There had been no sign of blood in either limo, Dillon thought.

"Would the injury have caused any spatter?"

"Well, it was one hard strike. From the back, missing the bone, straight into the lung. The outer blood loss was a slow leak down his back that increased once the knife was jarred by his fall-his shirt was drenched, and the c.r.a.ps table took some of it. I'm a.s.suming the woman he died on would have been covered in blood, too. But he might not have left any kind of a trail, because, until he fell, it was collecting mostly in his lungs. The knife actually worked like a cork at first, keeping seepage to a minimum."

"Thanks, Doug. I appreciate the help."

"Not a problem. It's my job. But this case is pretty bizarre, huh? And there's no way to avoid the fact that Tanner Green was no angel. I'm glad you're on it, because it's not as if they'll be sending out an army to find his killer." Doug was quiet for a minute. "You're involved because you think his death connects to something bigger, don't you?"

"I do. I think the two deaths are connected," Dillon said.

"A murder and a hit-and-run?" Doug asked.

"A murder and a murder," Dillon told him, then thanked his friend and hung up. Tomorrow, he decided, he would take a trip down to the morgue.

Jessy didn't fall asleep easily, but for the first time since the incident, it wasn't because she was afraid. She was giddy because she wasn't wasn't afraid. afraid.

The room was comfortable.

Dillon was nearby.

She stayed awake with the television on, flipping through a magazine and reading about different politicians' plans to improve the state of the country.

Eventually she fell asleep.

And dreamed.

But tonight wasn't a repeat of the nightmares that had plagued her. There were no visions of dead men, no graveyards, no people who looked like they'd lived long ago. Tonight's dreams were so erotic that she could feel herself blushing, but they were also so sweet that she had no desire to wake up, even though she knew she was dreaming. Dillon played a starring role, and there was no awkwardness between them. She didn't know where they were, or who had initiated the encounter, only that their bodies were entangled, his copper-hued flesh strong and vibrant. She could hear their whispers, their laughter and the gasp of her own breath, matched by his. She felt as if they had been together forever, as if she had known him for years. She could feel the force of his kiss, the seductive journey of his lips and tongue along her flesh. She could see his face and feel his body straddling hers, bathing her in liquid fire....

Suddenly she jolted into wakefulness, seized by inward panic. But when she sat up and looked around, she was alone, no sign of Tanner Green.

There was a tap on her door, soft, hesitant.

"Yes?" she said quickly, fighting the fear that threatened to swamp her.

The door opened and Dillon was there, silhouetted against the light from the hall.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

Embarra.s.sment swept through her as she thought about what an honest answer would sound like.

Yes, I'm fine, I was just dreaming about having wild s.e.x with you, but don't worry. It's just the pathetic longings of a woman with no s.e.x life.

"I'm fine," she said, and left it at that.

"You cried out," he told her.

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Lord, I'm sorry. I'm fine. Honestly. I haven't been so fine in...a while. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right. I sleep lightly. Good night," he said, and started to close the door.

"Wait!"

He hesitated.

And then she did, too, suddenly unable to go on.

It was as if the air itself grew heavy with antic.i.p.ation, with anxiety, as if fate itself hung on what would happen next. She half rose, thinking that she could suggest they make some tea. Talk. Head to the living room, the kitchen, or just take the dog for a walk....

"Please, don't leave," she told him.

He paused in the doorway, then walked slowly into the room. He had thrown on a robe, and she knew-without knowing how she knew-that he had nothing on beneath it. His eyes were sober, and his voice was low and even when he told her, "You have nothing to fear here, you know. I'm right across the hall. Just yell and I'll be right here."

"I know that," she told him. "I'm not afraid."

He reached out, the most fascinating man she'd ever encountered, and smoothed a strand of her hair.

"Really," he said, with one of the smiles that so charmed her.

"Really," she echoed.

"We could watch a movie," he suggested.

"We could. But that's not what I had in mind," she told him.

His smile broadened, and when he touched her, the jolt was palpable, as if a circuit had been completed. She nearly gasped in awe as what had been a dream became real, because the truth of his hands on her was far more exciting than anything her subconscious could conjure. He slid into bed beside her, fingers twining into her hair, his mouth sure, firm, seductive, and an explosion of arousal followed his first touch. She felt as if they were fused together, and it was easy to overcome the hesitancy of a lifetime and slip her arms around him, to relish the solidity of his muscles and the smooth hot skin beneath the robe. There was urgency in every touch, and yet they both seemed filled with a determination to take their time, to savor the process of getting to know one another.

The first kiss seemed to go on for aeons, but aeons filled with wonder, where every deep thrust led to a new burst of exploding fire and arousal in which their bodies shifted again, touching anew, hands roving and discovering more and more. His robe was easily dispensed with, and his naked flesh against hers further kindled the frantic rise of heat within her. She had known that he was muscle and sinew wrapped in sleek copper, and now the feel of him against her was as powerful as burning metal. His hands were exactly like the man himself, sure, confident, with a strength that elicited trust and wonder, and swiftly simmering excitement. Their limbs tangled and locked as his fingers brushed her face, stroked her neck and throat. His lips burned through the cotton material of the shirt she had borrowed, and she would never know exactly when or even who removed it at last, so that his tongue could blaze like sunlight across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and abdomen.

She savored the magic of his embrace, the vibrant bonds of flesh and muscle, and found herself insatiable in her longing to touch and taste in return, to run her fingers into his hair, over his shoulders, down the length of his body. Her lips, too, strayed to his torso, a courtesy of introduction before exploring ever intimately, until she lifted her head their lips locked once more.

At last she was on her back, staring up into his eyes, ink dark and paradoxically filled with both an ancient wisdom and buoyant youth, as well as vitality, humor and pa.s.sion. She gasped as he moved between her thighs, slow and sure, and filling the world, her her world, with his presence as he took her to a physical extreme she had never known existed. She was caught in an inferno, a ma.s.sive bonfire burning in the darkness of a desert night. She clung to him, writhed against him, arched to meet every thrust and shift, and relished each gasp and rising thrill as she was tossed in a tempest of need and desire. She raked his shoulders with her nails and was aware of his hands gripping her b.u.t.tocks as he drove her upward toward the explosion of climax. But then he drew back from the precipice and slowed the pace, before sending her soaring once more. Again and again, accelerating, then braking, until she was frantic, her fingers dancing down his back in a frenzy, her lips against his throat, demanding and voracious. She climaxed at last, the moment violent in its intensity and wild abandon, shaking in his hold, jerking against him again and again, her flesh wet and slick and trembling against him as the world shook and receded and reality finally, slowly, returned. world, with his presence as he took her to a physical extreme she had never known existed. She was caught in an inferno, a ma.s.sive bonfire burning in the darkness of a desert night. She clung to him, writhed against him, arched to meet every thrust and shift, and relished each gasp and rising thrill as she was tossed in a tempest of need and desire. She raked his shoulders with her nails and was aware of his hands gripping her b.u.t.tocks as he drove her upward toward the explosion of climax. But then he drew back from the precipice and slowed the pace, before sending her soaring once more. Again and again, accelerating, then braking, until she was frantic, her fingers dancing down his back in a frenzy, her lips against his throat, demanding and voracious. She climaxed at last, the moment violent in its intensity and wild abandon, shaking in his hold, jerking against him again and again, her flesh wet and slick and trembling against him as the world shook and receded and reality finally, slowly, returned.

Because this was no dream. Everything about him was real and solid.

He held her, the aftereffects of his own release still rippling through him, his embrace firm. He was a careful lover, easing the weight of his body from hers, yet never releasing her, never allowing her to think for one moment that she was anything less than precious and coveted. Still gasping for breath, she lay spooned against him, the moonlight playing across their bodies, and the shyness that a.s.sailed her so often when she wasn't on a stage returned. She knew that they would have to move eventually, that there would have to be words. s.e.x was s.e.x; they had done nothing new, nothing that changed the world, no matter how it had felt at the time. Even so, for her, the night hadn't been casual, and she could only hope that he hadn't made love to her only to ease her fears or because of a momentary urge.

He didn't speak at first, only kissed the nape of her neck as her heart kept thundering. And then at last he whispered, "Shall I stay? I don't want to leave."

She wound her fingers through his, where they rested on her abdomen, and was both sorry that she couldn't see the ebony depths of his eyes, yet glad he couldn't see her own slightly panicked expression.

"Please," she managed to say, regretting her own lack of eloquence. She'd sounded as if she were agreeing to sugar in her coffee.

But he didn't seem put off, because his arms tightened around her, and she felt the brush of his kiss against her nape again.

And in a while, after she had dozed, roused and moved against him, she felt the force of his body and they once more made love. The first had been a duel of pa.s.sion and resistance; this was sleepy and slower, yet still possessed of that sensation of desperate and pa.s.sionate urgency.

She never wanted to move. Never.

With his arms around her, she slept at last.

Even so, she was plagued by dreams.

She was running through the old cemetery again, with its crosses of wood and graves encircled with stones. The wind was light and warm, and at first there was sun but then there wasn't. Always, though, there were people behind her. Chasing her.

Hunting her.

They were coming to kill her, and so she ran, tripping over the stones, running against the sagebrush that blew at her as if a tempest was coming. Just as she heard the footsteps coming closer and closer, she saw a light ahead of her, and a man framed in that light.

It was Dillon.

As she neared him, the sun came out again and her pursuers vanished, fading to nothing but empty darkness behind her, because in him she found the anger and strength and desire to fight back.

She opened her eyes slowly. It was morning, a soft glow filtering through the drapes.

She wasn't alone. And for once she was glad of that.

Dillon lay beside her, just holding her, though she saw that he, too, was awake. When she turned to face him, she saw in his eyes the humor, the kindness and the strength she had expected-along with something more that made her heart leap. There was an intimacy there that made her blood heat, and when he smiled slowly, she felt a little tremor ripple through her as she realized that she wanted him-that look, his touch, everything about him-in her life for much longer than just one night. She had been wary of relationships for so long, like a kid with a chip on her shoulder. She had felt that she needed to defend Timothy from anyone who might pity him or mock her for her devotion to him, but no more. She knew without question that Dillon would understand Timothy's condition, would honor an elder, and would never expect anything from her but loyalty to the grandfather who had raised her.

"Good morning," he said softly. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded.

"No nightmares?"

"Only one, but you were there," she told him gravely.

"Great," he murmured dryly.

She laughed. "No, you were there in a good way," she a.s.sured him. "I was running away from these people I knew wanted to kill me, but then I saw you."

"I hoped I rescued you," he said.

"You did even more."

"Oh?"

"You gave me strength, and when they knew they couldn't scare me anymore, they disappeared."

"Well, I'm glad of that," he told her, then sat up suddenly, frowning. "Fear can be a good thing sometimes, though. Fear can keep you safe."

"I've been afraid of a ghost," she said softly. "A ghost who you you said needs help." said needs help."

"But someone made Tanner Green into a ghost," he said. "And someone killed Rudy Yorba. That person is alive, and it's wise to be afraid of him and what he can do."

She stared at him, her mind suddenly embracing the true importance of what they had shared, and what had-and hadn't-been said.

"Indigo," she told him.

She was startled by his reaction. It was a color, just a color, and when Tanner Green had whispered the word with his dying breath, it hadn't meant anything to her, hadn't struck her as anything that could possibly be important.

"What?" he said sharply.

"Indigo. That's what Tanner Green said right before he died. I'm sorry. I trust you, and I would tell you if he'd said anything more, but that was it. One word. Indigo. Just a color."

He rose, lean muscle and sinew, his back to her, tall and straight in the early-morning light.

"It's more than a color," he said tightly, his back still toward her.

"Oh?"

"It's a place. Indigo, Nevada."

"I've never heard of it. What kind of a place?"

He turned to face her, his dark eyes grim and worried. "A ghost town."

9.

Dillon was preparing coffee when Ringo made his first appearance of the day.

Death, apparently, didn't quell a man's sense of humor.

"You look like h.e.l.l, my friend, and here I was, thinking I I was the dead man." was the dead man."

"Funny. Now sit down, will you? I'm pretty sure she hears your spurs. And you sure as h.e.l.l better not have been hanging around here last night."

"I'm deeply wounded!" Ringo protested. "And I was not not hanging around," he added indignantly. "But aren't you going to introduce us?" hanging around," he added indignantly. "But aren't you going to introduce us?"

"I was trying to get her accustomed to the ghosts already haunting her. I thought she needed to get a handle on that before realizing that sometimes someone might be...gifted...with an unearthly presence for quite some time."

"Hey, I'm fun and I'm helpful. It's thanks to me that her grandfather is a happy man in that hoity-toity place he likes. I'm anxious to get to know the lady."

"Just don't freak her out when the time comes, okay, Ringo?"