. No one in their right mind would've scaled that steeply pitched roof, risking serious injury or death only to pull a malicious prank on her anyway, she realized suddenly. Even Theresa wouldn't go so far as that. There was no way into the room. No way …. There had to be a way! She inched her way to the edge of the balcony and stared down, forcing herself to check the entire perimeter. It was almost a sheer drop. There was no ladder, nothing that could've been climbed. The windows in her room had been locked, as well. She never opened them. She turned to look at the tiny door in the wall, the attic access. But it only led into the attic. It didn't go anywhere else. She'd checked it out before. How thoroughly, she wondered now? Was there another room that led into the same attic? She dismissed the suspicion after only a moment. There couldn't be another access to it. The attic studio was above it, but there would've been no practical reason to make the area below accessible. Not when it could be reached from this room far more easily. She moved slowly away from the deck, fighting panic, and stepped into the bathroom again. The message had faded from the mirror. It was gone. Completely gone now as if it had never been there. But she knew it had. She hadn't imagined it. And it hadn't faded from her mind. It never would. Daddy's girl .... She slid to the floor and burst into tears. It had been there. She hadn't imagined it. She wasn't crazy! It had been there! Theresa had put it there. She must've found some way to put it there. Her father certainly couldn't have done it, though she suspected she was supposed to have thought that. Of course that was it! And the nightmare had only been a coincidence. It had to be! Her father was in prison—still—or again. She didn't know or care which, but she knew she was safe from him. He couldn't know where she was in any case. She mopped the tears from her cheeks. "I'm not your girl! I never was your girl! I wasn't daddy's girl! Damn it! I hated him! Hated him!"

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Chapter Twenty One Basilyn stared at the fluorescent light overhead. She'd always wondered what a beached whale felt like. Now she knew. She knew what it felt like to appear hideous. She knew what it felt like to be so awkward and cumbersome that she could hardly get up by herself. And she knew what it felt like to have gravity pulling at her until it tired her only to walk half the distances she'd once breezed through. Worse, she knew it wasn't going to get better any time soon. She still had weeks to go. She waddled. Try though she might to assume a dignified walk, the great mound in front of her rolled with each step from side to side so that she had the waddle effect regardless. And her stomach protruded so far it appeared that she reared back when she walked, sticking it out further. As if she wouldn't suck her gut in if she could! Or maybe she did lean back more than she realized? It had begun to be difficult to balance. She was bored. For the first time in her life she knew what it was like to be bored stupefied. She had decided long since to 'lay out' this quarter. It was senseless to pay good money, attend all quarter, and run the risk of losing it all should the birth interfere with finals. Which seemed more than likely. She'd begun to wish she'd been less practical, however. It was bad enough to have nothing productive to do—other than sit in one spot and breed, but then that didn't take any effort on her part. The baby did that all by himself. But, beyond the boredom, there was the fact that she had no legitimate place to go to get out of Theresa's house and was stuck there now, almost all day of every day. The only escape she still had was in going to work. But that was only for a few hours a day and was due to come to a complete halt in a matter of weeks. Dominic had been furious that she insisted on working until her eighth month. But he was just going to have to be furious, because she wasn't about to quit any sooner than she had to now that she knew what it was going to be like when she had nothing at all to do. She didn't know how Theresa could stand it. How could anyone spend their days doing virtually nothing at all and be happy? But, of course, Theresa wasn't happy. She was the most unhappy person Basilyn had ever met, except, perhaps, for Dominic. Not that Theresa's unhappiness had anything to do with the lack of something to do, as far as she could see. She could do whatever she pleased. She simply lacked an interest in doing anything productive with her life. She kept in shape by spending an hour a day, five days a week, at a ladies health club— just as Dominic went regularly to a men's gym three nights out of every week. Other than that, however, the remainder of her days were virtually empty. She spent hours by the pool perfecting a tan that was already far too brown in Basilyn's opinion, flirting with skin cancer and premature aging. She lounged around the house leafing through magazines and stopping occasionally to actually read an article, particularly if it pertained to pregnancy and discoursed on some aspect that might annoy the hell out of Basilyn

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once she tried to put the advice into practice. And she shopped. Basilyn had thought to begin with that Theresa must be a bit of a hypochondriac the way she kept every medicine cabinet in the house stocked to over flowing. She'd learned differently. It was nothing more, apparently, than Theresa's penchant for spending. She bought everything the same way—except for groceries. The pantry was the only storage closet in the whole house that remained half stocked or less at all times. The linen closets were as stocked to overflowing as the medicine cabinets, the kitchen cabinets, and attic storage. No sooner did Theresa buy a complete bedroom ensemble than she decided there was something about the color or the texture of the fabric that displeased her. Within a month—or two at the most—she went out and bought a whole new ensemble, and then, naturally, she had to buy a new bath ensemble as well, for the 'old' one no longer matched the new one. It was little wonder Dominic worked so hard all the time. If he hadn't Theresa would've bankrupted him in less than a month. Not that he didn't periodically make an attempt to curb her spending. They'd had perhaps three battle royals over the credit cards since she'd been staying with them. Dominic had demanded Theresa hand them over. Theresa had refused and called him every foul name that came to her very fertile mind. Dominic would threaten to have them canceled and Theresa would promise faithfully not to use them for anything but emergencies from there on. The promise was usually good for about a month. By that time she generally ran out of the cash Dominic tried to keep her supplied with, or began to run low—she didn't like running out—and she returned to her credit cards once more. The door opened, breaking into her thoughts, and Dr. Chaney breezed into the room with his nurse trailing at his heels. He already had his face between her legs before he greeted her. "How are you doing?" Basilyn stared at the ceiling. "Fine." She always said fine. She supposed she was—for a hippopotamus. "No problems?" Dr. Chaney asked, getting up once more and putting on his 'miner's cap' to listen to the fetal heartbeat. She waited until he'd finished and given the nurse the information to write on the chart before she responded. "No problems." He moved across the room and picked up an instrument that looked like the calipers used in wood turning—except much larger—and moved back to the table where she lay. Pressing one end into her stomach just above her pubic bone and the other against the top of the mound, he read out the baby's size in centimeters—or the size of her womb. She'd never been certain which was being measured, but she supposed it must be both, for the womb grew with the baby. He took her feet out of the stirrups, pulled out a sliding section of table for her to rest her legs on and pushed the stirrups back out of the way. He moved up and down her legs then, pressing the flesh and then studying it. "You've got a touch of swelling. Cut back on your salt intake and canned goods. Stick with fresh vegetables when you can." Basilyn nodded. "Is it a problem?" "No, but I don't want it to get to be a problem, so cut back like I told you." "Yes, sir."

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He helped her to sit up and took a seat on his stool once more. "Now—generally I expect my patients to attend the Lamaze classes in the last trimester of their pregnancy. Your case is a little different. But I strongly advise it, even though the child isn't yours, for the simple reason that it makes labor and delivery easier." Basilyn stared at him, feeling her heart begin to jump uncomfortably. "Easier how?" "They tell you what to expect. What symptoms to look for and recognize when you go into labor. How to deal with the contractions ... and so forth." She felt a definite leap of fright at the words labor and contractions, and swallowed a little convulsively, trying to bring moisture to her throat. "But—isn't Lamaze—I mean … If you do that, you don't get anything for pain, do you? I think I'd really rather get knocked out if you don't mind." He chuckled, but shook his head. "You don't get knocked out anyway, my dear. We don't do that anymore. It isn't good for the baby ... knocks them out, too. Which could put them in distress. But you won't have to deliver without anything for the pain. There are some medications that we can administer. The Lamaze classes will explain what they are and how they work so you can decide for yourself which will be best for you. Everybody gets the same treatment regardless ... the same medications." "Oh." She swallowed again. "But … It's usually a .... The husband and wife usually go together, don't they?" Dr. Chaney smiled wryly. "There's the problem. They usually do. But, in your case of course …. However, it'd be a nice gesture to have Mrs. Demot as your partner. She could help you through the labor and she'd be there for the birth." Basilyn stared at him a long moment. "This is a choice, right? I mean, I don't have to do this? It isn't in the contract or anything?" He frowned. "No. It isn't in the contract and you don't have to do it at all. But, as I said, it'll be better for you if you do." "It wouldn't be better at all to have Mrs. Demot with me," she said tightly. "I may consider going by myself. I won't consider going with her." He gave her an angry glance and rose. "Maybe you'll want to think this over? I think we've got two more classes scheduled between now and your due date. That's ...." He stopped and glanced at her chart. "December 24th...?" She could see she'd sunk to an all time low in his estimation for her seeming cruelty. Because she could see he thought it was spite on her part. That hurt. She acknowledged that his opinion mattered to her and that it hurt to have a low judgment from him. Regardless, she couldn't bear the thought of having Theresa in the room with her while she labored to deliver her baby. It would be frightening, and painful, enough as it was. She didn't want Theresa there as avid witness, to torment her all the way through. Unfortunately, she couldn't explain any of that to Dr. Chaney. The Demots had gone to great lengths to make their marriage appear a stable one. If she began to talk of the things that had happened, which she would have to to sound convincing in her dislike, she would undermine those efforts completely. If he believed her, which there was no saying he would. Not that it mattered now if Dr. Chaney knew. He couldn't reverse the process. The Lord knew she would've dearly loved for him to have been able to. But there was nothing, either way, that he could do anymore—except carry through with the bargain, just as she must.

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She didn't have to have Theresa with her in the delivery room, however, and she wasn't going to. If Dr. Chaney thought she was hateful, he would just have to think so. On the other hand, she wasn't one for cutting off her nose to spite her face. If the Lamaze classes would help her to prepare herself, she wasn't going to miss out on them if she could help it. Besides, the classes would give her an opportunity to get out of the house. "I'll let you know," she said finally. He nodded. "You can sign up for them any time at the front desk. Now, as for the delivery. You didn't indicate on the form before. Will you want to see the child? It's allowable if you'd like. If not …. We can do that, too ...?" Basilyn stared at him a long moment, feeling a sudden painful yearning—a terrible pain of loss. Unconsciously, her hand came to rest protectively on her abdomen. She tried to speak and found she had to clear her throat to get the answer out. "No, I don't want to see ... it," she said finally. **** Basilyn glared at the view beyond her window without really seeing anything. For once, that awful sense of weightlessness, if it was there at all, was far to the back of her mind and of no consequence in her present state of mind. She felt the urge to do something violent. "Damn Theresa!" she muttered angrily. All right so maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd wanted to start an argument. Maybe she'd wanted to make a stab at Theresa for some of the things she'd done to her over the past months. But when one got right down to it, there would've been no real way to have avoided the sort of confrontation they'd just had. It would've come regardless. She couldn't keep her plans secret. And when Theresa had learned of them, as learn she must, there would've been a confrontation then whether she'd wanted one or not. She just hadn't seen any sense in trying to avoid the inevitable—so she'd dropped it in their laps at lunch. "Dr. Chaney wants me to go to Lamaze classes at his office. He says it'll make delivery easier on me. I'm planning to go." Theresa had perked up immediately, her eyes gleaming with barely suppressed excitement. "I've been reading up on that. They say it's much better for the baby since women who go through the program usually don't require as much medication—if any at all. And the less used, the better it is for the baby. You'll need a partner, though. They always have a partner—or coach. I meant to bring it up myself, but I figured you'd set yourself against it the moment I did." She paused for breath and turned to Dominic. "We'll need a camera. A video camera. Stills aren't nearly as good. I wonder if they'd let both of us go in? I'm not very good with cameras and besides I'm sure I'll be busy. The coach is important, you know. It'll make it much easier if you could come along to do the filming. And it’s good for bonding too…." Basilyn had jumped to her feet and thrown her napkin down on the table. "You're not taking any damned pictures of me! And you won't be there to do it in any case! I said I was going to Lamaze. I didn't say a damned thing about inviting you! And I'm not going to! I'd sooner have a … a snake attend me!" Theresa jumped to her feet, as well. "It's my baby! Just try to keep me out! Just try!" "It's my body! And I won't just try! I'll succeed! If you come anywhere near me once I get in there, I'll scream so long and loud they'll call security and have you hauled out and thrown

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into the street! Don't think they won't! Because they won't give a damn whether it’s your baby or not! I'm the patient!" "Well! We'll just see what Dr. Chaney has to say about that, bitch!" Theresa shrieked. "Yes … we'll see, won't we, bitch!" Basilyn yelled back at her. "But I'll tell you one thing. I'll go off somewhere by myself and have the baby in a ditch before I'll have you anywhere near me—so you can just take your damned camera and shove it up your ass!" Dominic, on his feet by now, as well, had intervened just as Theresa, giving a shriek of rage, had flown at her. He'd caught Theresa from behind … which Basilyn was almost sorry for. She would've almost welcomed the opportunity to at least attempt to pull the other woman's hair out. But then he'd turned on her, as well. "Stop it! Both of you!" he roared, restraining Theresa with an effort. Finally he shook her. "Damn it, Theresa. I said stop. Are you crazy! You might hurt the baby!" She subsided at that, but the look in her eyes didn't. Basilyn didn't care. She wasn't cowed herself. She glared right back at her. "Don't you think you're being just a little unreasonable about this? It's not like it isn't done. A lot of people take pictures during the birth. It's a memento for later. And you will need a partner. It isn't right to shut Theresa out completely. And it couldn't hurt ...," Dominic said, more in an effort to placate Theresa and avert the quarrel than because he'd really given the idea any consideration ... and perhaps partly because he didn't want to be excluded from taking part in the event himself. Basilyn turned to look at him in disbelief, in outrage. She couldn't believe he was siding with Theresa when he knew how the woman had treated her, tormented her all these months. But then, what had she really expected? Theresa was his wife. She was nothing. Just a hired hand, really. She wasn't supposed to have any feelings? She wasn't supposed to be bothered by the idea of having people who were bound to her by nothing but a damned piece of paper, peering over her while she struggled to deliver their baby? She wasn't supposed to object to Theresa's presence at a time when she would be totally vulnerable and at her mercy? "It seems to have escaped everyone's attention—yours, Theresa's, and Dr. Chaney's included—that I'm a human being. I'm not just a damned … mare that you serviced and put out to brood, damn you! I'm human! And this might well be your baby, but it's my body that's carrying it! Mine! I don't have to share that with any damn body! And I'm not going to! Consider it spite! I don't give a damn! But no one—no one! Is going to train a damned camera in my ... my … face when I'm going through that … so they can enjoy watching me suffer as many times as they want to rewind the damned tape! And, if she comes anywhere near me when I go in that delivery room, I'll beat her brains in just as soon as I'm able and can get my hands on her … and I'll sue hell out of both of you!" She made a grrring sound of frustrated anger and moved away from the window. The nerve of them! Who the hell did they think they were anyway? They needn't think they were going to browbeat her into this! She'd said she wasn't going to have it and she wasn't. She supposed she could've seen Dominic's point … if the circumstances had been different. She'd even suffered a qualm or two herself over the fact that she had what Theresa wanted so very badly and couldn't have, had thought it selfish not to share as much of her

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experience with Theresa as she could. And of course Dominic didn't know half the things Theresa had done to her. Didn't suspect the others that Basilyn suspected and had never been able to prove. So maybe he truly couldn't understand why she was so dead set against even discussing the possibility. But Theresa was a despicable creature. And Theresa hated her. She didn't want anyone that hated her anywhere near her at a time like that. The Lamaze coach was there as much to offer comfort and support as they were to serve as distraction. How comforting would it be to have Theresa beside her. 'Would you hurry up? Quit complaining! You know it doesn't really hurt! You're just trying to make everybody sorry for you!' That's the sort of 'comfort' she could expect from Theresa, she thought angrily. But could Dominic see her side? No! All he could think about was how hard it was for Theresa to have to wait outside instead of being in the thick of things and watching her baby's birth! Well, Theresa could just do her damned bonding after it was born—when she was out of the picture. If she wanted pictures, she could go down to the nursery and film him yawning or screaming. Hell! She could rent one of the hospital beds and pretend she'd just had him, like she'd been pretending her pregnancy all the way through! Not that she expected Theresa to do that. Doubtless the hateful thing had it in mind to roll Basilyn out of her bed the moment she got back from delivery and assume the position of just delivered mother herself! She wouldn't put it past her for a moment. In fact, now that she thought on it, she began to wonder, and worry, just what Theresa did have in mind. Anyone that had gone to the lengths Theresa had to snow everyone that she was really pregnant, wasn't going to fall down at the end. She had some plot up her sleeve. She had to. Otherwise it would give the whole show away and ruin everything—all of her carefully laid plans to convince everyone she'd carried and given birth to a child. "Oh, God! She'll probably have them dump me into a wheel chair and carted out the back door the moment I've delivered if she can manage it!" she muttered, envisioning herself disposed of like the discarded organs from surgery. Because she would be just that useless once she'd served her purpose as far as Theresa was concerned. And that was the sort of person Dominic expected her to have with her at the most traumatic time of any woman's life? "Well! He can just go to hell, too!" she muttered, pacing back across the room to stand before the window again and glaring at the view beyond. She thrust it from her mind finally. She wasn't going to think about any of it anymore. She wasn't going to let them worry the life out of her. She'd given them her position and she meant to stick to it. What she needed, she decided suddenly, was some fresh air. It was making her stir crazy, spending so much time indoors. It was a nice day, too, invitingly cool—breezy. The leaves on the trees had begun to turn, begun to take on the gay colors of autumn. It was just about her favorite time of year—fall—harvest time—holidays. It seemed the whole world took on an edge of excitement, of rushing, of getting ready for the dead months of winter. She turned purposefully towards her door, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of leaving the house, anticipation. She would go for a nice, long walk. She would feel better when she'd gotten out into the fresh air and sunshine. She could put aside her lingering anger, all the ugly feelings the argument had caused.

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She didn't take the stairs with her usual caution. She was too intent on her purpose. She'd reached the fourth tread down when she set her foot—not on a stair—but something that gave and rolled. She screamed as her foot shot out from under her and screamed again as she felt herself falling.

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Chapter Twenty Two Basilyn’s hand clenched instinctively, gripping the balustrade tightly as she felt herself begin to fall. She hit the tread at an angle that bruised her hip and slid down two more steps, scraping her back and ribs, and almost wrenching her arm from the socket before she came to a halt. She lay stunned. Too shocked even to feel pain at first, though she felt panic flicker at the edge of her mind as the half formed realization hit her that she must have done something. That she might not have saved the baby. The frozen shock vanished as Theresa raced from her room and up the flight of stairs to bend over her. In that moment, a dozen half formed thoughts congealed as one. She thrust out her arm and gave Theresa a shove than sent her reeling back against the opposite balustrade. "Get away from me!" she said, her voice rising on a note of imminent hysteria, and promptly burst into tears, though they were the tears of reaction and fright more than anything else, tears of panic rather than pain—for sensation from shocked nerve endings was only just beginning to seep into her frozen brain. "Just stay away from me! Don't you dare come near me!" Dominic, who'd rushed up the stairs from the great room hard behind Theresa, steadied her automatically as she reeled and turned to reach for Basilyn. "No!" she cried out, her voice no longer edged with panic and hysteria but quivering with it. "Don't you touch me either! Just don't touch me! She did it! She put something on the stairs! She wanted me to fall!" "Why ... you lying little bitch!" Theresa shrieked, aghast. "I didn't make you do anything! I wasn't anywhere near you!" Dominic shot Theresa a quick look then glanced around. "Basilyn … there's nothing here. There's nothing on the stairs.." "There was!" Basilyn cried out, sobbing now, gasping for breath. "There was! I felt it. She took it! She had to have taken it!" Dominic flicked an assessing glance at Theresa. She glared at him. "She's hysterical. And she's crazy as hell! I'm not going to stand here and listen to this bullshit! She isn't hurt!" With that she turned and stalked off. Dominic turned his attention to Basilyn again. "Are you hurt?" She was crying by now in great wrenching sobs she couldn't seem to stop. It took her a moment to find her voice. "Yes … no. I don't know! Yes! I hurt all over! I don't know where it hurts!" He sat down on the tread beside her and pulled her carefully into his lap, ignoring her efforts to push him away. After a moment, she ceased any attempt to resist, burying her face against his shoulder. "Shhh. Don't cry, Princess. I think the fall just scared you." She shook her head. "I hurt—my arm—my ankle—my back—my stomach!" she pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, massaging it. He looked down at her, feeling a touch of panic at that. He didn't know whether it was doubt or hope that brought the reflection to mind that a bad fright often produced a stomach cramp … and that she had a history of muscle spasms in the lower abdominal muscles that had

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scared him nearly gray headed several times already. But he dismissed that from his mind and lifted her arm to examine it carefully. He couldn't see any sign of an injury. Not that that meant there was no injury. Her ankle was another matter. There was a knot the size of a large plum below her ankle that shouldn't be there. "Shit!" He got up carefully. "Put your arms around my neck. I think you might've broken your ankle." She put her right arm around his neck. Her left arm hurt too much to lift it. She'd used that arm to break her fall, she remembered suddenly, gripping the balustrade tightly in an instinctive defense against falling. But she'd twisted it as she went down. It felt as if she'd ripped muscle and sinew loose. He took the spare keys to the car and settled Basilyn in the back seat so that she could lie down, then went back into the house to give Dr. Chaney a call so that he could meet them at the hospital. They had been waiting for nearly thirty minutes when Dr. Chaney arrived. "What happened?" "She fell on the stairs," Dominic answered. Basilyn turned to give him an accusing look, but she said nothing. Her throat was raw from crying and, though she'd managed to regain some of her self-control, she feared any attempt to speak would set her off again. "Well … what have you done to yourself this time?" Dr. Chaney asked her in a tone meant to be teasing. "Where are you hurt?" She fought another round with her tears, regaining control of her wobbling chin only with an effort and finally managed to tell him, including in the list aches and pains she hadn't even noticed at first. But then, she'd begun to notice a longer list of aches and pains the moment the pain in the worst areas began to slowly subside. He examined her, from head to foot. He didn't ask Dominic to leave, she noticed. She didn't ask him to leave either. She wished, in fact, that she could ask for his comforting shoulder to cry on again. She resisted the urge. But, despite her earlier anger with him, despite her frustration that he hadn't believed her when she'd told him Theresa had caused her fall, she felt comforted just to have him close by. He examined her ankle last. "Well," he pronounced, "I think you're going to live. Looks like mostly bruises, a few pulled muscles, a friction burn on your back from the stairs. Your ankle ...." He paused. "We'll need to x-ray that, but I think it’s a sprain—a minor sprain. If it’s the bone, I'll have to call someone else in to set it." He left then and went to make arrangements for the x-ray. Dominic moved to stand beside the examination table, touching her hair lightly in a soothing stroke. She looked up at him, feeling a fresh wave of tears rush into her eyes. She blinked, sniffing them back. "You don't believe me." He crouched beside the table. "I don't believe you lied." "But you think I was mistaken?" She closed her eyes. Did it really matter, she wondered? What could he do if he believed her? She wasn't certain she wanted him to do anything … except believe in her. "I'm afraid of heights," she managed tearfully. "I'm always careful when I come down the stairs—always. If I hadn't been today …. If I hadn't been gripping the balustrade so tightly I nearly wrenched my arm out of the socket when I fell …."

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She sniffed again, feeling weariness and sadness settle over her. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." He studied her a long moment and reached to stroke her cheek. "Do you want to leave?" She opened her eyes to look at him questioningly. "If you're afraid, if you truly believe she meant to hurt you, I'll get you out of the house ... find some place for you to stay." She stared at him a long moment. "I don't know. I just don't know." The idea was so appealing, so very tempting …. Except that she would no longer be near him. She wouldn't have any excuse to see him. There wouldn't be any chance meetings in the mornings. They wouldn't share meals. Share a house where she could feel his presence even though she didn't dare share anything else with him. She should jump at the chance. It would be for the best. Maybe, just maybe, if she was away from him, she would find she'd been wrong and that she didn't love him at all and then everything would be alright. She didn't believe that. She didn't believe it for a moment. And she didn't want to leave him until she had to. Could she have been mistaken? Was there any possibility that it had all been in her mind? Perhaps because she'd so recently argued with Theresa? Had her fright blown everything all out of proportion? Would Theresa have done such a thing? Risked her child's life? Because she wasn't so stupid that she could think the baby would be alright if she hurt Basilyn. If she'd rolled to the bottom, the chances were that both her and the baby would be dead now. And no matter how much Theresa hated her, she wouldn't risk her baby's life. The baby meant too much to her. She could more easily believe Valerie had left something on the stairs for her to trip over. Valerie wouldn't care whether she killed both Basilyn and the baby. But, could she want to? Could she possibly hate her enough to have done something that premeditated? She doubted it. Valerie hated her alright, but the only time she'd tried to assault her physically had been directly after she'd undoubtedly seen Dominic kissing Basilyn—in the heat of the moment—not with cold premeditation. Besides, there was no getting around the fact that there'd been nothing on the stairs when Dominic had looked. Although she might easily have disposed of it herself, kicked it from the stairs. Except she hadn't heard anything fall. Not that she'd been in any condition at the time to notice. There would be no point in looking when she got back. If either Theresa or Valerie had done it, it would've been disposed of by now. She still didn't think she'd imagined it. But, the more she thought on it the harder it was to believe anyone would've done such a thing deliberately. Maybe, just maybe, she'd wanted to put all the blame on Theresa because, in the back of her mind, she'd wanted to drive a greater wedge between her and her husband? She felt a little ill at the thought. She didn't like even to suspect she might be such a creature, spouting a belief in the bonds of marriage, and an unwillingness to severe those bonds and subconsciously doing everything in her power to do just the opposite. For, if she could make Dominic believe, true or not, that Theresa had tried to kill his baby, it would end their marriage on that moment … if he didn't kill her and end it that way. She

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shuddered inwardly at that thought. "No," she said finally. "I guess not … time enough to go." She forced a faint smile, though it felt patently false. "I guess I can bear with Theresa for the few weeks I've got left." He smiled, started to speak and then rose and turned away instead when Dr. Chaney came back into the room. She was helped into a wheel chair then and wheeled down to x-ray where they carefully draped her with a lead lined blanket and x-rayed her ankle. It was pronounced a sprain—a minor sprain—just as Dr. Chaney had predicted. It still hurt like pure hell. They bound it in a pressure bandage and outfitted her with a pair of crutches. She was going to be sore from one end to the other, and her ankle could take months to heal properly—if it ever did—for torn ligaments didn't heal like bone. The ankle might well be weak forever more. Even that wasn't the sum total of her injuries, however. As she was returned from x-ray, she overheard Dr. Chaney discussing with Dominic her 'state of mind'. She didn't know whether it was Dominic or Dr. Chaney who'd begun the conversation, had the original doubts, but whichever it was, he'd spread doubts in the other's mind, so it made little difference either way. She had now, added to her own secret fears that all her years of counseling on mental health were unraveling, the fear that everyone else had begun to think so, too. Dominic brought the car around and she hobbled out the door awkwardly on her new crutches, waiting until he came around to help her in. He grinned at her when he had her settled and tapped her nose playfully. "You looked like a war veteran hobbling out with all your badges of courage." "I am," she said tiredly when he'd shut the door and moved back around the car, dropping her head back to rest against the headrest. "I'm a veteran of the Theresa wars." "But she won't win," she muttered to herself as Dominic opened his door and got in beside her. "I won't let her." **** Basilyn didn't get out at once when Dominic had parked the jeep. She stared at the lights on the second floor of the Medical Center, feeling a curious mixture of emotions. She'd never been to the office so late in the evening and wondered if that was one of the reasons she felt so unnerved. It might well be. It certainly wasn't the primary reason. She closed her eyes as a fresh flood of doubts and fears assailed her. She'd settled down to update her diary, just as she did every night before supper, whether she had anything of any significance to record or not. It had become a habit years ago, though it hadn't been her own idea. Her counselor had suggested it, as an avenue for expressing those things she tended to keep bottled up inside her, suggesting that once she released them, even onto a sheet of paper, they would no longer have the power to wound her that they did when she allowed them to build inside. It had seemed her counselor was right. It had seemed, once she'd begun, though reluctantly at first, that she began to enjoy the ritual. She found it soothing. She hadn't found it soothing tonight. She'd found it terrifying.

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She'd been thinking of Dominic when she'd flipped back through the pages to scan those lines that concerned him, her first impression … those beginning feelings that had led finally to the painful one of loving him. She'd felt a welter of emotions as she read back over it, looked back at the months past—sadness, joy … regret … yearning. And then she'd come upon an entry that was strange to her, an entry she couldn't recall having made that seemed to leap out at her from the pages. I know what you did. I watched. Fear and panic had rushed through her when she read that, flooding her with a fiery, freezing tide that had made the blood rush away from her head dizzyingly, made her heart jump into her throat, made tiny beads of chilling moisture pop from her pores. It had to be significant that the entry followed the single-word entry before it. Love. She'd written only that. She'd been too careful, too fearful that her diary might be found and read to write anything else of what she'd felt the night she'd spent in Dominic's arms. The message referred to the entry that had preceded it. It had to. There was nothing else the message could've referred to. She hadn't written it. She knew she hadn't. But it was in her handwriting. That chilled her more than anything else. She had to have written it herself ... and she couldn't have. She'd flung the book away, staring at it as if it had suddenly become a venomous snake. She'd felt the unraveling fingers of hysteria clawing through her to shred her hard won sanity. She hadn't written it. She knew she hadn't. It had to have been forged in her hand. She had to believe that. Because to doubt that was to doubt herself. She clung to that thought, rising slowly and moving almost cautiously towards the diary, picking the book up, examining the entry more closely. If it was a forgery—and she knew it must be—then it was an excellent one. And whoever had gone to such pains—Theresa—she knew it must be Theresa—had also taken great pains to place her diary just as it had been left before so that she hadn't even suspected that the diary had been tampered with. And whoever had done it had watched. A new chill washed over her. How? They'd been alone in the house. Hadn't they? Or, had they? Had Theresa crept back to see what they would do? Had she set them up, as some sort of test, to see if her suspicions would be proven correct? She couldn't have. She would've had no way of knowing what would happen in the sitting room, or that it would happen there if she'd expected it to happen. Could she have slipped into her room before day? Saw them together in her bed? It was possible, chillingly possible. Theresa had been downstairs later when she'd gone down for her coffee. How long had she been in the house? When had she returned? Not possible. It wasn't possible. She would not have slipped into the room, or perhaps the bathroom, to observe, and watched them together without doing or saying anything. She would've pounced upon them the moment she had her suspicions confirmed. She dearly loved to play at cat and mouse, but she had a violent temper and made no attempt to leash it when she was provoked, and that would certainly have constituted provocation. Even if she'd saved her venom for a quiet revenge, she wouldn't have been able to keep it hidden so long. Sometime, she would've given her knowledge away. She was devious, certainly, but she wasn't nearly as good at hiding such things around people who knew her well

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and knew what to look out for. Theresa was still suspicious of her. That hadn't changed. And it would have if instead of suspicions, she had certain knowledge. There was no relief in the realization. It left her with two possibilities even less palatable. Her own mind was playing tricks on her. Or someone else had written the message … and watched. Daddy's girl. The message on the mirror popped into her mind, and with it terror such as she hadn't felt since she'd been removed from her father's tender mercies. She couldn't—wouldn't believe that he could've found her again. She'd covered her tracks too well. She'd gone from one foster family to another, never staying long, always insuring that she would be moved again. The moment she began to fear he might find her. And she'd covered her tracks even better once she'd reached an age where she was no longer bound as a ward to the state into the care of any foster family. He must still be in jail. Even if he was free, he couldn't know how to find her. He had no reason to try—except revenge. He'd gone to prison because of her. Her testimony had sent him away. And he'd told her, with his eyes, before they led him away that he would make her sorry she'd talked. She shook the thoughts off, shook the fear off, and reached for the door handle. "How long do you think you'll be?" She turned to look at Dominic. It took several moments to collect herself, to collect her thoughts. "I think the sessions last about an hour." "I might as well wait then ...?" She ignored the questioning note. She felt too raw, too distant at the moment to particularly care what he did. "Whatever...," she said with a shrug and got out. He caught up to her before she reached the building. "Basilyn ...." He paused, apparently searching for the right words. She looked at him, her expression vaguely questioning. "I know you don't .... Well, I suppose you …. I'd like to do this with you," he finished in a rush. She only stared at him. He couldn't decide whether she meant to refuse him point blank and was trying to think of how to say it or if she was only so preoccupied with her own thoughts that his meaning had escaped her. He tried again. "I'm not asking to go in with you when you deliver. I know you don't want that. But I'd like to … go through the motions. It would be more comfortable for you anyway, wouldn't it? To have a partner … husbands … the father is usually the coach?" "Husbands usually coach. You're not my husband," she said flatly. "They don't know that. They don't have to know. You'll be admitted into the hospital as my wife when the time comes. I want to do this with you. I'm not asking for anything else." She stared at him a long moment, feeling her reluctance slowly fade away. She didn't want to share anything so intimate with him, not when she'd been at such pains to try to put any thought of intimacy with him from her mind. But she found she desperately needed his comforting presence tonight. She felt a tug of understanding, too, his need to feel a part of what was happening … just as she'd felt that night. "Alright," she said and turned away abruptly, rushing away from the thought.

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She discovered that it was disconcerting, comforting, embarrassing and reassuring to have Dominic with her. Everyone, except the nurse, who knew better but apparently thought better of saying so, simply assumed he was her husband. He was outrageous. He assumed the role of loving husband with a complete disregard for the fact that the nurse was well aware he wasn't her husband. It almost seemed to please him as much to shock her as it did to shock Basilyn with his audacity. He didn't ask to be included in the next session. He simply assumed the stance that it was a matter of course ... expected. Basilyn, torn between amusement and irritation, allowed him to assume it.

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Chapter Twenty Three Theresa, dressed in nothing more than a sheer, one piece lounging pajama, was standing in the sitting room, surveying it speculatively when Dominic stepped into the master suite. She turned in surprise at his entrance. Something flickered in her eyes. But it was very quickly hidden, too quickly for him to read her honest reaction to the fact that he'd entered their bedroom for the first time in months. If there was such a thing as an honest reaction with Theresa. She lifted her brows. "I've just been thinking .... The room at the top of the house is really too far away for a nursery. I believe I'll have this room done over. I never use it anyway. And it'd be much more convenient with night feedings and all. Because I suppose I'll have to do that myself. I thought about having a live-in nurse maid and I guess I'll get one. But a live-in …. I don't think I'll have any more live-in maids. They're just too much of a temptation …." She sent him an arch look. "Of course, I could just have someone come in and set up one of those baby intercom things. But I don't think I really care for the notion of going all the way up and down the stairs only to feed it. According to what I've been reading, they expect to be fed every three to four hours just at first, round the clock—if you can believe that! It seems a little excessive to me, but I don't expect he'll be doing that very long." "No, I expect you'd cure him of thinking he could inconvenience you before very long," Dominic said dryly. She tilted her head to one side to study him a moment and then laughed brittlely. "What? Have I inconvenienced you in some way? Is that what you're getting at? Do you find it inconvenient to creep around the house in search of some quiet little spot to poke Basilyn? Or has it just gotten inconvenient to try to poke Basilyn at all these days? I must say she has begun to look very like a little pumpkin with arms and legs. “Or did you just decide to come back for some of me? I might consider it, you know." He felt a prick of anger at her remarks. Resolutely, he ignored it, and the urge to rise to Basilyn's defense. She wanted that. He hadn't come to give her what she wanted. He moved across the room and settled himself in an easy chair. "I came to talk." She sauntered to the love seat and curled up on it provocatively, angling herself so that the lapped top of her lounging pajama gaped, displaying almost the whole of one breast. "Before, after, or during?" she purred. His lip curled in disgust. "Don't cream in your pants. I haven't come to beg permission to screw you—so, if it's the thought of turning me down that's got you so hot and bothered, you won't get the opportunity." Her eyes narrowed into slits. "So, what do you want?" "An end to this little charade." Her eyes widened fractionally. After a moment, she began to laugh, in great peals of genuine amusement that only slowly became malicious chuckles. He waited until her chuckles had subsided to an occasional sarcastic giggle to speak again.

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"I mean to leave ... soon. As soon as I can find a place for Basilyn to stay … and one for myself," he informed her coolly. Theresa's laughter vanished. "You mean as soon as you can find a place for you and Basilyn, don't you?" she said tightly. "No. I meant exactly what I said. If I could trust you, which I can't, I wouldn't move Basilyn at all with her so close to term." He shrugged. She knew well enough what he was getting at without him having to spell it out. Her lips curled in a sneer. "And you think I'll buy that?" "I don't really give a damn what you buy. My plans have nothing to do with you," Dominic returned coldly. She got to her feet to glare down at him. "And I don't give a damn what kind of plans you've made. I told you—years ago—that I’d ruin you if you tried to leave me. We had an agreement and leaving me to look like a fool while you run to that bitch wasn’t part of it!" "Your mistake. I didn't ask. I’m done. I’m leaving." "Empty handed? Because that’s the only way you’re leaving," she said with a touch of malicious satisfaction. "I wonder how long our little Basilyn would stick around under those circumstances?" she purred. "I think I’ll take my chances in court. I'll find what I need to use against you. I don't think it'll be too difficult." Something flickered in her eyes. A touch of fear? "You won't find anything! And you couldn't prove anything! So sue me! It won't do you a damned bit of good! I’ll get everything!" He studied her frowningly a moment, feeling a tiny spark of both suspicion and hope. She was hiding something. He knew it suddenly. Somewhere, sometime she'd done something she thought might be used against her in the divorce settlement. "I'll find something," he said finally, determination in his voice. "Regardless, it won't make any difference to you. I don't mean to make any attempt to keep up appearances any more. I'm through with that." She stared at him a long moment, feeling a surge of fury at his words—at his calm—his damned unshakable calm. "I see what it is. It isn't Basilyn at all, is it? It's the baby. Isn't it!"she screamed. "Well you can't have it! It's mine! I won't let you take it. I'll fight you. Don't think for a moment I won't—and I'll win!" "You won't," he said implacably. Her look became smug. "You'd have to prove I was an unfit mother ...." "That shouldn't be difficult." The smug look vanished. Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You won't be able to prove that, because I mean to be the best damn mother any kid ever had! And a mother always gets custody unless it can be proven that she's unfit—or lacking in morals. So you don't have a leg to stand on!" she finished triumphantly. "You're not his mother," he said quietly, coldly. She gaped at him for several moments before a scoffing laugh escaped her. "Of course I'm his mother!" Dominic studied her a long moment, feeling a stab of pity, a prickle of doubt, uncertainty—a pang of guilt, wondering for a moment if he was doing the right thing. If he truly had the moral obligation he thought he did or if it was merely his own wishes he was following.

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He owed her. He knew that he did, to try to make up to her for what he'd cost her. She wanted the child, so desperately that there had been a time when he'd thought it might be the humanizing of her. That it might make a real difference in her life. It might. But he couldn't take a chance on it. She hated him. What might she do to his son? At the very least she would teach the child to hate him as badly as she did. She would poison his mind. He wouldn't have a chance in hell growing up under Theresa's thumb. Even if she didn't deliberately try to damage the child's mind, how could she help but do so when her own was so poisoned with possessiveness, jealousy, bitterness, and hate? He couldn't allow that. He wouldn't. He couldn't make amends for his faults with his son. He would simply have to learn to live with his guilt, he thought in sudden anger. He wouldn't wish Theresa on a dog. He damned sure wasn't going to allow it for his son. Guilt be damned! He was just going to have to accept finally, and for all time, that he had committed an unpardonable act—something that could never be 'fixed', no matter how much he would've liked to, no matter how much he tried. He'd made a mistake and they would both have to learn to live with it. But he'd paid his dues as far as he was concerned. He would pay no more. "You can have the house. I don't mean to make any claims on it. It was always yours, at any rate." He'd disliked the house from the first. It had seemed too cold. Too alien to his ideas of what a home should look like. He hated the sight of it now. It had been his prison too many years. Of course, he could simply dispose of it, but he didn't want the house for himself and knew Theresa did, and he needed something to sweeten the deal, something to make releasing him sound more palatable. "..and I figure, if I sell the land near Orlando and in the mountains..that, together with the bank account … the stocks .... If I liquidate everything, I should be able to come up with around seven hundred fifty thousand. That will be a onetime settlement," he added dryly when he saw the immediate gleam of avarice in her eyes. Theresa stared at him, her brain ticking madly. It almost sounded tempting … particularly since she knew it would virtually wipe him out. It pleased the hell out of her to think of the jolt he'd get once he presented himself to Basilyn flat broke. She almost laughed at the thought. Basilyn would drop him like a hot potato. Men could be so unbelievably stupid, so unrealistically egotistical. Not that Dominic didn't look good …. But … Christ! What was sugar coated shit worth? And without his money, that was about all he was worth. It would almost be worth it, just to see the look on his stupid face when he discovered that was all Basilyn was really after—had ever had any real interest in ... almost. On the other hand, seven hundred fifty thousand didn't go nearly as far as it once had. She'd be pinching it to live for three years on that piddling sum. Why settle for that when she had only to stick to her guns to enjoy an income for the next twenty years? It might be annoying to have it doled out in monthly installments, but it would amount to a hell of a lot more, plus she’d still have a hold on him. She'd stayed with him through those first lean years when he was only starting out. Why let him get off easy now, when he had only begun to make a decent living? She felt a welling of anger. Damn him, she thought with sudden venom! Damn him!

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Who did he think he was to talk to her that way! As if she was some tramp he could buy off! And after what he'd done to her? "You … bastard! Do you think I should be grateful for your damned crumbs! You owe me, God damn you! You owe me! You destroyed me—made me half a woman—took from me the one thing every woman has a right to expect—and only because you couldn't keep your damned pants on and your dick in them! And you expect me to be grateful now!" Dominic's face hardened. "I don't owe you a God damned thing! I paid for my mistake! I've done my time!" "I gave you my youth!" she screamed at him. "..And now you think I'm just going to let you drop me for some little tramp..!" "I gave you mine!" he shot back angrily. "So it looks like we both threw it away!" "You took my womanhood. It was your fault—all your fault! I was only nineteen, damn you! Only nineteen! And I'll never—ever have a baby of my very own because of your damned … cheat! And after that—after all that—when you'd destroyed my womanhood, you didn't even want me anymore!" "That had nothing to do with the hysterectomy, and you damn well know it!" he ground out. "That had to do with you. With your damned poison. You're right. You have to desire a woman to want to sleep with her, but you killed that. You did that yourself. “And I can't help what happened to you. I can't make it right. God knows I would if I could—would've long years ago since it would've freed me from you. But it can't be fixed. I can't go back and not make the mistake. But I'm not going to pay for it for the rest of my life either. I've given you ten years. Ten years, damn it! I'm not going to pay anymore! No one gets life anymore! No one!" "I got life, you bastard! This is forever, what you did to me! What makes you better? If I can pay for the rest of my life, what the hell makes you think you're too damned good to pay?" He stared at her for a long moment. "As to that—I don't expect to walk away from it completely. Do you honestly think that I could? Do you think it doesn't bother me? Why else would I have stayed with you all these years? It sure as hell wasn't for your luscious body! Your damned companionship! Your wit or your damned charm! “...But I'm not going to let it destroy my whole life. There's no reason why it should destroy yours—except that you let it. You're not the only woman in the world who can't have children! You're not less than a woman because you can't bear a child. I don't believe that. And you don't believe it. You only use it as an excuse to heap more guilt on me. That's all you ever used it for—something to flail me with if you thought I was in some danger of losing my sense of guilt! “If you want the truth of it, you weren't a God damned woman before you had the hysterectomy! You were frigid, Theresa. You were always frigid. The hysterectomy didn't do that to you! I didn't do that to you!" "You make me sick! Don't give me that bullshit about suffering! You never suffered a day—not an hour. I was the one that suffered. And nothing—nothing that I could ever do to you would make it up to me for what you did! Go ahead. Try it! I'll make you sorry you did! I'll make you damn sorry you did! I'll drag your name through the mud! I'll take everything... Everything you've got or ever hope to have! Just like you took everything from me!" He laughed harshly and stood to go. "You can have it with my blessing. I already agreed

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to settle the house and everything else I own on you. At that, it’s still a damned bargain. But, consider it my final penance! It will be my last payment! And you needn't concern yourself about making me sorry. You've already made me very sorry—Every day for the last ten years I've been sorry. Sorry as hell that I ever looked at you. Sorry I ever wanted you. And damned sorry I got you!" She screamed and ran at him then, intent on clawing his eyes out. He caught her wrists, twisting her so that her back was to him, her arms crossed tightly over her heaving bosom. She kicked back at him with the heels of her shoes, twisting her head and trying to bite him. He jerked his head back as her teeth grazed his jaw, giving her a hard shake. "Stop it, Theresa! Now! If you don't learn to stop acting like a mad woman every time you get angry, I swear before God, I'll have you put away!" She went perfectly still, breathing heavily. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she snarled through gritted teeth. "That's what all this was really about, wasn't it? You're looking for something you can use against me so you can have me committed and have it all. Aren't you?" He pushed her away from him in disgust. "Don't credit me with your foul mind! You can be easy on that ... unless you push it. Because I want to be free of you so badly I can taste it and I'd never be rid of you that way." She pushed her hair away from her face and glared at him for a few moments. After a moment a look of cunning came into her expression. "Well, you won't. I won't ever let you go. Sue me. It won't do you any good. I'm yours. You're mine. You'll never have Basilyn and she'll never have you. I’ll ruin you! I won’t stop at taking every dime you have. I’ll destroy you!" He glared at her. It wasn’t an empty threat. She had connections. Theresa could not only wipe him out, she could shred his reputation. And such a stink could quite possibly annihilate all chances for future prosperity. Regardless, it would certainly cause him irreparable damage. But then, he supposed there would be no clean way out of it unless someone did him a favor and permanently removed Theresa from his life. "I made you a generous offer," he said tightly. “Fight me on it and I’ll find what I need to thwart you.” She shrugged. "You can try. You can look. You won't find. You can't prove anything and without that you're shot out of luck!" "Don't bet on it!" he ground out and stalked from the room. She smiled. "Oh, I'm betting on it. I'm certain of it." **** Basilyn aimed the remote control at the TV like a ray gun and switched it off, then dropped the control on the bed impatiently. It bounced when it hit and went over the edge. She watched it as it landed with a soft plop on the carpeted floor. She didn't bother to retrieve it. She merely stared broodingly at the black TV screen for several moments before casting her gaze out the window. The only view she had was of the sky. From her position on the bed she couldn't see so much as the tops of the trees that stood between the Demots' house and their neighbors. Dark, wispy clouds had begun to gather within her view and she studied them a little worriedly, wondering if it would rain—again. It had been a rainy fall, the wettest in her memory. But she wasn't going to let that deter her. If it was raining when it came time for her Lamaze class, she'd just get wet. She wasn't going to stay in the house.

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She pulled her gaze from the view and turned them upon her ankle rather accusingly. Minor sprain. She snorted. She'd been tied by the thing for weeks ... and probably would be for weeks or months more. Not that she couldn't get around far better than she had been able to at first. She'd been able to dispense with those aggravating crutches. But the ankle was still weak. She still hobbled where ever she went. It still hurt. And it wore her out trying to hobble around on it, particularly since she had added to that infirmity the burden of the baby. He was growing like a weed. If the size of her stomach was any indication, and certainly it ought to be, she need have no fear she would be presenting Dominic with a runty weakling. At the rate he was growing, and with the strength he was displaying, he'd be able to aspire to the position of star quarterback before many more years had passed. When standing, she could no longer see her feet, unless she leaned over to look around the mound in front of her. She'd had to become a contortionist only to reach her legs to shave them—and at that, she feared it wasn't such a hot job. She thought, even if it hadn't been for her ankle, she was so bulky now that she would've been amazingly clumsy regardless. With it, she was almost a hazard to herself. Dominic had wanted to move her downstairs. She refused, naturally. She would've had no privacy there, no protection. She didn't tell him that. She wasn't quite certain why she hadn't. Except that he hadn't believed her about the stairs and he and Dr. Chaney had discussed her mental state and she wasn't about to give him reason to suppose she was suffering from paranoia. But she felt rather like she was holed up in a fortress with double locks on both doors and she wasn't going to give up the slight comfort that gave her—slight. It had been more than slight at first. She'd felt completely safe when she'd first added the chain locks as back up for the door locks, not because they would keep out anyone really determined to get in, but because no one could slip in without alerting her. But she still didn't believe that message she'd found on the mirror had been nothing more than her imagination. And she still hadn't thought of a way it could've been done. The message in her diary would've been easy enough to contrive. It could've been done at any time when she was out of the house. Thinking of that brought to mind the fact that she'd neglected it lately. She hadn't touched it since she'd found that message. Which was a first for her. She had never avoided the task before, not even when she'd considered she was doing it on doctor's orders and not for herself. But she found that she was reluctant, even now, to retrieve the book and update it. She should, though, she thought. She really ought to do it. She got up finally and waddled to the dresser for a pen. Catching a view of herself in the mirror as she approached, a wry smile tipped her lips up. "If it weren't for my quaint waddle, people would be mistaking me for the Goodyear blimp," she muttered to herself, selected a pen and moved across the room to remove her diary from its latest hiding place. She debated for a moment after she'd gotten it and finally moved back to the bed. She wasn't comfortable anywhere, but at least on the bed she could prop her ankle up so that it wouldn't throb. Settling herself once more, she opened the book and began to thumb through it in search of the first blank page. She almost missed it. She wished she had. Daddy's girl.

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Her heart leapt, just as the words seemed to leap out at her. She stared at them a long moment, feeling a surge of frightened tears that seemed to form an unswallowable knot in her throat. After a moment, she took her pen and carefully scribbled through the words, inking them heavily. Her hands were shaking as she began to turn the pages again, determined to ignore it. It was only an attempt to frighten her, she assured herself. It was Theresa's doing. It wouldn't have been that hard to find a sample of her handwriting and practice it until she had it just right. It would've been simple to slip up to her room, find the book, and leave those frightening messages. Theresa knew about her past. There'd been no attempt made to keep it a secret from the Demots. She was just tormenting her for the sheer pleasure of it. Or trying to see if she could undermine all her years of counseling. The diary was full of messages. I saw … I know ... Daddy's girl …. Let's play a game. She muffled a sob as the last message leapt out at her. Let's play a game. It seemed to echo in her mind, off into the distance, the distant past ... assuming a deeper tone, a more frightening inflection. Let's play a game. No daddy. Daddy don't! I don't want to ... please!

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Chapter Twenty Four Basilyn clapped a hand to her mouth, fearing for several moments that she would be sick. A burning tide of bile rose in her throat despite her efforts to halt it and she stumbled from the bed and rushed for the bathroom. She collapsed shakily on the floor by the toilet when she'd finished being sick, covering her face with trembling hands, muffling her sobs so that she wouldn't be heard. How could she know? How could she know that? It wasn't in the records. She hadn't even remembered it herself until .... She lowered her hands. She hadn't remembered it herself until she'd read it. It had been long buried in her mind. Theresa couldn't know. There was no way Theresa could know when she hadn't remembered it herself. Her face crumpled. "Who's doing this to me? Who?" She got up finally. She didn't know how long she'd sat there, on the floor in the bathroom, but she felt curiously calm, curiously detached. Turning on the faucet, she rinsed her mouth of the foul taste that lingered there, then splashed cold water on her face repeatedly to rinse away the tears and cool her burning eyes. Patting her face dry, she moved back into her room, settled herself on the bed again and took up her pen and the diary. Curling her fist around the pen, she went through the diary page by page and carefully scribbled through each of the messages, burying them beneath ink, blotting them from her mind. She was staring at the clouds beyond the window when Theresa came up, tapped briefly on her door, and entered without waiting for permission. She turned and stared at the older woman disinterestedly, too sunk in apathy even to feel any animosity at the moment for the woman she was certain was bent on driving her insane. "I came to see if you were going to come down for dinner," Theresa said in a tone that implied that she didn't particularly care whether she came down or not. Basilyn shrugged. She wasn't hungry. Theresa studied her a long moment, a gleam in her eyes of .... What? Satisfaction? Hope? Amusement? She turned away finally and moved to the nursery side of the room, running a hand along the new wall paper, halting beside the dressing table to examine the baby toiletries arranged in a neat row on the back. She moved to the crib then, touching the fluffy coverlet, reaching up to wind the wind-up mobile so that it began to tinkle with music and revolve slowly around like a carousel. She moved finally to the rocking chair and took a seat, rocking slowly. "You can't imagine what it means to me, only to think of having a baby at last," she said, musingly. Basilyn turned to look at her, saying nothing. Theresa continued after a brief pause, still in that musing tone, as if the conversation was pointless, idle. Basilyn knew better. She waited. Theresa would get to the point eventually, and she was certain the point wasn't something she

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wanted to hear. "My folks didn't want us to get married. If it comes to that, Nick's parents didn't either. He was still in college, hardly more than half way through if you want the truth of it. I'd just started myself. I was studying interior design. “We ran off. We didn't really have to, you understand. But it seemed an exciting thing to do. And I don't think Nick wanted to face his folks until it was an accomplished fact. “The parents were all up in the air—his, mine—but mine came around first. Nick's father didn't really come around at all. He told Nick if he was determined to wreck his life, he wasn't going to help him. He could do it on his own. He cut him off—the old bastard—quit helping out with the expenses. It looked for a while as if Nick would have to drop out altogether, once his father withdrew his support, but we struggled through it. I dropped out. Nick transferred to another school, where the tuition was a little more manageable, and managed to land a drafting job. But we had to move. “I hated that. I'd never been away from my folks. And I hated South Carolina. It was …. Well, it wasn't anything like Florida, I can tell you. “We did alright, though. We had our spats. You know how it is with newlyweds ...." She paused, smiling a little self-consciously, with feigned sympathy. "Oh … Of course you wouldn't You've never been married. “Anyway," she said rather flippantly, picking up her story line again, "we'd been married going on our second year when Dominic graduated. Looking back now, I suppose I can sort of understand it a little better now. He was awfully young and immature back then, too. He's only a couple of years older than me, you know. At any rate, there were a bunch of the college kids going out to celebrate on the town. Nick wanted to go with them. I didn't want him to. He offered to take me, but since it was as an afterthought, I damn sure wasn't going to take that kind of invitation. The long and short of it was, Nick slammed out and went anyway. “He didn't come back until the next day. And naturally, I wouldn't speak to him when he did—for days. But finally we made it up .... “I suppose he didn't want to tell me when he found out about it. I suppose I can understand why he didn't want to tell me. It isn't the sort of thing a man would want to tell his wife .... That he's slept with a whore and picked up a venereal disease—but it might have made a difference to me if he had. The infection had spread badly by the time he got around to confessing, and had done a great deal of damage. “Maybe it was even partly my own fault. I was so upset, you see, when I found out. I threw him out of the house. But I didn't go to a doctor right away. I was too upset. Too ashamed and embarrassed. For what could I say? I'd have to admit to being a whore or having a husband that slept with them. Either way …." She shrugged. "When finally I did go and got treatment .... Well, I ended having to have a complete hysterectomy because of it. “I was nineteen. I hadn't even thought about having children, yet, except in a vague sort of way, you know ... and then I discovered there would never be any—never!" She rose from the rocking chair and moved across the room, stopping at the door and turning towards Basilyn. "That's the kind of bastard Nick Demot is! And now he thinks he's going to take the baby away from me! He won't. I won't let the bastard take anything else away from me—ever!" She hesitated there in the doorway, unmoving, waiting. Basilyn stared at her, trying to

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sort through the jumble of emotions that had made chaos of her mind, trying to decide how she felt, how to react when she could feel no identifiable emotion. "But you forgave him," she said finally. "You took him back. All these years, you've protected the secret?" Theresa's lips curled. "I took him back. I never forgave him. And I didn't keep the secret to protect him from everyone's scorn. I kept it to protect myself." Basilyn studied her a long moment. "Of course. How stupid of me to think it might be otherwise." Theresa's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Stupid … damned stupid." **** She felt strange. It was difficult to understand her feelings, but she was preoccupied with them, trying to sort and interpret those vague emotions that gathered in her as she went over and over in her mind the conversation with Theresa. She had no right to judge. Did she still love Dominic? Yes. She knew that. It didn't take a great deal of thinking or even a little to realize that. What kind of love, after all, could not accept the very human failings of the one they supposedly loved? She was ... disappointed, all the same, to find that he wasn't nearly as perfect as she'd believed. She was shocked and repelled by the consequences of his actions for they had, in effect, destroyed a life—as surely, and in much the same way other careless actions might take or destroy a life—drunken driving—drag racing—horsing around with guns. It was done all the time. Everyday someone was killed or their life forever altered by someone else's carelessness. How should they pay? How could they pay? Nothing they could ever do could reverse that one senseless act of carelessness and no amount of sorrow or money could give back to those injured what had been taken. If they were decent people of conscience, the destroyers, they carried the weight of it in guilt for the rest of their lives—surely a just punishment. And everyone around them judged them, condemned them. Did she believe it? Was there any possibility any or all of it had been a lie? She might have thought so. She would've been more than willing to think so, eager in fact, if not for the fact that she knew, had known for some time, that what kept Dominic under Theresa's paw was, must be, guilt. There was no love between them if there had ever been. Dominic would not have stayed merely for the sake of preserving his life style. It meant too little to him. And he spent far too much time working to keep Theresa in the style she preferred to have the chance to enjoy it himself in any case. So it had to be something else that held them together. And she'd surmised long since that that something must be guilt and must concern the fact that Theresa could not bear children. She did believe it. She didn't want to. She said nothing to him as he drove her to Lamaze class. She could think of nothing to say and was so deep in her thoughts at any rate that it didn't occur to her to attempt any sort of conversation until they'd arrived at their destination. He came around the jeep to help her alight and took her pillow from her, grasping her elbow in a way that was possessive as much as

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supportive as he guided her into the building. "You're quiet tonight?" he said questioningly as they entered the elevator. She flicked him a distracted glance. "Just thinking." It was easy, she thought, to forgive someone a terrible thing when they hadn’t done it to you. Could she have forgiven him if he'd done it to her? She wasn't at all certain she could've done that. She might still have loved him. She didn't think she would've been able to forgive him. Would she have turned into the same sort of creature that Theresa had turned into? No! she thought. Never that! "About what?" She shook her head. "This and that." His look was penetrating. She avoided eye contact and preceded him from the elevator. They had begun to feel like pros. They went through the exercises almost like clockwork—which was just, as well. Basilyn's mind really wasn't on the class that night. They were shown a film of an actual birth at the end of class. Basilyn thought, ruefully, that it was probably just as well she was so distracted. The film might have frightened her otherwise. She hadn't envisioned anything even approaching what she apparently had to look forward to. Dominic made no attempts to draw her into conversation on the way home again. Instead, he seemed as preoccupied as she was, his thoughts, from the frown he wore, apparently as dark as her own. "She told you," he said heavily when he'd pulled into the garage once more and parked the jeep. Basilyn turned to look at him. "Yes. She told me." He propped his elbow on the window edge, cupping his chin in his palm, staring at nothing in particular. "So …. I suppose you despise me now?" His voice held a questioning note. She looked away. "No. I don't know how I feel if you want an honest answer. I just don't know." He was silent for several moments. "I was …. Never mind," he said tiredly, scrubbing his hand over his face as if he could wipe away the memories. "Young and stupid?" Basilyn supplied. "Haven't we all been? I suppose that's what eventually makes old and wise, learning from stupid mistakes. So, who has the right to judge? I'm not judging." He struck the steering wheel suddenly with his fist. "Then what do you call it?" he asked angrily. She stared at him a long moment. "I call it trying to sort through my own feelings. Why? Does it matter? What diff ...? Never mind." "It was a stupid thing to have done, a damned stupid mistake. But I've paid for it." She stared at him a long moment before she looked away again, clearing her throat finally of a dryness there. "Did you ever stop to think that the degree of guilt is determined by the consequences of one's actions and the intent?" she said musingly. "An accident is an accident. No malicious intent. Maybe it’s just plain carelessness that caused it, but it’s still an accident. Everyone accepts that, usually even the victim. Even when one has willfully done wrong, if there are no consequences, or the consequences are light or only inflicted upon oneself, its forgivable. They're not as guilty. “A guy goes in to rob a store. The clerk pulls a gun and in the scuffle, the clerk gets

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killed. It wasn't intentional. The robber's charged with a lesser charge than murder because he didn't mean to murder, but he's still guilty because he meant to do something wrong. “Suppose there's two robbery/murders. In one case, the victim was a nice old lady with four children and six grandchildren. The other victim sells drugs. The first incident causes total outrage. In the second case nine people out of ten would say the murderer did society a favor. “And then there's the—as long as you don't get caught, you aren't guilty—attitude. A girl that gets pregnant and isn't married, is guilty. A girl who sleeps with her boyfriend and doesn't get caught—pregnant—is innocent. It’s understood the boy didn't mean to get her pregnant, so he isn't considered guilty—by most people—in either case. Boys will be boys. They shrug. “If there had been no consequences. If nothing had come of it besides a one night fling that constituted only a single act of infidelity, would you have felt as guilty?" He studied her a long moment. "Not as guilty. But it doesn't matter, does it? It happened. It can't be changed. If I had it to do over? I'd probably make the same stupid mistake. I'd still have gone out and got dead drunk and not known or cared where I ended up for the night." Silence reigned for perhaps five minutes. Dominic broke it. "The truth is I’ve done worse. I made a deal with the devil. I agreed to give Theresa what she wanted and she’d let me go … without trying to ruin me. I just didn’t realize I was signing it in blood at the time. Now … well, I can’t buy redemption that way. I mean to let her have it all … everything—Except my half interest in my business—which I couldn't give her in any case. The rest will all be settled on her. I don't see much point in fighting it since that's probably the way it'll go anyway. The local courts are big on alimony. At any rate, I owe it to her. Don't you think?" He didn't wait for her comment, apparently didn't really expect one ... or thought he knew what it would be. Or maybe he was afraid she'd object? "As soon as I can make the arrangements … find a place to stay … find one for you …." He shrugged. "I'd hoped …. But it doesn't matter now, does it? At any rate, you'll want to start getting your things together. I can't leave you here. I wouldn't if I trusted Theresa not to take it out on you. I mean to have custody of the baby. “I'd thought, when we began this that the only way I could ever really make restitution was to give Theresa a child. That way I'd be free—free to go—freed from guilt. I can't do that. I can't sacrifice the baby—and that's what it would amount to—a new sin to cancel out an older one." Basilyn turned to look at him, feeling for the first time since Theresa had talked to her something she could identify at once. Relief and gladness. She hadn't realized before just how sick at heart she was at the thought of Theresa having the child. She hadn't allowed herself to think about it when she knew she didn't have the power to stop it. She felt better, immensely better. She felt like crying. She swallowed against the urge and nodded. "I'll get my things together. But you needn't worry about me. I can find my own place. I have money put back." "No," he said implacably. She turned to look at him with a touch of surprise. "The expense is mine until the baby's born." She studied him a long moment and finally shrugged. It had been agreed upon. She still felt uncomfortable with it, but it paid to be practical. She wouldn't be able to go back to work immediately after the baby was born. She'd need a little time to recover. She still had more than

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a month to go before the baby was due. She wasn't certain her nest egg would carry her so far. "Then you'd best find the apartment. You'll know better than I what you're willing to pay for it." He said nothing and after a moment she grasped the door handle and pushed the door open. He reached out and grasped her arm, stopping her as she would've gotten from the jeep. "Just tell me one thing. Did you ever care for me? Or was it just ...." Basilyn felt a flash of anger. "Don't say it!" she cut him off. "Don't you ever say that to me! If you think that, even for a moment, then you never knew me at all. And, if you want to know how I really feel about what you did to Theresa—the way I look at it, you're like the robber that shot the drug dealer. You did society a favor—Because it gives me the shudders to think of any child of Theresa's get let loose on society. And you're still guilty as hell! And if you'd done it to me I'd have castrated you! And, yes, to answer your question, Dominic Demot—I care. I love you." She flung the door open then, got out, and stalked into the house. He watched her go, unmoving. But slowly, slowly, he began to feel a touch of hope. Love—not loved. **** Bentley Parker was almost as nondescript as his name. He might have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. He was of medium height, medium build, had medium brown hair and common gray eyes. He was neither handsome nor ugly, but somewhere in between. He had a friendly, talkative way about him. There was nothing threatening about either his manner or his appearance. People rarely noticed him unless he drew their attention in idle chatter, and then they forgot him the moment he left. He'd chosen the perfect profession. "Well? Did you come up with anything?" Parker shrugged and moved to the desk, dropping a manila envelope on it. "Couldn't say. Found plenty. Don't know if any of it was what you were looking for … or if it'll help out in any way." He moved to a chair and dropped into it, studying his employer as he took the report out and examined it. He felt a good deal of satisfaction at the stunned look of disbelief that came to the other man's darkly handsome features. Bingo! he thought. "My God! Is this right?" Parker nodded. "Oh, it’s right. I checked it out real careful—just like always. You know me. I'm always thorough. And most of it came right out of the back files. You know what doctors are. They never throw away old files. Of course, as you can see, there's a good bit of speculation in there, too. It's been a long time. There weren't a lot of people around that remembered anything about it. The place I mentioned in there's gone now and the folks around there don't much like to talk about it. Not that I figure that could've really helped anyway. “Her they remembered. She ain't the kind of female people forget. I hope you won't take offense. Stepped on a few toes from what I hear. People remember things like that—a long time." Dominic sat back in his chair, too stunned to think. He knew he was too stunned to think clearly. That was about the only thing he was clear on. He would have to have more time before he could take it all in—consider it—figure out what it meant to him. He would have to read the report over very carefully to see if it meant what he thought it meant. He looked up at Parker finally. They had a more or less loose association. He'd hired the

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man several times over the last few years to check out clients he had doubts about. Not their ability to pay, but their questionable reputations. He had no desire to have any sort of association, even a short term, valid business association, with anyone connected in any way to the drug trade. And there were plenty of them around with high ambitions and big bucks to spend. That was where Parker had come in. And he'd done damned well for him over the years. He was good. He was always thorough. And he was discrete. He took out his check book, opened it, and began to fill out the check without looking up. "Does it help?" Dominic didn't look up at him until he'd finished writing. "I don't know. I honestly don't know. I'll have to think about it—look into it a little more deeply." Parker looked him over shrewdly. "There's enough there to finagle a confession out of her though, right?" Dominic studied him a long moment. "Maybe. If I handle it right. But that's my problem, not yours. Your work is done. And as usual, you've done a damned fine job." He extended the check. Parker took it, looked it over and tucked it into his wallet. "No problem. Anything else I can help you with, you let me know." Parker got up and started towards the door. He paused there, turning back. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that job I did for Mrs. Demot a while back, would it?" Dominic's head snapped around. He studied Parker for a long moment. "Why don't you tell me about it?" Parker eyed him steadily for several moments and shrugged mentally, moving back into the room and taking a seat. Dominic Demot paid his salary—had paid for that job as well as this one. If he didn't know what he'd paid for, he was entitled to. At any rate, he didn't owe any loyalties to that bitch of a wife of his. He had a second check in his pocket when he left the offices of Demot and Kendall some thirty minutes later and a feeling of immense satisfaction that had little to do with the money in his pocket. He believed he saw judgment day coming.

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Chapter Twenty Five "Mama called today. She wanted to know whether we meant to have Thanksgiving dinner or supper with her?" Dominic lifted his gaze from his plate and focused upon Theresa’s face, but his thoughts were distant. He hadn't had the opportunity to read the report he'd gotten yet, to analyze it. He hadn't really had much of an opportunity to sort through his thoughts on that other matter as far as that went. And he'd thought of little else since he'd talked to Parker. He needed solitude to think, and plan, and he hadn't been able to find it. If he had his own place. But he hadn't been able to find anything suitable, yet. Possibilities, but nothing definite. He didn't much care what sort of place it was as long as it met with his top priorities. It must be within a fifteen minute drive to the hospital and within five minutes of the apartment he found for Basilyn. And no nearer. He'd thought about taking two apartments in the same complex, but that couldn't look good when it came to settlement day. Not that it could hurt him particularly, when he'd already agreed to give up everything he owned. But he didn't want Basilyn dragged into it. And there was always the possibility that the judge, if he suspected him of infidelity during their marriage, might decide to award Theresa everything he had—and most of what he could expect to make for the rest of his life along with it. But, although he was willing to make that much of a concession for the sake of appearances, he wasn't going to take it any further. He wasn't nearly as sanguine about the birth as he liked to think he'd conveyed to Basilyn during their Lamaze sessions. It scared the hell out of him just thinking about it. But he was determined he would be the one to take her when her time came. And he was determined he was going to be there—at the hospital. And to do that he had to be nearby. He didn't think, even if Basilyn would've allowed it, that he had it in him to face the delivery room. He would be quite happy to wait in the waiting room. But he was damn well going to be in the waiting room. Slowly, those thoughts were displaced by Theresa's remark, and as the gist of it registered, he felt fury flood through him. He was on the verge of pointing out to her that he'd already made it clear, or thought he had, that he had no intention of carrying their farce one step further, when it suddenly occurred to him that it just might be the opportunity he'd been looking for. He considered it, very carefully, and instead of blasting her with his temper as had been his first impulse, commented almost moderately, "I already told you ...." "I know!" Theresa snapped, interrupting him. "But I don't see any damn sense in announcing it now! It's a holiday for God's sake! What difference is one more day going to make? She even invited Basilyn ...," she added temptingly. Dominic's brow lifted, but he said nothing. Basilyn dropped her fork to her plate. "She invited me? Your maid? That is what you

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told her, isn't it? She associates with maids?" Theresa sent her a glare. "She was shocked at the notion, I assure you. But I pointed out that you were a poor little orphan and had nowhere else to spend the holiday. And besides that I didn't trust you not to tote off the silverware. Maybe you could help with the serving?" Basilyn's lips tightened. "That's what I figured. You volunteered my services! Well, you can un-volunteer them! And you can take your silverware and shove it up your ass!" Dominic studied her a moment. "Do you have any where to go?" Basilyn focused her attention on her plate. "No." "Well, that settles it then," Theresa said complacently. "It doesn't settle a damn thing!" Basilyn snapped. "Just because I've nowhere to go doesn't mean I'd be delighted to wait on 'the upper crust'!" Theresa glared at her a moment and then smiled placatingly. "I was only teasing you. Mama has her own maid." Basilyn eyed her narrowly. "So I can eat with her, right? Is she allowed to eat in the kitchen or does she have to sit on the back steps?" "What's eating you, anyway? You think you're too damned good to eat with a maid? You? A waitress?" "No. You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm too good for your company. And on second thought, I believe I might just enjoy it at that. Us niggers can just sit out in de kitchen and gossip 'bout de white folks in de big house! Sounds like fun. And we could steal your mother's silverware. She's bound to have better taste than you do. It could hardly be worse." "I think," Dominic said, interjecting a word in before Theresa could think of a suitable come back, "you'll be pleasantly surprised when you meet Theresa's mother. She isn't anything like Theresa. And I don't believe for a moment she objected to you on the grounds that you were Theresa's 'maid', as she'd been told—or suggested you help with the serving. I don't much care for her daughter, but I'm very fond of Trudy. I think you will be, too." "You don't care for her daughter but you're damned fond of her daughter's maid, aren't you?" Theresa snapped angrily. "Shut up!" Dominic ground out. "Start. And I'll damn well not go, and you can make up whatever story you want." She glared at him furiously for several moments, but finally subsided, returning her attention to her dinner. Basilyn studied both of them for several moments and finally shrugged. "Why not? It's not like I have a lot of choices." But she knew Theresa didn't want her at her mother's house to insure the safety of her silverware. Theresa wanted her where she could watch her. And watch Dominic at the same time. What, she wondered, did she hope to gain by that? Dominic had already told her he was leaving her ... and he hadn't made any mention of leaving Theresa for her—either to her or to Theresa. She was certain of that. In the first place, it would've been a stupid move even if that was what he meant to do. And Dominic wasn't stupid. In the second, Theresa either felt secure in her grip on him or had discounted Basilyn as any real threat or she would already have attempted some sort of retaliation. So, what was her game this time? And why was Dominic going along with it? She didn't know, but it worried her. It made her nervous as hell.

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**** He'd left on the pretext of having to pick up some drawings at his office. He didn't think anyone had believed it. But he didn't particularly give a damn. They'd accepted it and kept their suspicions to themselves. The house was deadly quiet with both Theresa and Basilyn gone. It seemed more a mausoleum that it had ever seemed before. But the atmosphere of the house itself didn't particularly bother him. It was his own thoughts that bothered him. He felt no guilt. If what he suspected was true. He hoped he was wrong. He thought if his suspicions were proven correct, he might …. He wasn't certain what he would do. Something violent. Something damned violent—because it had occurred to him that he might have been caught up in some sort of plot hatched between them. He paused in the doorway, his gaze going automatically to the bed. Memories flooded back, sweet memories. But they were tainted now by suspicion. He shrugged the memories aside and moved about the room methodically. He finally found it taped to the underside of a drawer. He moved to the window with it for better light, propping a hip on the windowsill as he opened it and began to scan the pages carefully. He didn't quite know what he was looking for. He didn't know if it would be blatantly obvious or cryptic ... or coded in some way. But he'd know if he found it. There was nothing cryptic about it. It was as straightforward as she was, but more open, without reserve. He began to have the uncomfortable feeling of being an eavesdropper—the shamed, titillated, guilty feeling of having been caught up, by curiosity, as a peeping tom. Because, despite the fact that he'd only meant to discover if she presented a threat to him in some way, if she was guilty of what he'd thought she was guilty of, and had had no intention of prying into her privacy, he found, once he began, that he couldn't seem to help himself. He pried. He read ... things no one had ever been meant to read—the voice of the heart, deepest feelings, fears. He shut the book resolutely. There was nothing there to give any indication that his suspicions had been anything but suspicions. He felt disgust with himself for those suspicions, wondering how, knowing her as he'd come to know her, he could've had them at all. He set the book aside, staring into space while he allowed his thoughts to work the solution to the problem in his mind. The doubts had come because, once he discovered the truth, he'd found it impossible to believe she could've been completely ignorant—and unless she was completely ignorant, she must have been caught up in some way. He moved away from the window, on the prowl again, searching. There had been a box. He remembered it. There were similar volumes in it, several volumes. He found them finally. He didn't allow himself to linger over them. He scanned them carefully, but with determined detachment. He found nothing. No mention whatsoever, though she'd mentioned others. It couldn't merely be coincidence or happenstance. She didn't know. She didn't remember. He put the books away carefully. He set the room to rights and turned to scan it carefully, checking everything to make certain he'd left no indication of his presence. He was on the point of leaving when the urge struck him, so strong he stopped to examine it. Finally, he turned back into the room, removed the volume and opened it. Taking up a pen, he began to write. The sound of a blaring TV greeted him on his return, the crowd hooting and screaming

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encouragement to the football players out on the field. Jon Mead was sprawled on the couch, his long legs propped on the coffee table and crossed at the ankles, snoring loudly enough to drown out the racket the TV was making. Theresa was curled up beside him, a magazine on her lap, her head propped on his shoulder. He stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room. "Where's … everybody." It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask for Basilyn. He thought better of it. Theresa yawned. She didn't bother to cover her mouth. "Gary and Melody just left. Mama's out in the kitchen taking care of the left-overs and Basilyn went upstairs to take a nap." His gaze went automatically to the stairs. When he glanced back at Theresa, he saw that she was watching him. He pushed away from the door frame he'd propped against and moved towards the kitchen. "I think I'll go get another piece of that pecan pie your mother baked." Trudy was putting the last of the wrapped left-overs in the refrigerator when he got to the kitchen. She turned as she heard him come in and smiled. "Looking for seconds? I just put it all away, but I'd be happy to fix you up something if you'll tell me what you'd like?" He propped a hip against the island, studying her for a long moment. "Nothing. I've had plenty of everything. I thought we might talk." She sent him a hesitant smile, but her eyes slid away uncomfortably. "About anything in particular?" He eyed her steadily. "I'd like to know about Theresa. When was she adopted? And why has it been kept a secret all these years?" Her smile faltered and fell flat. She sent a glance towards the door that led into the living room before she looked at Dominic again, briefly, and looked away. "Would you care to take a walk in the garden? It's really nice out today ... and ... I'd like to show you my roses. It's the strangest thing. The weather seems to have confused them. Odd weather we've been having lately, you know. Poor things seem to think it's spring. They're budding." Dominic eyed her for a moment and pushed away from the island. "I'd like that." He didn't prompt her once they were outside. He allowed her the time she needed to gather her thoughts together. "Jon and I had been married for years," she began finally. "It didn't really bother us at first. You know, you don't really think about those things when you're young—except maybe with a touch of relief that you don't have to worry about it—children, I mean. I suppose I had a twinge now and then, worrying over the fact that I hadn't conceived, but I didn't worry about it too much. I was happy. I kept thinking it would happen eventually, when the time was right. “As the years passed we began to see, both of us, that ignoring it wasn't going to help matters. We confessed our doubts, finally, to each other and finally admitted we had a problem. I went in for tests. They couldn't find anything wrong. “I hated to even tell Jon that—because that meant it was him. I know he seems … very sure of himself, very … self-possessed, but, that sort of thing .... Well it's like hitting below the belt. It strikes at a man's confidence no matter how well he hides it. Eventually, he took it upon himself to go in for tests. I think, really, he went in so that the doctor could reassure him. He didn't. He told Jon he was infertile—not sterile, he assured him, just infertile. We might never have a child. We could conceive, but it seemed doubtful after all those years had passed. And I was getting to an age when I began to fear it was just going to be too late for us. “There was a man who worked for Jon. He was—well he was a sorry thing. Drank heavily. There were rumors that he abused his family. Nothing anybody could ever prove.

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Nothing that Jon could find to fire him for, though he despised the man. “Somehow, he found out about Jon and me—well it wasn't really any secret that we were childless and desperate for one by that time. We'd been trying to adopt. It can take years. And we'd gotten to the point that we just wanted a child. It didn't matter whether it was a boy or girl—an infant. We just wanted a child. “He …. This man, Miller, had brought his little girl out to the site a couple of times. Jon couldn't keep his eyes off her. He was always telling me about her—such a sweet, pretty little thing. He hated to think about the rumors he'd heard about the man. “One day he says to the man, sort of joking, you know, sort of wishful thinking—maybe even a little as a warning—‘If I had a pretty little girl like that, I'd treat her like a princess. I'd dearly love to have a little girl like her.’ “And this Miller fellow says, ‘Well, I've got a houseful just like her. My old lady drops them regular as clockwork and it's hard for a man like me to support them all. Damned cow's pregnant again, too. I beat hell out of her when I found out, but it don't do no good. The stupid cow don't never learn. Work my ass off and still can't hardly keep body and soul together. Can't treat none of them like princesses. You could take her off my hands if you want.’ “Just like that … casual as you please. As if she was a puppy or something. Well, Jon was shocked, I can tell you. Outraged …. About the man's poor wife, about the child. I don't know how he kept from beating the man senseless. He wanted to. He came home purely in a rage. He talked about it for weeks, muttering about having the Family and Children's services investigate the man and then that it wouldn't do any good because the fellow was crafty and they hadn't been able to pin anything on him before. Because he had been investigated before from what we'd heard. “I couldn't believe it myself. I thought Jon must have misunderstood him. But I got to thinking about it and I guess Jon was thinking about it too, because finally he approached the man again and asked him if he was serious. “‘Sure," he says. ‘I've got more than I want or can take care of. You don't have any. Makes sense. It ain't like she'd be going to anybody that wouldn't take care of her. You can give her more than I can. She'd be better off.’ “We agreed with him on that. She would certainly be better off. As it turned out, we ended making a sort of … back door deal for her. Poor child. She was so miserable. We hadn't counted on that. That she would be so hurt to be given up like that to strangers. I don't know why. I suppose it just shows how ignorant we were when it came to children. But she was so little we thought sure she'd get over it very quickly. “Of course we bent over backwards to make her happy with us, to make her accept us. I don't think she ever really would have, though, except her father just up and left the area with the rest of the family. “We didn't—we didn't actually try to keep her adoption a secret—except at first, you know. Because we were afraid he'd come back for her or that someone would find out and they'd take her from us. But for all her troubles, she was a joy to have around. I can't tell you how happy it made us to have a child in the house at last. “And then, as fate would have it, not long after we took her in I finally became pregnant. Well, she was ours by then, in our hearts, you know. And—well, I suppose it was only natural that she'd feel threatened by a new baby. Even natural brothers and sisters do. And we didn't

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want to make a distinction between them, so we just never talked about her being adopted—not even around each other. I think, in a way, after a while we really forgot that she was." She stopped for several moments. "I … I love Theresa, you understand," she began again, hesitantly. "I don't want you to think that I don't, but ... well, loving someone doesn't mean you're blind to their faults. And as hard as we tried to make it up to Theresa for her father's rejection—and abuse, too, if you want the truth of it—I never could quite understand that … that she was terrified of him and still loved him so … frantically. She never really got over any of it. “Which was why I was so upset when you and she ran off and got married. I was afraid she …. Well, she wasn't a well adjusted child and she's always been rather … immature in a lot of ways. I didn't think it would work out between you two. I didn't think it could. I was so relieved when I saw that it was working so well." Dominic studied her a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to allow her her illusions—at least for a little longer. But he genuinely liked Trudy. He didn't want it to come as a complete shock to her. "Not as well as you apparently thought," he said finally. "In fact, not well at all." She stared at him for a long moment and finally looked away. "I … I was afraid of that. I'd hoped ...." She was silent for a long time, wrestling with something in her mind that was apparently bothering her. "I hate to say it. I know this is going to sound terrible—but ... I've been so worried since we found out Theresa was pregnant. It's not …. Well, I don't think I truly believe in a bad seed. Or at least, I think there's every chance it won't show even if there's one there. And, Theresa wasn't his natural child anyway—we found out later that he was her step-father. But the thing is, Theresa was an abused child. And they say …. They say people who were abused as children are very likely to abuse their own," she broke off, wrestled with herself a moment and looked up at him with a mixture of guilt, determination, and sorrow. "You will watch her, won't you?" she added finally. Dominic stared at her, aware of a sense of relief—relief that she didn't know his own guilty secret, as he'd feared she must the night of the dinner party. It was short lived. She was certain to know it soon enough. Theresa would see that she did. It wasn't that that prompted his admission, however. It was the fact that this, too, she was bound to know sooner or later. And, in part, the urge to ease her mind of its fears. "Theresa isn't pregnant," he said bluntly. He hated to tell her like that, but he could think of no gentle way to put it, and she had a right to know. "It was ….an elaborate hoax on her part. We meant to … adopt," he lied uncomfortably. "But Theresa wanted everyone to believe it was hers. I would've stopped her if I'd known what she meant to do, but she sprang it on me the same time she sprang it on everyone else. I didn't have any choice but to embarrass her and everyone else or to go along with it. I shouldn't have gone along with it, I know. But somehow I couldn't seem to bring myself …. If it had only been in the family ...." He stopped, shrugging. Trudy stared at him a long moment and began to cry quietly. "I'm ashamed—so ashamed. But, you know, I'm glad. I shouldn't be. But I am. She doesn't have any business with a child, Nick. She doesn't ...." Dominic patted her shoulder a little awkwardly and finally pulled her into an affectionate embrace. "I know, Trudy. I know.

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Chapter Twenty Six "Wellll," Theresa purred as Dominic stepped into the room. "Isn't this exciting? Two visits from the lord of the manor in less than a week!" She strolled across the room with a total unconcern for the fact that she was stark naked and finally took from her drawer a filmy robe that enhanced rather than concealed her figure. Dominic studied her with detachment. He'd always wondered how such a seemingly sensual woman could be so cold. But, of course, he knew now what he'd only suspected for years. There was something very foul at her core. Now he knew why it was that touching her was rather like biting into a beautiful red apple and discovering the center was rotted and full of worms. He dropped the manila envelope onto her chaise lounge. "I didn't do it," he said without preamble, keeping his voice cool with an effort. "You did it—to yourself." She turned to look at him with lifted brows for several moments before her gaze drifted to the envelope. Something flickered in her eyes, but she held her calm facade well, her air of surprise and bewilderment. "What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about my guilty secret. My unforgivable sin. The one that's kept me tied to you for years. The one you've used against me—used to get everything you wanted from me," he ground out. "Did you think the records would've been destroyed by this time? Or was it that you just didn't count on me ever becoming suspicious enough to check? “I was, you know, from the start. Despite the fact that I had enough guilty knowledge that I allowed you to talk me in to believing it was even worse than I'd thought it was. “I was dead drunk. I'll admit that. And I let her take me to her apartment. But I passed out on her couch. I couldn't ever remember touching her. And I wondered how it could've happened. How I could've screwed her without having any memory of it." Her facade dropped away. Her face contorted. She didn't pretend not to understand what he was talking about. "You didn't do anything? You expect me to believe that? I followed you that night. I saw you leave with her, you bastard! I know what you did!" "So you picked someone else up. Or was there more than one? How many men did you sleep with to get even with me, Theresa? Three? Four? A half dozen? Do you even remember?" He stopped, trying to rein in his temper. "They remember! They remember it rather fondly, in fact! You must have put on a hell of a performance! “But it didn't work, did it? They kept their guilty secret. That was what it was for, wasn't it? They were supposed to let me know. Because how could you really have revenge on me for what you thought I did if I didn't even know? “Only it backfired. It really backfired!" He stopped again, advancing on her now. "I didn't give you anything!" he ground out. "You gave it to me!" "You self-righteous, sanctimonious bastard! Do you think that relieves you of guilt! It was your fault! Your fault! All of it! If you hadn't gone off with that tramp, none of it would've happened! None of it! And yes! You were supposed to know! Why do you think I picked all

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your best friends? So you'd know! So you'd know I got you back, you son-of-a-bitch. Only I got you back better!" "You got yourself back! I've got the damned records! You were diagnosed a week before I came down with it! How in the hell can your twisted mind conceive of it being my fault, when you contracted the disease and passed it to me?" "You needn't try to twist it to suit your needs!" she spat at him. "I wouldn't have been there if not for you! I wouldn't have been forced to pay you back! It was your fault, you son-ofa-bitch! All your fault! And you can deny it to your dying breath and it'll still be your fault!" He grabbed her shoulder, giving her a shake. "Just like the hysterectomy was my fault," he roared furiously, "you deceitful … vindictive … lying bitch! Huh? Like that was my fault! When you aborted my baby? When you went to that butcher to abort my baby and he screwed you up so royally you had to have a hysterectomy or bleed to death? Is that how it’s my fault? Is it? Everything you do … everything you've ever done to get even with me for things you thought I did, automatically becomes my fault! My sin! Not yours! You're as innocent as the driven snow. Put upon by the whole damned world!" For a moment, the blood drained from her face. It rushed back with a vengeance. "Yes," he said with satisfaction. "I know about that, too. The doctor put it in his records. The cause of the hysterectomy. You didn't figure I could find that out. You figured you'd covered your tracks well. What did you do? Bribe him into not telling me the truth by sleeping with him, too?" He saw something flicker in her eyes and knew he'd hit the nail on the head. The doctor had said nothing about an abortion ... directly. He'd merely noted punctures and lacerations that had indicated one—to another professional. Not to a layman like himself. The doctor Parker had consulted about the records had suggested that. His hands clenched on her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. He was tempted to smash her face, to throw her against the wall. She'd killed his baby. Without a qualm. And laid the blame at his door. She'd tormented him for years, and he'd allowed it because he'd thought he was guilty as hell. And all the time, she'd known. She'd known! He flung her away from him. She wasn't worth it. He had his ticket now. He was rid of her. Well rid of her, and she could spout as many lies as she wanted from now on, it wouldn't do her any good. With the records … and her own confession … She’d be lucky if the judge didn’t make her pay him! "You know," he said tauntingly when he reached the door, "I begin to rethink things. What do I owe you, I wonder? What sort of restitution do I owe you? What did I ever do to you? Or were you getting even with me for what your father did to you? Was that it? Was I his scapegoat, too?" "You're not fit to speak his name!" she screamed at him, and then began to laugh and cry hysterically. "It wasn't yours! It wasn't yours any of the time. I thought it was! That's why I got rid of it! Because I thought it was yours!" He stared at her for a long moment and finally went out, slamming the door behind him. He felt ill. He went down the stairs rapidly, gaining speed as he went. He needed to get out of the house. He needed fresh air to think clearly. Because the air this near Theresa was foul, foul with an indescribable stench. He hesitated when he reached his jeep, having gone to it from force of habit. After a

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moment, he re-pocketed his keys. He needed to walk. He needed to think. He was free—finally really and truly free—and he needed time to accept it fully. He needed to accept finally, and completely that the weight of guilt had been lifted. **** Basilyn frowned, cocking her head to one side to listen in puzzlement, trying to identify the odd noise she kept hearing. There were strange bumping sounds coming from … somewhere. She couldn't tell just where. There had been for some time, though she realized it hadn't really registered in her mind before now. It seemed to be coming from the house, inside the house, but what in the world could it be? She aimed the remote control at the TV set and lowered the volume so that she could hear better. It sounded like someone … moving something? Furniture? Her frown deepened. Was Dominic moving furniture around? Or just moving period? Today? It seemed a peculiar time to start. The sound of breaking glass cut sharply across that thought and her brows lifted in perplexed surprise. "Well, good Lord! He sounds like a bull in a china shop. He'll have everything he owns broken at that rate." That thought prompted another one that suddenly seemed far more probable. Theresa was having another tantrum. She wondered what it was that she had been deprived of, or that had displeased her, this time. Whatever it was, she wasn't curious enough to stick her nose into it and get it whacked off. She turned the volume up again, but she found she couldn't dismiss it. The noise continued, unabated. She finally turned the TV off and sat up to listen more carefully, caught by a sudden apprehension. Theresa surely should've vented her spleen on whatever hapless inanimate object she'd chosen to vent it upon by now? She'd been arguing with Dominic. Despite every effort not to overhear, despite the fact that she'd turned the volume up on her TV until she'd been unable to discern what they were arguing about, she'd heard their raised voices. He wouldn't …. She dismissed the thought. She knew he wouldn't …. Didn't she? On the other hand, if he had decided he wanted some of the furniture, he was probably having to hold Theresa off with one hand and load with the other. She got up from the bed and moved to the door, opening it a crack. She could hear Theresa wailing loudly, cursing … fighting? With Dominic? "My God!" she muttered, stunned by a sudden new thought. "Is he trying to kill her?" She remained frozen in the doorway for some time, unable to grasp a truly coherent thought, but after a moment, not thought, but emotion, surged into her, making her move. She didn't consciously think of preventing anything. She didn't consciously acknowledge the need to protect. Or whom she felt the need to protect. Theresa from Dominic's wrath. Or Dominic from his actions. She only realized she could not remain an unwilling witness and do nothing at all to stop whatever was happening. She moved across the upper landing and grasped the balustrade tightly to prevent her vertigo from making her lose her balance, staring down at the great room below for several moments in stunned amazement before she began to walk down the stairs slowly. The room was a shambles. Great pieces of furniture had been overturned. Small tables smashed. Pictures had been ripped from the wall and beaten to pieces. Lamps shattered. Books and bric-a-brac were

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strewn and broken all over the floor. She simply stared at the massive destruction blankly for long moments as she reached the first floor, unable to comprehend what had happened … what was happening. She could hear Theresa in the kitchen. The crashes and pounding had stopped, but Theresa was weeping loudly and unrestrainedly. After a moment, she picked her way carefully across the littered floor and moved to the door of the kitchen. She froze there, looking around the demolished room. The copper cookware, dented and in some cases bent into almost unrecognizable shapes, was strewn about the kitchen. The potted plants were likewise strewn, with great heaps and little sprinkles of potting soil scattered here and there. Legumes, rice, flour, grits and corn meal from the blown glass canisters that had once contained them in a neat, chic row, coated walls, floor, counter tops and even the ceiling in a few places. Cooking oil dripped from the ceiling, as well, onto the cabinets below them, running down in a thin stream to form a large, slick puddle on the once spotless floor. The bar stools were over turned, their padded seats ripped open as if a great, taloned bird had swooped down upon them and raked his talons across the seat. It looked as if a hurricane … or a berserker, had been through the house. A husky whisper cut across the deadly stillness, stabbing Basilyn in the chest like an icy pick. "Daddy's girl ...." The words were edged with bitter contempt. It sounded masculine ... but it wasn't her father's voice. She could never have forgotten that. Not in a million nightmares. It hit her then, so suddenly, so stunningly that she didn't really grasp the terrified thought that flitted through her mind and disappeared in the blackness of shock. Her father wasn't the only one who'd known what went on in her bedroom at night ... because it wasn't just her bedroom. She'd shared it with her sisters ... and her brothers. "Remember when daddy cut Chubsy's head off? Well ... now it's your turn!" Basilyn was stunned, too frozen with shock to do more than look wildly around in search of the owner of the voice. She could see no one. Without volition, she stepped into the kitchen doorway, terrified to see ... terrified to turn her back before she knew just where the threat lay waiting. The crying had cut off—as if a faucet had been abruptly shut off—the moment Basilyn reached the kitchen door. The sudden cessation of sound made Basilyn's flesh creep, made the hair at her nape prickle as she took another cautious step forward and looked around. Theresa, she saw to her bewilderment, was seated on the floor cross-legged, propped against the refrigerator. Seated next to her, with her head on Theresa's shoulder, was Valerie. Basilyn studied them blankly. They looked as if they'd just decided to settle to rest …. Except Theresa had painted an ungodly clown grin on her face with bright red lipstick … and it was dripping down her chin. Why she had it all over her, Basilyn noticed with a touch of shocked disbelief! And Valerie, too, for that matter! What in the world had they been doing? It hit her then, like a physical blow, an icy wave that froze her blood in her veins. Theresa hadn't painted her face. And she wasn't smiling. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear. She stared at the gaping, gore encrusted hole, transfixed by horror, for long, long moments, before she could tear her gaze away. Her gaze darted about the kitchen then ... searching .... He was standing in front of the kitchen sink, staring out the window. She stared at him

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hard, blinking to try to clear the fog from her eyes, the gray fog that had invaded the kitchen, blurring her vision. "Dominic?" Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, unrecognizable as her own. She wasn't even aware of having spoken. The sound startled her, bringing feeling back into her frozen limbs like stabbing needles. He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "He's gone, little girl. It's just you and me now. Just like old times, ain't it?" Basilyn stared at his back blankly for several moments, her sluggish mind refusing to accept ... anything. The thought came to her that she must be having a nightmare. This couldn't be real. "Old times?" she heard herself echo. He chuckled again. This time with a note of genuine amusement. "Me, you ... your sister .... O'course Theresa ain't feelin' just the thing right now. She was showin' her ass. Like always. I had to show 'er who's boss around here. Just because she's gotten so fine don't mean she don't have to mind her daddy, now does it?" he asked, almost conversationally, turning finally to face Basilyn. He was dressed just as he had been when she'd last seen him … weeding the Demot's flower bed, in ragged, faded denims. He was holding a ten inch, wide blade butcher knife, carefully cleaning beneath his nails with the tip. He looked at Basilyn calmly, though his eyes were wildly alive and glittering with a mixture of emotions Basilyn couldn't begin to interpret. Basilyn stared at him in stunned bafflement, though in her ears she'd begun to hear the blood pounding like distant thunder. "Daddy?" she said shakily, her voice filled with incipient tears. "Why? What are you doing here?" He rolled his eyes heavenward. "She don't understand," he said with sarcastic sympathy. "She's forgot. After I tole' her and tole' her!" He looked at Basilyn again, his gaze stern, unyielding. "You was told not to talk. I told you to keep your mouth shut, gal. Told you what I'd do to you if you didn't, didn't I?" Basilyn stared at him, wide-eyed, mesmerized with horror, feeling as if she'd suddenly been thrown back in time. A wracking sob escaped her. "I didn't want to! I ... They made me! They made me!" "That ain't no excuse!" He roared, causing Basilyn to take a step back in fright. He shook his head in disgust. "I told you. You didn't mind. You always was a hard-headed little bitch … the hard-headedest of all Alma's little bastards. That's why I saved you for last. We're gonna take it nice an' slow, easy, so you can remember it a long, long time—long as you last, anyways. 'Cause I got lots to get even for. Fifteen damned years in prison. An' more hell than you're ever gonna find out!" Basilyn's eyes widened. Her heart seemed to spring into her throat like a startled hare darting for cover … strangling her so that she couldn't speak. Instinctively, she took another step back. She couldn't seem to force her brain to function. "You can't. You'll never get away with it!" He had come slowly across the kitchen until he was no more than two yards away by now, the knife he still held hanging at his side as if he'd forgotten he was carrying it. He laughed at that. "Oh. I think I will." He pointed towards Theresa with the knife. "The way I see it, your sister's hubby's the one in deep shit. Me … I just cut the grass for him, snip the trees ... weed the flower beds. Once in a blue moon. I ain't been around here enough for nobody to know me.

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And me and Theresa kept it real quiet between us when I come back. He don't know who I am. An' the cops ain't likely to believe him anyways. Not when they find bodies all over the place. His wife's. His whore's ….” Basilyn felt her throat working, but she couldn't seem to get any words out. She licked her lips, flicking her gaze around desperately for something she could use to protect herself, not daring to turn her head or remove her eyes from Tim Miller for more than a split second. She could see nothing … nothing she could reach except a badly dented copper pot. She laid a trembling hand on the counter beside her, within inches of it, trying to make the movement seem casual, hoping he would think she was only reaching for support, speaking almost at random to keep his attention on her and not her goal. "They'll find your fingerprints all over the place. You've been all over the house—in my room. It was you, wasn't it? The diary—all of it? You've been playing at cat and mouse ever since I got here, haven't you? And you've left all sorts of evidence ...." He grinned at that. "Theresa done most of it. Like she was told. Mostly she didn't even mind. She always hated you, you know, 'cause she figured I favored you over her. Which I did. An' after all I done for you, you ungrateful little bitch, you had me sent to prison!" he snarled, surging forward. Basilyn screamed, yanked the pot up and threw it at his head. It struck his head a glancing blow, but it knocked him off balance. In trying to catch himself, he placed his foot in a patch of legumes and his foot shot out from under him. Basilyn whirled and fled, blindly, mindlessly, with no real goal in mind, nothing but the thought of escape pounding at her temples, holding her bouncing abdomen awkwardly—running awkwardly. She felt pain shoot through her weakened ankle as she put her foot down on something Theresa had broken on the floor of the great room. Behind her, she heard her father struggle to his feet with a laugh, heard him hit the wall in the hallway as he skidded through the kitchen doorway, heard his pounding footsteps behind her. She felt him gaining on her, almost upon her, threw a glance over her shoulder, and dodged to one side just as he brought the knife down in an awkward swipe that threw him off balance. She whirled and gave him a shove that sent him sprawling, rolling towards the kitchen. He rolled up onto his feet again almost immediately ... too close. She hadn't realized until that moment that she'd been heading for the front door. It was locked. It was always kept locked since the Demots came and went through the garage. She could never reach it, unbolt three locks, and get out the door before he reached her. He was between her and the kitchen, advancing again. It cut off her escape. She reached down blindly to snatch something from the floor at her feet and threw it at him. It was a pillow, she discovered in dismay, but she'd thrown it with enough force to send him back a step. She was by the stairs. She whirled and fled up them, racing up them frantically in an effort to reach her room and bar the door, climbing them, now upright, now with her hands and feet in a crab-like scramble. She screamed as he grabbed her ankle before she was halfway up the first flight, jerking her to a stumbling halt. Rolling to her side, she kicked out with her free leg, catching him on the chin with the heel of her shoe. He tumbled backwards and skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. She turned to flee again.

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He caught her by her flying hair as she reached the first landing, giving it a yank that brought Basilyn stumbling backwards. They collided and half fell against the door frame of Theresa's sitting room. Grabbing frantically for his knife hand, she clawed at the hand that still held a fistful of her hair with her free hand, prying his fingers loose one by one until she could yank her hair free. Freedom cost her. As she jerked her hair free, he wrenched the knife from her grasp and brought it down in a slicing arch. It caught her upper arm, ripping through the fabric of her smock, cutting a three inch gash. She cried out, in surprise more than pain, in terror, grabbing the knife again and bringing her free hand up to claw at his eyes. He screamed then, ear-splittingly and released his grip on Basilyn to cover his face, falling backwards and sprawling in the floor of the sitting room, curling into a fetal ball while he nursed his stinging eyes. Gripping her bleeding arm, Basilyn whirled and fled up the stairs again, ignoring the pain in her ankle, ignoring the dizzying height as she scrambled frantically from stair to stair. She was almost halfway there when she heard him struggle to his feet once more. Her heart slammed painfully into her rib cage, bringing a wave of terror so acute her stomach muscles clenched spasmodically and sent a wave of nausea through her. It spurred her on. She fought her way to the top and raced across the upper landing, slamming her door moments before he reached her, shoving the lock home, loosing frantic moments fighting with the chain lock before she had that, too, secured. She whirled then and raced through the bathroom to check the other door, praying she'd locked it—hadn't unlocked it for any reason. It was locked. "Oh God! Oh my God!" she cried hoarsely, feeling little relief—no relief. She was locked in her room with a mad man at her door. No phone. No way out. He was screaming again, every foul word that came to mind, demanding in one moment that she open the door and coaxing in the next. She put her hands to her face. "Dominic. Oh God! Dominic!" Was he gone—really gone? Or had her father made him gone? Had he killed him? Was Dominic lying somewhere nearby, slowly bleeding to death? She couldn't think about that now. She couldn't bear to think about it. She had to escape. There was no escape. She had to get help. Somehow she had to get help. She had to think of something, some way to get help. The flimsy locks on the doors wouldn't hold him out. Almost on the thought, she heard him begin to hammer on the door. "Let me in, you little bitch! Open the damned door! You're making me mad, girl!"

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Chapter Twenty Seven Basilyn moved back into her room and began shoving furniture against the door, pushing the dresser against it first and then going to the end of the bed and shoving that against the dresser. Struggling for several moments with the nightstand, she finally ripped the drawers out of it and lifted it, laying it on top of the dresser and then piling the drawers on behind it. She went back into the sitting room then and shoved the couch against the door, piling everything she could lift on top of it to barricade the door. She moved away from it then, backed away until she reached the far wall, staring at the door as she slowly slipped down it onto the floor, too numb with shock to think. It wasn't until then that she realized her arm hurt. She pulled her smock away from the oozing cut and examined it. Blood was trickling slowly from the wound, dripping onto the floor. She felt a wave of dizziness. Reaction? Loss of blood? She pushed herself to her feet again and went into the bathroom, poured peroxide over it and wrapped it with gauze, taping the end of the bandage. She had to do something, she thought again as she finished. She had to get help. Dominic might be hurt. He might not be. He might have gone out. He might come back, unaware. Her father could cut him down before he even realized what had happened. She moved back into the sitting room and pulled the French door open, moving across the deck for the first time without any thought for the height, any thought in her mind at all beyond the need to get help. Going to the balcony rail, she looked over it, scanning the area for any sign that anyone might be nearby. She couldn't see much of the neighbor's house beyond a slice of roof, the corner of the house and a tiny wedge of pool deck. She could see no one. She had no way of knowing if they were home. They might be gone off for the holiday. "Help me! Somebody! Help me!" she yelled, trying anyway, hoping. Someone might hear her. If the neighbors were away. Someone else might be close enough to hear. She called again, forcing her shaky voice into use, calling more loudly. "Help me! Please! Somebody!" She didn't even know the neighbors' names. She couldn't call them by name. She saw movement on the patio deck. She felt a surge of excitement. "Hey! Are you there? Help me! Can you help me?" It was a child. She could tell little at this distance, but he looked to be a rather young child … perhaps five or six. Her heart dropped to her toes. "Call your mama and daddy! Please! I need help!" she yelled at the child, hoping the fear in her voice would affect the child if nothing else. "Please! Go get help!" She could hear her father at the sitting room door, pounding on it, hacking at the door with the knife. "Get help!" she screamed. "Now!" The child turned away and trotted into the house. She waited in frantic impatience,

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listening to her father at the door, listening more intently as an even more nerve wracking silence fell. She turned away to look back into the room, to make certain the barricade had held. It looked intact. She stared at it a long moment, worrying about the other barricade. Was it strong enough? Had it held? Or was he, even now, slowly but steadily pushing it all away? She sent another frantic glance towards the neighbor's patio and moved away from the rail to stand in the doorway, cocking her head to listen. She could hear something. She couldn't identify the sound. But it wasn't coming from the direction of the bedroom. It was nearer than that … much closer. She looked at the door to the sitting room again … and heard the sound again … to her left. She turned to stare at the attic access just as it began to open. She'd always known there must be another way into the room. She screamed, rushing towards it to block it. "Knock, knock, little piggy!" her father exclaimed triumphantly as he shoved it open. Basilyn skidded to a halt, staring at him in wide-eyed, panic-stricken horror, realizing he was blocking the only way in or out of the rooms. She whirled and raced for the patio, grabbing the handle of the French door and slamming it behind her, gripping the door knob and leaning back with her weight as he grabbed the knob on the opposite side and tried to wrest it open. Tiring of wrestling with the door knob after only a moment, he drew the knife back and brought it down, hilt first, against the window pane Basilyn had once broken to get in. The glass shattered, spraying outwards. Basilyn screamed and screamed again as he stuck his arm through the opening and swiped at her with the knife. Twisting the door knob, she shoved it back against him and raced for the deck railing again, leaping onto the bench seat and looking down. It was a sheer drop. Too far. It was too far. As terrified as she was of her father and his knife, she was too terrified to try to jump. She whirled to look up at the skylights above her just as he came through the French door and rushed her. Running along the bench seat, she made a lunging jump and managed to heave her upper torso onto the shingled roof. Clawing madly at the shingles, she wiggled upwards and finally scrambled up onto the roof on hands and knees. Something hot sliced into her calf and she screamed at the pain, scrambling away from it. It was several moments before she realized she wasn't making any progress. She turned then, saw that he had hold of her ankle and kicked out at him, again and again, trying to break his grip on her ankle. "Come here, girl!" he roared. "Come back here!" "Get away from me!" Basilyn screamed back at him, kicking out again, catching him finally on the jaw. He toppled backwards, dragging Basilyn half way off the roof as he fell, before he finally lost his grip. Basilyn struggled up onto it again, fixing her gaze on the skylights, slipping, sliding a half a foot back for every foot she made in progress. She heard her father, roaring in fury, cursing, clawing his way up onto the roof, scrambling over the roof behind her. She sent a frantic glance back and crawled a little faster. She felt a hand on her foot, touching, reaching, scraping the sole, the side of her shoe, searching for a grip. She whirled and aimed a kick at his grinning face. It caught him on the shoulder and he slid down the roof several feet, losing his grip on the knife as he fought to stop his slide. Digging his fingernails in, he caught himself, arresting his sliding descent. The knife kept sliding and finally disappeared over the edge. He turned to look back at the way it had gone, apparently debating with himself, undecided on whether to retrieve it or go on. After a

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moment, he began climbing again. Basilyn reached the sky lights finally. Shifting onto her side so that she could keep an eye on her father, she began to search the edges of the widow frantically for an opening. It was loose. She rattled it, trying to pry it up. "You shouldn't have done that, girl," he said, as if he were talking to a naughty child, breathing as gustily by now as Basilyn was. "I'm really going to have to hurt you now." "You stay away from me!" Basilyn screamed hysterically, tearing at the skylight desperately, rattling it up and down angrily when it wouldn't give. "You just stay away from me!" She began beating at it with her fist finally, over and over again until her hand was numb. "Got you!" he exclaimed triumphantly as he grabbed her ankle again. Basilyn screamed. Shoving her free foot down, she scraped his fingers loose. She struggled upwards along the roof then, perching against the top of the skylight and kicking at the glass with the heel of her shoe, glancing distractedly around for something to use for a tool even though her mind told her there could be nothing. A flash of blinking lights caught her eye, upturned faces. She registered none of it. She registered only the fact that there was no tool, nothing to break the glass, safety only a few feet away and no way to reach it. Instead of trying to grasp her ankle again, he shimmied up onto all fours and launched himself at Basilyn, catching her around the waist. They slid down the roof, struggling, rolling back and forth. For a moment, terror of her father blinded her to all else, but her fear of falling leapt above that, superseding it. Basilyn ceased trying to pry him lose and reached frantically for the skylight as they slid by it, her fingernails scraping uselessly over the smooth surface. He used the moment to heave himself higher, catching Basilyn around the neck, digging fingers into her throat. Basilyn grasped his wrists, struggling for air, feeling the blood begin to pound in her temples, trying to wrench his hands loose. They rolled, over and over, back and forth, sliding down the roof a few inches, across it a few inches and then down again. She couldn't break his grip. She couldn't breathe. Dimly, she heard the sound of breaking glass, heard men's voices. They sounded far away. Too distant to help, she thought despairingly, wondering if the neighbor child had finally summoned his parents. She stopped clawing at her father's wrists and went for his eyes, digging her nails into his face and pushing him away, trying to bring her knees up to use her legs. The baby's bulk prevented any hope of leverage and nothing less could break her father's fanatical grip. He was so furious by now he seemed oblivious to pain of any kind. In desperation, Basilyn brought her arm back against the roof, gathered upon reserves of fear inspired strength, balled her hand into a fist, and drove it at his face. His head jerked backwards at the blow, his grip loosening. Basilyn dragged air into her lungs, and swung at him again, blindly. The blow threw his weight to one side. He rolled off and kept rolling. Basilyn dropped her head back against the roof, massaging her bruised throat, struggling for air, trying to find the strength to roll onto her stomach and crawl away. She heard her father scrabbling for purchase on the slippery surface as he rolled, trying to catch himself. She heard a man's hoarse cry ... nearer at hand? She couldn't tell. She heard her father scream and struggled to lift her head to see if he was coming at her again, watched almost with a sense of detachment as he rolled over the edge of the roof and disappeared. Almost on that instant, a hand grasped her shoulder. She uttered a hoarse cry and tried to throw it off, succeeded. Another hand replaced it. She fought to free herself of the new threat,

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mindlessly, screaming hoarsely as she was pulled across the roof, screaming, fighting until she could no longer do either anymore. A welcoming blackness consumed her then. **** Basilyn slowly became aware of a confusing babble of voices, hands touching her, lightly, impersonally, a kaleidoscope view of swimming pictures, faces, walls, ceilings. She closed her eyes against it, feeling a touch of nausea as her head swam with the motion before her eyes, aware suddenly of pain, spreading tendrils of pain, localized then shooting outwards. Someone was crying, silently, almost soundlessly. Her throat hurt. She could hardly swallow. It scared her and she fought against it, struggling frantically for several moments before she managed to swallow against a drowning sensation. A hand touched her face, gently, briefly. Some of the panic receded. She swallowed a little more easily. It still hurt. It was still amazingly difficult, but once she found she could do it the fear faded. She became aware that she was holding something, gripping it frantically. She opened her eyes a slit and saw that it was a hand. Dominic's hand. She closed her eyes again, feeling a touch of peace settle over her, feeling terror recede just a little further. She tightened her grip. She had to hold on to it. If she let go .... The voices closed in around her. She was bumping along something, moving. She wasn't moving. She was being moved. She managed to lift her eyelids finally. Spinning, kaleidoscope vision assailed her again, of a midnight blue sky, overhanging tree limbs, men, women, uniforms, cars and lights, red, blue, blinding white. Voices. There seemed to be dozens of them, all speaking at once so that only little, incomprehensible snatches entered her mind. "He's stable. Looks like his back's broken. Three places. This one's having contractions.." A finger pried her eyelid up. "When are you due?" He turned away even as she opened her mouth and tried to speak. "When is she due? Do you know?" "She's got four weeks to go." "No she doesn't. It's coming now. You can't ride with us. There's not enough room." Someone tried to pry her fingers loose. She gripped the hand more tightly, struggling, discovering in the process that she was bound. She tried to cry out and discovered she could make almost no sound. She became more panicked as the hand was snatched away, struggled harder, trying to recapture it. "It's alright. Calm down, now. Calm down. You'd better get in and go with us. It'll be tight." She ceased struggling when she felt his hand grip hers again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. It was strangely like a nightmare, except that there was pain and there'd never been pain in her nightmares before. But each time she managed to open her eyes, the scene around her had changed completely. Just as it did in a nightmare. She was in another place. There were always different faces bending over her, the faces of policemen, asking questions she couldn't comprehend and couldn't answer in any case, doctor's faces, nurses faces, lights, ceilings. And Dominic. He swam in and out of her vision. Sometimes there. Sometimes not. "She's in shock. This will take sutures. Is there time? Her blood pressure's dropping ...." She was shivering uncontrollably when pain brought consciousness surging forward

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again. She fought against it. "There you are," said a voice with forced cheerfulness. "Good girl. No. Don't fight it now, Basilyn. Listen to me. You're going to have to help. Remember the instructions? Remember the lessons? That's better. Breathe now. Don't push. You're falling down on the job, coach." The last was said in a half admonishing, half teasing voice. A chair scraped across the floor. "Here! Sit down before you fall down. How is it the mothers always come through like little Trojans and the big, tough papas puke their guts out or pass out on the floor?" someone wondered aloud, chuckling. "Breathe … push … hold now! Panting breaths … don't push. There! Give me one good hard push! Good girl!" "He's a big fellow … for a preemie," someone commented. "He'd have been a whopper if he hadn't decided to pop the pod early." Blessedly, the pain ceased abruptly, as if it had suddenly been cut from her body. Somewhere close by an infant wailed. It was a frightened, bewildered, angry sound. Something warm and painful fisted around her heart when she heard it. She couldn't move and yet she seemed almost to surge towards the sound. A weight settled upon her abdomen. She struggled to lift her head to look. Someone cupped the back of her head, helping her. "Look at him," Dominic said, laughing shakily. "He's beautiful." "Spoken like a proud papa!" someone quipped. "But, I declare, I believe you're right. That's the prettiest baby I've seen in a month of Sunday's—and just look at that crop of cotton! I've never seen a blond with so much." Tears blurred her eyes and began to course down her cheeks. A happy laugh bubbled from her chest and escaped soundlessly. She closed her eyes again, relaxed, reassured. When she opened her eyes again, she was in another room. Her arm hurt—both arms. She frowned. She couldn't think how that had happened. She slanted her head to look and discovered there was an IV in her wrist. A thick bandage swathed the upper part of her other arm. Her mind was foggy, her thoughts disjointed, disoriented. She glanced around, holding her eyes open with an effort. A door in one wall stood slightly ajar. Someone stood there, talking to someone else. "...them down to the morgue. The police are waiting to question you …" "I'll be down in a few minutes." He moved into the room. It was Dominic. Comforted, she gave up the effort to hold her eyes open. He hadn't reached the bed when another door was pushed open. "Here we are!" said a nurse cheerfully. "All cleaned up and beautiful so you can take a good look before we take him down to nursery. Don't let the incubator scare you, honey. We just don't want to take any chances with him. But he checks out just fine. Five pounds six whole ounces." "Nurse," Dr. Chaney's voice cut across her happy babbling. She stopped abruptly. "She's not supposed to see it," he said in a lowered tone. Dominic moved to the incubator. "She changed her mind." He pushed the incubator to the side of the bed. "Basilyn?" She opened her eyes with an effort. She couldn't seem to hold them open for very long.

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She squinted her eyes against the light and peered at the infant. He was gnawing one tiny fist frantically. She felt a smile tug at her lips. Beautiful. She formed the word with an effort and closed her eyes again. She found yet another scene when she opened her eyes once more. She stared up at the ceiling for several moments while her mind slowly cleared. Theresa. Her father …. Fear and panic shot through her and she looked wildly around. She was in a hospital room, she discovered. Dominic was sitting in a chair beside the bed, asleep. She was safe. It was over. She hadn't imagined it. She studied him for a long moment and looked around again. There were roses everywhere, crowding the table and the florist's rack along one wall. Their perfume filled the air. She breathed their aroma in, savoring it, and finally struggled to the side of the bed and reached for the nearest vase, taking the card that dangled from the ribbon bow that adorned the arrangement and opening it. 'In deepest gratitude for a healthy son' the legend read. She stared at it for long moments while the sentiment blurred before her eyes, feeling a bone deep hurt. Gratitude … not love. She set the card aside and dashed the tears from her cheeks as she heard Dominic stir in his sleep, turning to look at him only when she'd fought back the stupid urge to cry her heart out. He opened his eyes, stared at her a long moment and sat up. "What happened?" she asked, tried to ask. Nothing came out. "Don't try to talk. Your vocal cords are bruised. Don't worry. It'll be alright in a few days." "What happened … my father?" His face hardened. "Dead. He died in surgery. You'll never have to worry about him again. He killed Theresa … and Valerie. They're doing an autopsy and won't release Theresa's body before this afternoon." He scrubbed his hands over his face and got up, pacing the length of the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed. "It hasn't been announced. The Meads had to instruct the funeral home to keep the time of the funeral quiet. The media picked up on it and it's like a three ring circus. We didn't want that at the funeral so they decided not to tell even their closest friends when the service and burial was to be." He cursed under his breath, raking his fingers through his hair. He moved back to the chair and sat down. After a moment, he reached over and took Basilyn's hand in his. "I didn't know. I swear it. I wouldn't have left you alone in the house if I'd suspected any of it—thought you were in any kind of danger." Basilyn squeezed his hand, and he looked up at her. "I know .... Theresa .... He told me she my was sister." He studied her a moment. "She was," he said finally. "I didn't know it until just recently. I hired a man to investigate her, to see if he could come up with anything I could use against her in court. He did. He also told me that what I thought I'd done to Theresa, she did to herself. In her mind, it was still my fault, because she did it to get even with me," he stopped, shrugging. "She'd seen me go off that night. She followed me. To get even, she picked up some of my friends. But it wasn't even the venereal disease she picked up from one of them that night that was the real cause of the hysterectomy, as she told me. She had an abortion. She went to a quack. And he damaged her so badly she would've bled to death if they hadn't done a hysterectomy on her. And it was still my fault as far as she was concerned.

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“It was when Parker brought me that report that he told me about you. Theresa had hired him to find you. She had it in mind that if she couldn't have a baby herself, she wanted the next closest thing … and that was to have a sibling carry the child. She told him it had to do with a medical problem she had. She told him her kidneys were going bad and she'd been advised to try to locate you as a donor. He didn't buy it, but it isn't his business to ask a client why, and so he tracked you down. “How your fath … stepfather figured into it, I'm not sure. At a guess, he located Theresa when he got out of prison and put her up to tracking you down … for his own reasons. She hired him as our yard man, said he'd given her some kind of hard luck story. I didn't buy it. Theresa wasn't the sort to play charity. But I never really thought much about it." He paused for a long moment, frowning now. "What I still don't quite understand, though, is how she got you to do it. I know she had your financial circumstances checked out. She knew you were trying to make it and having a hard time. But … how could she have known, made certain, that you would answer the ad? Did she have Dr. Chaney contact you?" Basilyn stared at him a long moment, thinking back. "She contacted me herself. It must have been her," she said finally. "By mail. It was kind of like some sort of questionnaire.. advertisement. I don't know. Strange. I thought it was strange and so coincidental, too. I got it right after I got turned down on the loan/grant I applied for. I started to throw it away. But ...." She shrugged. "Right after that I heard about it again, that time through Dr. Chaney, from the billboard over at the Medical Center. Some of my classmates were talking about it. I was desperate. It didn't sound like opportunity knocking so much as my last hope." He studied her a moment and looked down at his hands. "I should've known it was something like that." She touched his hand to get his attention. "You thought I was in on it with her somehow? That we were conning you somehow?" He didn't have to answer. She could see that he did. She felt another surge of hurt and on the heels of that a prick of anger. "I thought she was dead. Daddy told me she was dead. How could I know her when I hadn't seen her since I was four years old?" "I don't think I really believed you were in on whatever plot she'd hatched. But ... living with Theresa so long, living in constant suspicion …. You start being suspicious of things like that. ‘Coincidences’ so often aren't coincidences at all." He shrugged. She turned her face away, wrestling with her hurt and anger, wrestling with her thoughts. He'd asked her if she cared for him and she'd told him she did. He'd never told her he cared for her. Not once. And although she'd tried to tell herself that was because he wasn't free to do so, she no longer truly believed that. He hadn't said it because he'd finally realized, just as she'd thought, that it was only the baby between them—and they no longer had that. If he'd truly cared for her, he wouldn't have believed her capable of the things he apparently did—avarice— deception. He stood up abruptly and began to pace the room again. "The police will be in to talk to you. We've managed to hold them off up until now. But …." He shrugged. "You'll have to make a statement. “They're not happy about this. They're damned unhappy with it. There were a half a dozen witnesses, me, the neighbors and two policemen, who saw it happen. There's no question that your father was responsible for everything. But they still don't like it. They're still sniffing

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around, hoping they can find something that'll make them feel better about it. Like some sort of elaborate plot hatched to get rid of Theresa. It didn't take them long to find out that I'd already divorced Theresa and we were only waiting to settle my assets. They weren't impressed in the least by the fact that I'd already agreed to award everything to Theresa. “This whole business here …. God what a mess! You and I registered for Lamaze as husband and wife. You admitted as my wife. And my ex-wife downstairs in the morgue … while I was in the delivery room with my pseudo wife attending the birth of my real son. The newspapers .... “Hell! They've just been having a ball with it. Hospital security's already caught two reporters trying to sneak up here for a scoop and pictures." He stopped pacing and moved back to the edge of the bed, taking Basilyn's hand again. "I've got to ask you to do something for me," he began earnestly. "I know everything's gone to hell. Nothing that was planned has gone like it was supposed to. But I need you to do this for me ...." He stopped again, pausing for so long that she began to think she knew what was coming. It caused a mass of chaotic thoughts, chaotic emotions. "I want you to take the baby for me. Take care of him for me until some of the sensation dies down. I remember what you said before. In the beginning. I know you've got plans for your life. But there's no reason why this should interfere with those plans. It's only temporary. But … You're his mother. He'd be better off with you right now than anyone else. I thought about taking him to my mother. But … I don't know. I can if you just can't do it. But I just think this would be best." She stared at him for a long moment. It was just as she'd suspected. Just as she'd feared—hoped. She shook her head, her face twisted with anguish. "You don't know what you're asking." "No. I don't suppose I do. I've no idea what it would be like to try to take care of an infant. But I'm not asking you to do it alone. I'll support him ... and you, too, so you can take care of him. This doesn't affect the original terms. The trust has long since been set up for you. And you could find a nursery to leave him at while you're in class." She studied her hands. He still didn't know what he was asking of her. He was asking her to steel herself to give the baby up twice. She loved him already. She'd begun to love him from the moment she'd first felt him moving inside her. How much more would she love him in a month? Two? How much more would it hurt when she had to give him up, finally, forever? But could she throw away the chance to know him only to save herself a little more pain later? She didn't think she could. He must've known she couldn't turn him down. It was like offering a man dying of thirst a drink of water—just a taste. One couldn't resist, even knowing it was only putting off the inevitable, even knowing one was doing nothing but dragging out the agony and rejecting a quick end. "Yes. I'll take him," she said finally. With all my heart.

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Chapter Twenty Eight The reporters were on hand the day Justin Alexander Demot was released from the hospital, despite the fact that Dominic had made it a point not to be there. They'd been sniffing around like bloodhounds on the scent since his birth, waiting for the moment, however, and the greatest discretion in the world could not have deprived them of the chance to sensationalize the event. Basilyn brushed past the two men without a glance, without looking up once as the shutters of their cameras clicked and whirred around her. They fell into step behind her. "Has the custody of the child been determined yet?" "Yes." "Is there any truth to the rumor that the baby was given a blood test to determine his paternity?" "No." "What comments do you have to make on your sister's death? She was your sister?" She answered the last question. "Yes." "Is there any truth to the speculation that the child wasn't the result of artificial insemination at all, but rather the result of an illicit affair between yourself and your sister's husband? What have you to say about the rumors that it was your stepfather's child?" Basilyn sent them a cold stare as she wrenched the door of the truck, Dominic's truck, open. "None." She climbed in the truck and slammed the door behind her, locked her door before the reporter could wrench it open again and reached over to settle the baby in his car seat. Having secured it, she started the truck up and drove off, ignoring the questions the reporters shot at her as she departed. Her palms felt clammy on the wheel. She hoped they didn't note the tag number and check its registration. It would give them a fresh titillation to speculate about. She hadn't wanted to take the truck. Dominic had suggested the car first, however, and that had given her the shudders. No. Absolutely not, she'd informed him! She had enough money put back to buy another moped. She didn't need his help in that at least. And then he'd pointed out that she couldn't carry the baby around on a moped. She agreed then to take the truck. But she shouldn't have driven it to the hospital. She should've taken a cab … like she had when she'd visited Alex at the hospital in the week since she'd been released, until finally they'd judged him completely sound and decided it was safe to allow him to leave the hospital. She settled him in his crib when she had him home, lingering over him only a few moments before she left him to finish her unpacking. She wondered if there was any point in it. She wondered if she would be there long enough to make it worth her while, or if she would find herself packing again in a matter of only a couple of weeks. She shrugged. She had nothing else of any importance with which to occupy her time. She hadn't registered for the spring quarter, although she'd been out of the hospital in plenty of time to do so. Alex was too young to be left at a nursery, no matter how reputable. And it would make breast feeding easier if she stayed with him. For she'd opted for breast feeding once she realized she could. If she was going to go it at all, she meant to go it all the way, enjoy her time with him to the fullest.

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As the first week passed into the second, and that one into the third, as a month passed and then three and she was forced by her own sense of responsibility to lay out for yet another quarter, she began to wonder when Dominic meant to assume his rights, and his full responsibility, towards the child. He called weekly to check on the baby's progress. He never came. And she began to have hopes she knew she shouldn't allow herself. She could understand why he stayed away at first. It was weeks before the hoopla even began to die down, and it would defeat the purpose of taking the child quietly away if he led reporters to her door. She didn't ask him why he delayed in coming to claim his son. She was afraid to. She was afraid it would prompt him to come for him and she couldn't bear to do that. She would lose Alex completely then. She would lose her last, tenuous link to Dominic. She dreaded that time, more and more as the months passed, knowing it must come … soon. Alex was almost six months old when the sound she'd been dreading came, a knock upon her door. She knew it was Dominic even before she opened it, and yet, at sight of him her heart clutched painfully in her chest, with fear … and gladness at the sight of him after so long. He studied her somberly for long moments, just as she studied him, and finally his lips tipped up in a slow smile. "Can I come in?" "Yes," she managed a little breathlessly, finding that the squeezing sensation in her chest had shortened her breath and robbed her brain of oxygen so that she could scarcely think coherently. "Of course." She turned and led the way to the living room where Alex lay in the middle of the floor on his baby blanket, trying to eat a large plastic block. "Have a seat," she invited, gesturing vaguely in the suggestion that he take his choice. She moved back to her own seat on the blanket beside Alex and took him onto her lap, aware of no possessiveness in the action, but rather the nervous need to occupy her hands. Dominic sat on the couch, leaning forward and examining Alex closely. Alex studied him in return, wide-eyed, mouth slack so that a glob of drool dripped down his chin and onto his shirt. Basilyn dabbed at the glob, vaguely aware of an apprehension that Dominic might find that darling, drooling mouth disconcerting. He grinned at the baby. "I wouldn't have recognized him. He's grown. Where's that tooth you were telling me about?" he added, reaching over to poke Alex experimentally on his plump tummy. Alex watched the movement of the finger as it came at him and poked him, and squirmed and giggled, rewarding Dominic with a view of his newest achievement in development, a tooth. "There!" Basilyn exclaimed with a touch of excitement. "Did you see it? I didn't even know it was there until he bit me!" Which was when she began to wean him. Dominic grinned. "What a tooth!" Basilyn frowned at him for his levity. It didn't sound like a proper appreciation of his accomplishment to her. "He's learning to sit up. Want to see?" "No kidding! Already?" Dominic exclaimed with a proper show of appreciation and surprise, having no idea whatever when babies began to sit up, enjoying watching Basilyn as much as the baby. "Well," Basilyn admitted, biting her lip. "I guess it’s really about average. But preemies are usually slower so really he's early when you look at it that way." She sat him on the blanket,

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steadying him with one hand as she brushed his collection of toys from around him so that he wouldn't topple onto them. She took the red block and enticed him with it. Grinning, he reached for it and she released him. He frowned at the block, bringing it to his mouth to gnaw it, teetering precariously first in one direction and then the other, catching himself and then finally going over onto his side. Dominic laughed at the look of surprise on his face. Alex looked up, certain it was appreciative laughter, and grinned at him toothlessly, waving the block at his father before he brought it back to his mouth. "There!" Basilyn exclaimed triumphantly. "Did you see it?" "I saw. When did he start doing that?" "Just a few days ago. I caught him trying to pull himself up so I started helping him and he's getting strong in a hurry now. I imagine in a few weeks he'll be steady as a rock." She felt a clutch of fear at her innards at her words. In a few weeks …. Would she see it? She didn't think so. She knew suddenly that Dominic had come for him at long last, that it was over. She swallowed against a hard knot in her throat, fighting the sting of tears in her eyes and nose as Dominic reached down to pick the baby up and sat back to play with him. "Excuse me," she said abruptly and got up. "I'll … I'll leave you two to get to know each other," she added shakily and walked hurriedly from the room. She leaned against her bedroom door when she'd closed it behind her, closing her eyes, fighting her tears angrily. She gritted her teeth. She wasn't going to make it hard for him. She wasn't going to try. He'd had enough misery in his life. He deserved some happiness for a change. She wasn't going to leaven it by giving him more guilt to live with. He'd been fair with her … more than fair. He'd given her time with the baby she'd never expected to have. She moved away from the door finally and forced herself to empty her mind of all but mechanical function as she began to pack the baby's belongings. It worked until she had them all packed. She simply stared at the boxes then, watching them blur before her eyes. She wasn't going to be able to do it, she thought despairingly. She couldn't smile and kiss the baby bye and watch him and Dominic walk out of her life as they'd come into it—with detachment, without real feelings. She moved to her dresser finally and took out her diary, studying the cover for a long moment before she moved to the bed and sat on its edge, opened the book and flipped through the pages slowly until she found the one she sought. She read it again, just as she'd read it over and over in the month since she'd discovered it, savoring it ...wishing it was still true. It wasn't. Her mind accepted that. Her heart wouldn't. How could he have written it and not meant it, from the depths of his soul? He had meant it then. But that was long ago now … long ago. A lifetime ago. She looked up to discover that he'd come quietly into the room, that he stood in the doorway, watching her. She looked down at the page again, running her finger over the words lovingly. "I love you. Will you marry me?" She looked up at him quickly, blinking her tears away in an effort to focus her eyes so that she could see him, read his expression. Had he merely remembered the words he'd written to her and said them aloud? Could he mean it? Still? "The baby?" she managed.

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He frowned slightly, moving towards her now. "He's fine. I left him on his blanket trying to eat his blocks, surrounded by a barricade of pillows." He knelt in front of her, taking the book from her and setting it aside. "Well?" he prompted. She stared at him a long moment, feeling a surge of hope and hard upon it a bursting flood of joy. She flung her arms around him, burying her face against his neck, squeezing him tightly. "Yes!" His arms came around her, squeezing so tightly it nearly robbed her of breath. He pulled a little away after a moment, tipping her chin up and placing a breath of a kiss on her lips, lightly, a feather light taste that led to another and yet another, nibbling, nipping caresses that finally deepened to an open mouthed mating of lips and tongue as sampling roused a rapidly deepening hunger. He rose, pushing her back onto the bed and coming down alongside her, moving a shaking hand down to cup and massage the fullness of one breast for a moment before he traveled further, skimming under her blouse and sliding his hand along her ribs and around to her back to unclasp her bra. Basilyn closed her eyes, feeling a delicious heat invade her senses as his hand cupped her bared breast, lifting, kneading in a way that felt indescribably good. "The baby," she murmured huskily when his lips left hers to chart a nibbling, nudging course along her jaw to her ear, half admonishing, half as prompt for herself lest she get carried away. "Mom?" he murmured distractedly, taking a nibbling bite of her ear lobe. "He's fine. He'll let us know when he needs something." Goosebumps sprang to life at his caress, lifting the fine down along her body and bringing her flesh to acute sensitivity. "Mom?" she murmured, having forgotten what she'd said as he reclaimed her mouth, his hands inching her blouse upwards. He broke the kiss finally to remove it, pulling it over her head and bending once more to claim her lips. She made no attempt to evade him, but she wanted flesh to flesh, his against hers. She sent her fingers searching, tugging at his shirt, skimming under it and peeling it upwards as she explored. He made an appreciative sound low in his throat as their flesh met, hard male flesh to soft feminine, and released her once more to discard his shirt with impatience, reaching then for the snap on his jeans. She helped him. He helped her, trading kisses, touches, heated glances, appreciative murmurs as they unveiled each other, explored, excited and enchanted each other's senses to breathlessness, enthralled by the pleasure they gave each other and received in multiplied splendor. He was lean, hard, beautiful, she thought as she skimmed her hands along his flesh, enjoying the feel of hard muscle beneath firm flesh, the texture of his skin and the roughness of the light sprinkle of dark hair on his chest. And she gave pleasure with her touch even as she found it in touching, first with the sensitive pads of her fingertips and then with her lips. She was soft, her skin like satin over her firm flesh, he thought, the curves, dips and swells of her woman's body fascinating, a joy to touch and caress and please. He wanted to savor it, savor every moment, wring from it every dollop of pleasure he could bear. He wanted it to last forever. But he found when he'd tasted, touched and explored her fully, that he could bear it no more and rose above her on straining, trembling muscles to claim her fully. Basilyn reached for him, welcomed him in trembling need, her senses reeling, her mind fevered with want, gasping a husky groan of pleasure and relief as he filled her, slowly, coming

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slowly into her until she rose to meet him in desperate need. He went perfectly still as he claimed her fully, held his breath, clenched his teeth as he fought his body's drive to give in to mindless pleasure, feeling sweat pop from his pores along his straining muscles with the effort. Basilyn clasped him tightly to her, reeling already on the verge of that mindless void. "Now, Dominic," she gasped desperately, moving restlessly against him, urging him on, demanding. He drew in a ragged, shuddering breath, losing his tenuous grasp, beginning to move, slowly at first, more desperately as he felt her quicken beneath him, her muscles clenching around him in spasms of pleasure. His body echoed that call. Pleasure beat down on him in pounding waves, and as she cried out, a deep throated groan escaped him. He collapsed atop her as the last wracking shudders sapped the strength from muscle and bone, laboring for breath. Basilyn lifted her arms, caressing his back in love, in wordless appreciation, a lover's blessing. "That was ... beautiful," she murmured throatily. Dominic levered himself off her and collapsed beside her, dragging in a reviving breath and finally gathering her against him. He nudged her chin up for a kiss. "Thank you," he said soberly, his eyes gleaming with laughter. She nipped him on the chin and he chuckled. "What?" She looked up at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "You know what!" He widened his eyes innocently, but relented. "Beautiful," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her again, more lingeringly than before. "You're beautiful. I love you." She followed him when he withdrew, kissing him in return. "You're beautiful and I love you, too," she said in a teasing tone, nipping at his lips with hers in a way that was half playful, half sensual and then touching her tongue to his lips to explore the sensitive surface. She felt his response along her thigh. "Now what's he up to?" she asked teasingly. He chuckled huskily and leaned back as if to check it out. He grasped her then and pulled her atop him, grinning up at her. "Oh … pay him no mind. It's only that's he's extremely fond of you, and a polite little fellow, too, and he likes to stand up and say hello when you're close by." "Polite, huh?" she asked with a chuckle and reached down to examine the 'little fellow'. "Well, he's gone away now. I can't find anything but this great fellow here." He put his hands behind his head and grinned up at her. "Keep that up and he'll be bigger yet." "Interesting, very interesting," she murmured, but halted and sighed with a mixture of disappointment and acceptance when Alex let out an indignant yelp. "Unfortunately, the little fellow in there wants attention now." She leaned forward and kissed him and rolled off. "Hold that thought," she said with a grin and snatched his shirt up and pulled it over her head, sending him a saucy grin over her shoulder as she left the room. She chuckled when she saw Alex. He'd inched his way over to the pillow barricade and it had collapsed atop him. She snatched it away. "Boo!" His eyes widened a moment before he grinned and laughed, waving his arms excitedly now. She popped him lightly with the pillow and yanked it away again. He laughed again, curling onto his side. She reached for him as she heard Dominic come into the room. He settled himself behind her and pulled her back against his chest as she settled Alex in the cradle of her arms.

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She looked up at Dominic with a teasing grin. "The next one we conceive … let's do it in the same room?" He grinned. "Oh … We'll be a lot closer than that." The End