"So...you ready to s.h.i.t-can this joint and grab a beer?"

She wet her lips, suddenly a little uncertain. She hadn't remembered Jimmy being quite so rough-looking the last time they had gone out. "Yeah...sure...let me get my purse." She grabbed the fringed, quilted shoulder bag she had made herself, stopped a second in front of the mirror to check her appearance-a yellow halter top, jeans, and sandals-and they headed out the door.

They went to Ernie's, a local Venice beer bar that was a favorite of Jimmy's. They played pool and drank pitchers of beer, ate greasy hamburgers and fries. Amazingly, by ten o'clock, Jimmy was ready to go home.

Laura was ready, too. In the course of the evening, she had discovered she was no longer interested in Jimmy Osborn. She didn't enjoy hearing how he'd "beat the s.h.i.t out of that no-good Buddy Taylor." She didn't like hearing him snicker with his friend, Joe Rizzoli, about the great bod Teresa Wilson had, or how tight her p.u.s.s.y was when Joe had finally screwed her.

All she could think of was that Jimmy was short on brains and that the way the guys talked about Teresa was the way they must talk about her.

She couldn't help thinking of Brian. Whenever they had been together, they had talked about interesting, important things. He had challenged her, made her remember things she had learned in school, made her want to learn more. Even when they were fighting, he made her think instead of just react. And she had to admit there were times he was right.

Jimmy pulled his ten-year-old, dented black Camaro over to the curb and Laura opened the door and got out, knowing Jimmy would never come around to help her as Brian always did. Besides, she was eager to get home. She had never been so grateful to reach the front door of her apartment.

"Thanks, Jimmy." Standing on the cement step, she unlocked both door locks and walked inside. "I'll talk to you later."

He braced a hand on the door frame above her head. "Hey, wait a minute. You trying to give me the brush-off or something?"

"No, no, of course not. I'm just tired, is all. I haven't been sleeping very well. I thought tonight I'd go to bed early."

"Good idea," he said with a leer.

"That isn't what I meant." She tried to close the door, but he slammed a heavy boot against the jamb.

"Listen, baby, I bought you dinner, remember? I bought you drinks." He shoved hard on the door, pushing her inside, then followed her in. "You ain't gettin' off so easy."

"Get out, Jimmy. I'll give you the d.a.m.n money for your lousy hamburger, just get out of my house."

"No dice, baby." He grabbed her arm and dragged her hard against him, brutally gripped her jaw and forced her mouth open, then shoved his tongue halfway down her throat. Gagging, Laura raked her nails down his cheek and jerked away, taking several hasty steps backward.

"Get out!" she shouted. "Get out or I'm calling the police!"

Jimmy rubbed his cheek, noticed a trace of blood on his hand. His eyes narrowed and darkened. "I ain't leavin', baby. I'm gonna stay right here and teach you some manners." His lips curled faintly. "I'm gonna f.u.c.k you good, Laura. Maybe next time you'll know better than to mess with Jimmy Osborn."

Laura made a strangled sound in her throat and tried to run, but Jimmy caught her arm and shoved her up against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back.

"You're gonna get it, baby. You're gonna get it real good."

"Jimmy, don't!" Laura pleaded. "Please let me go."

A slight noise came from the doorway. "You heard what the lady said. Let her go." The door swung wide and Brian stood framed in the opening. "Get away from her and get out of her house."

"Brian..."

His hands were balled into fists, his mouth a grim line. He was taller than Jimmy, but Jimmy was younger, with a more wiry build. And utterly ruthless. If the two men fought, Brian was bound to get hurt.

Jimmy's lip curled. "Get outta here, man. This ain't no business of yours."

"I said to let her go," Brian repeated, legs slightly splayed, every muscle taut.

"Be careful, Brian!"

Jimmy yanked so hard on her hair tears sprang into her eyes. "Shut up, b.i.t.c.h! I'll take care of you when I'm through with him."

He let her go and turned to Brian and the instant she was free, Laura bolted into her bedroom. Her hands were shaking so hard she had trouble with the drawer in her bedside table, but eventually it moved and she jerked it open. The .38 special she had purchased through a friend sat exactly where she had left it.

She gripped the gun with both hands as she had been taught in her one-and-only lesson and tried to hold it steady. Taking a deep, calming breath, she raced back to the living room just in time to see Jimmy Osborn standing in front of Brian, his mouth a tight line, bloodl.u.s.t shining in his dark eyes.

Laura raised the gun, her hands shaking but steadier than she would have expected. "Hold it, Jimmy! Stop right there." Standing with her legs slightly spread, she kept her arms straight in front of her, just as she had learned. Her knees were trembling, but she held her ground, pointing the pistol straight at Jimmy's heart. "I don't want any trouble, Jimmy. I just want you to leave."

Brian looked incredulous. "Laura, where in G.o.d's name-"

"Not now, Brian. Are you leaving, Jimmy?"

He looked at her and a muscle ticked in his jaw. His mouth looked tight against the shadow of beard beginning to roughen his cheeks. "I can't believe it. Little Laura Ferris drawing down on Jimmy Osborn." He chuckled without mirth. "You got more bra.s.s than I thought, babe." She tensed when he started to move, but he merely stepped around Brian and walked toward the door. "See ya around."

She didn't stop pointing the gun until Jimmy was gone and the door firmly closed. Then she lowered the weapon to her side and let the tears she had been holding slide down her cheeks.

Brian crossed the room in three long strides. Gently pulling the gun from her fingers, he set it on the table, then eased her into his arms. "It's all right, honey, don't cry. He's gone now. Everything's going to be all right."

Laura sniffed back tears. "Brian, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have gone out with him. Julie warned me not to. I wouldn't have-" she glanced up "-if I hadn't been so mad at you."

His arms tightened protectively around her. "I'm sorry, honey. That's what I came here to tell you. I know I was wrong to interfere in your life. If I didn't care so d.a.m.ned much..." The words trailed off and Laura smiled softly. She reached up to touch his cheek.

"You shaved your beard."

"Yeah, I thought it might make me look younger. We aren't really so far apart in age, you know. I was hoping you'd like the change."

"I love it."

He smiled and she saw that he had dimples, hidden before by the beard.

"You were really terrific," he said, "even if you shouldn't own a gun."

Laura bristled. "That gun saved your a.s.s, Brian Heraldson."

"I suppose so. But maybe I could have surprised you and saved my own a.s.s. I used to box in college. I was pretty good at it, too."

Laura didn't tell him Jimmy Osborn wouldn't have fought by the Queensbury rules. "Thank you for what you did. You would have fought for me. No one has ever done that."

"No one?"

"Except my sister, of course. Julie's been fighting for me as long as I can remember."

He ran a finger along her cheek. "Tonight you fought for yourself."

Laura smiled. "I did, didn't I?" They walked together over to the sofa and sat down, Laura snuggling against him. "You know something, Brian? As terrible as this abduction thing has been, in some way I feel stronger for it. Do you think that's possible?"

"Maybe. Overcoming adversity often makes people stronger."

"I don't think I've overcome anything, but I'm trying. I'm trying very hard."

"That's all that matters, honey." He kissed the top of her head. "I can't tell you I believe in this alien thing, but I want you to know, I'm with you. I hope you'll consider my advice-as your friend-but however you want to approach this, I'll go along."

Laura slid her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Brian. That's all I could ever ask." She kissed him then, a soft sort of thank-you that mushroomed into something hotter, sweeter, far more insistent.

Laura pulled him down on the sofa and the kiss turned wildly pa.s.sionate, a fusing of mouths, a stroking of hands on flesh, a straining of bodies to press more closely together.

Brian kissed the side of her neck. "I want you, Laura. G.o.d help me, I've tried to fight it, but I want you so d.a.m.ned much."

"I want you, too, Brian. Make love to me...please."

He groaned. Another long, deep kiss. His fingers fumbled with the b.u.t.tons on her halter top. He slid it off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. Laura frantically worked the b.u.t.tons on his shirt. His chest was wide and nicely furred, more muscular than she had imagined.

Brian caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then lowered his head to take one into his mouth. "You're beautiful," he whispered, tasting the soft white mound. "I knew you would be."

Feverishly they shed the rest of their clothes then Brian pressed her down on the sofa and came up over her, entering her with a single smooth stroke. Bodies came together, fast, hot, and furious at first, the second time more slowly, much more gently.

Brian fell asleep in Laura's arms, his dark head resting against her breast. She stroked his thick brown hair and felt content in a way she couldn't recall. Perhaps it was knowing he cared. Perhaps it was how much she had come to care for him.

Her eyes slid closed and she thought that she would sleep. She was stronger, now, she told herself, proud of her actions in saving them both from Jimmy. But sleep didn't come, and in the hours before dawn, she found herself listening instead, straining to hear the night sounds more clearly, listening for a dull thick hum.

No sound came that night. No one disturbed her. But sooner or later they would-Laura was certain of it.

Even with Brian beside her, worry rose up, gnawing at her insides, and she couldn't shake the fear.

"OhmyG.o.d! OhmyG.o.d!" Shirl Bingham pulled off her headset and dropped it onto the desktop in front of her. Her hands were still shaking from the call that had just come in. She had to find Patrick or Julie, but both of them were out.

Just then the back door slammed and Shirl sprang to her feet. Miracle of miracles, Julie had just walked in.

"Julie!" Racing through the office toward the rear, Shirl slammed to a halt in front of her. "Julie! It's Mr. Donovan!"

Julie's stomach dropped out. "Oh, G.o.d, tell me it isn't his heart."

"Not Patrick! Patrick's father-he's had another stroke!"

The little blood left drained from Julie's face. "Oh, no. Have they taken him to the hospital?"

"Apparently he's still at home. The doctor said moving him would be more dangerous than leaving him where he was. Oh, Julie I feel so awful. Mr. Donovan is such a nice man."

Julie shoved down the fear coursing through her. "We don't know how bad it is yet. We have to think positive, Shirl." She grabbed her purse and her car keys. "Page Patrick, tell him what's happened. Tell him I've gone to see his father." She rushed toward the rear office door, stopped and turned. "Oh, and cancel my afternoon appointments. There's a woman-Mrs. Rosenberg. Her number's in the address book on my desk. I'm supposed to show her houses at three. Tell her there's been an emergency. Try to reschedule for sometime next week."

"I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Shirl." She was out the door in a flash, into her little silver sports car, shoving her key into the ignition with shaking hands. Oh, dear Lord, poor Alex. He had suffered so much already. And Patrick would be frantic. He loved his father. Their relationship was difficult for him and they hadn't been really close in years, but the love was there between them, fighting to break through.

The tires squealed as Julie revved the engine of the Mercedes and pulled out of the parking lot onto Canon Drive. A few minutes later she was rolling eighty miles an hour down the Glendale freeway, heading for the Flintridge turnoff.

Alexander Donovan's Mediterranean estate sat on Chevy Chase Drive. It stood two stories high, had nine bedrooms, each with its own private bath; a library; a solarium; a billiards parlor; and a separate building for the servants' quarters in the rear. Julie stopped the car in front of the big iron gates, punched in the security code, and the gates swung open. She pulled the car directly to the front door and jumped out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The butler opened the door before she reached it, and she stepped into the red-tiled entry.

It was cool in the house, ma.s.sive potted palms waving in the slight breeze drifting in through the tall open windows. The soft aqua of the pool out in back contrasted the stark white walls. Only the antiseptic, hospital smell pervading the house hinted that all was not well.

"Come in, Ms. Ferris." The butler, a black-haired, meticulous little Italian named Mario, stood at the door. "We've been expecting you and Mr. Patrick."

"Patrick was out of the office when the call came in. They'll be trying him on his pager and cell phone. I'm sure he'll be here soon." She glanced toward Alex's room upstairs and nervously dampened her lips. "How's he doing?"

Mario shook his head. "Not so good, Ms. Ferris. The ambulance came right away when we called 911, but they decided not to move him. The doctor's up there with him now. And Nathan is with him."

Julie blinked against the quick burn of tears. "I'd better go up, too." She left the butler and climbed the stairs, her limbs heavy, her mouth dry as cotton. She had known there was every chance Alex would have another stroke and that if he did, it might be fatal, but still she wasn't prepared.

At the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath then plunged on down the hall. Nathan Jefferson Jones, Alex's brawny African-American nurse and longtime friend, stood outside the door.

"h.e.l.lo, Nathan."

"Julie! I'm so d.a.m.ned glad you're here. Mr. D's been asking for you."

"How is he, Nathan?"

His usually round face looked haggard, almost gaunt. "I won't lie to you, Julie. It looks real bad."

"Oh, G.o.d, Nathan." She started to cry, felt those ma.s.sive, muscular arms go around her, holding her ever so gently. She had seen him hold Alex that same way whenever he needed help and a feeling of tenderness for the big man swept through her. "Thank you, Nathan. I'll be all right now."

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped away from him, then nodded and he opened the door.

Julie walked into a room that looked more like an oversized hospital room than any sort of bedroom, had since Alex's first stroke. Boasting a remote-controlled, fully adjustable day bed with metal bars suspended above to help a patient lever himself up, there was also a rolling bedside food tray, an intercom system, and an overhead, adjustable hi-def TV.

Today intravenous tubes hung from wheeled carts, dripping fluid into Alex's thin arms. Oxygen bottles sat against the wall, and a heart monitor beeped its rhythm near the head of the bed. The room was a jumble of medical apparatus, most of which Julie couldn't name, and amidst it all, a pale, shrunken Alexander Donovan lay still as death beneath the covers, his face as starkly white as the fine cotton sheets.

The doctor approached as Julie walked in. Dr. Cyrus McClean was in his forties with thinning gray hair and gla.s.ses. He was the top man in his field, recommended by Martin Cane, the Donovan's longtime family physician. Julie had known McClean since Alex's first stroke and the doctor knew that to Alex, Julie was family.

He took her arm and led her to a quiet corner and urged her into a chair.

"How-how is he?" she asked.

"I'll be honest, Julie. The prognosis isn't good. Alex wasn't fully recovered from his previous stroke when this one occurred. If he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, he might have a chance, but..."

"Go on, Dr. McClean, please. I need to know."

"I'm sorry, but the odds aren't good that will happen."

A thick lump rose in her throat. "You're telling me...you're saying that Alex is dying."

"I'm afraid so...yes."

"Oh, dear G.o.d." Tears burned her eyes, began to slide down her cheeks. The doctor pulled a tissue from the pocket of his white coat and handed it over.

"He's been conscious off and on. He's asked for you and Patrick. I'm glad at least one of you is here."

She ignored the censure in his voice. She knew what the doctor thought of Alex's wayward son. "Patrick hasn't heard. I'm sure he'll be here soon."