"Thanks a lot," she said wryly. "The notion is not that strange."

She couldn't see his expression in the shadows. The moon was behind him, silvering him with an almost eerie light. He had bony shoulders. She liked bony shoulders. Oh, God, she liked him, she realized with sudden horror. Not his personality or his presence or anything about him. Except his body. And his mouth.

Why the hell was she reacting like this to the most disturbing man she'd ever met? At this time in her life?

She didn't show a glimmer of what was racing through her mind. "I better get home," she said after a moment.

He was watching her. He leaned against the porch, lazily, as if he hadn't a care in the world except to bait her. Maybe it was only her crazy emotions, roiling around beneath her determinedly calm exterior, or maybe he was just as tense as she was despite his negligent pose. She couldn't tell what was going on under his enigmatic exterior.

"Yeah," he said, not moving. For her to leave, he'd have to move out of the way. But he showed no signs of moving. "Tell me something. What the hell are you wearing?"

Presumably he couldn't see the blush that warmed her face. She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. It was a warm night for late August, she was wearing a voluminous Edwardian nightgown, and he was making her feel naked.

"It's a nightgown. Haven't you ever seen one before? I would have thought a man of your vast experience would have seen women in nightgowns before." Shit. In her effort to be arch and cool she'd inadvertently brought up the subject of sex. Obliquely, but it was there, between them, and she didn't want to talk about sex with John Smith or whoever the hell he was.

The slight curve of his mouth, his very sexy mouth, was his only reaction. It was enough. "I have to admit that most women I sleep with are naked. They certainly don't wear things like that. You look like a doomed bride. All you need is a bouquet of dead flowers and a tattered veil and you could haunt this place quite nicely."

Ghosts weren't any improvement over sex as subject matter. Not when she had to walk by what had once been a murder scene.

"It's a nightgown, and I'll have you know it came from Victoria's Secret!"

"Not the Victoria's Secret I know. Trust you to consider that sexy."

"I don't consider it sexy!" she protested.

"Then why are you wearing it?"

"Because I don't care about sex." Shit. He'd trapped her into it. And in fact, it was a lie. She hadn't cared about it before. All he'd had to do was kiss her, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. And why the hell didn't he put on more clothes-his chest, his stomach, everything about him was distracting her, making her think about things she didn't want to even consider.

He pushed away from the post, and she thought he was going to let her leave. She was wrong. He came right up to her, and there was no place for her to retreat. The screen door was pressed against her back, and he was blocking her way with his body. His moonstruck shoulders. His mouth.

"Oh, yeah?" he said mildly enough. He reached out and took the shawl in his hands, pulling it from her. She made a futile grab at it, but it was too late. He let it drop on the porch floor, at her bare feet beneath the ruffled nightgown. Then he began to unfasten the pearl button at her throat. She was having trouble breathing. "Prove it," he whispered, unfastening the second button.

She finally looked up at him, stricken. "What are you doing?" she demanded in a strained voice.

"Seducing you." He sounded remote, almost clinical, as his long fingers moved down the front of her nightgown, parting one button after another. It had too many buttons. "I would have thought a woman with your vast experience would have figured that out by now."

"But...why?"

His low laugh was even more unnerving. "Because I want to."

In another minute she was going to be naked in front of him, she realized dazedly. Why the hell hadn't he shown up ten years ago-twenty pounds ago? She was not going to get naked with a man who hadn't even told her his real name, who was nothing but hostile, who was looking at her out of hooded eyes that seemed filled with impossible desire, as the last button gave way beneath his deft fingers and the yards of white cotton fell to a heap at her feet.

At least it was dark. His eyes drifted down over her body, the ripe curves in the moonlight, and a dreamy expression crossed his face, just before he leaned forward and put his mouth against the side of her neck, tasting her hammering pulse.

She stood very still, like a doe caught in the headlights, hoping maybe he'd forget she was there and go away. But he held her wrists, and he was sliding his hands up her arms to hold her shoulders. He moved his mouth to the base of her throat, and she could feel his tongue.

That worried little moan of pleasure couldn't have come from her, could it? Maybe the loons were out on the lake, floating safely in the silver water. Maybe it was an owl....

He reached behind her and opened the screen door, pushing her back into the house with only the lightest touch. "I'm not doing this," she warned him.

"Sure you are. The only question is whether we're going to do it standing up, on the dining room table or make it all the way up to my bed."

Her eyes widened in shock. They were back in the dark again, the moonlight barely making it in one window, and she should have felt less vulnerable. But his hands were still on her, and she couldn't even make another token protest. Not when he'd slid his arms around her waist, pulling her up against his hot, strong body, and he was kissing her. Slowly. Lazily. Thoroughly.

Skin against skin. His hard chest against her soft breasts. Her chilled flesh against his heat. Now she was shivering. Silly, she thought absently. It wasn't that cold. Why was she shivering?

He broke the kiss, swearing softly. "The hell with this," he muttered, and she felt a sudden panic that he'd changed his mind, that he didn't want her. And then an even greater panic as he simply scooped her up and laid her down on the floor.

The carpet was scratchy beneath her back. And then it wasn't her back she was thinking about, as he leaned over her in the darkness and slid his hands down her shoulders to her breasts.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he filled it with his tongue, and for some reason she arched beneath him as his fingers touched her nipples with the lightest, most unexpectedly erotic touches. And she wanted more.

Maybe if she closed her eyes here in the dark it would be accomplished as if by magic. She could finally get rid of her virginity, and then she could go on to find someone more suitable....

He put his mouth on one breast, sucking at it, and a stripe of hot pleasure speared down between her legs. He must have known, because he put his hand between her legs as his mouth pulled at her breast, his fingers sliding inside her, rubbing against her with a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the tug of his mouth at her breast, and she couldn't speak, couldn't argue, couldn't make much more than a choked gasp that caught in her throat as a spasm of pleasure hit her body.

She knew what an orgasm was like-she was a modern woman who knew her own body. It was nothing like this. It was...

She stopped thinking coherently as her body convulsed beneath his relentless touch. He stopped then, but she had no words to argue, when she heard the unmistakable rasp of his zipper, the quick fumble of clothes, of paper tearing.

She surfaced long enough to realize he was using a condom, to realize he was back, kneeling between her legs, and she knew this was going to happen unless she said something. She couldn't remember how it had gotten to this point, so fast. The man was certainly efficient. She only knew that if he stopped she'd die.

He stretched out over her body and kissed her, and for the first time she kissed him back. "Put your arms around me," he said in a harsh voice, "and hold on."

"I should tell you..." she began, obediently putting her arms around his neck.

"Just tell me whether you want to do this or not," he said impatiently. "Yes or no?"

She wanted to shove him off her, but for some reason her arms were tight around his neck and her mouth was saying, "Yes."

He slid his hands under her butt and she could feel him pressing against her, hot and hard and sleek. And then he thrust inside, deep, fast, burying himself inside her, breaking past whatever trace of innocence she still had remaining.

She let out a stifled yelp of pain. She'd forgotten that it would hurt. She'd even assumed her hymen was long gone. Apparently not.

He was frozen, buried deep within her body, and that nice, sensual haze that enveloped Sophie began to fade.

"Shit," he muttered in her ear. Not the romantic uttering she would have imagined, and she felt him begin to pull away.

"No!" she said, clinging tightly to his neck. "Don't stop."

"I wasn't going to." He kissed her, and she thought she could taste regret on his mouth. "Shit," he said again. And then he reached down and pulled her legs around him, so that he was deeper, further, harder.

He began to pull out of her, and she almost protested, but then he filled her again. "Don't worry," he muttered, his voice thick with strain. "I know how to do this. I have lots of experience."

Forget tender, romantic musings. It didn't matter. What mattered was the feel of him inside her, thick and heavy, the surge of his hips against hers, the feel of his beautiful bony shoulders beneath her hands. The heavy, glorious weight of him. The movement, deep and rocking. She wanted to wrap herself around him, dissolve into his skin, lose herself completely, if only for a short while.

Somewhere along the way her shivering had stopped, and she was covered with a film of sweat, slick, sliding against his hard body. The pain wasn't even a memory, and now she wanted this to last forever, soaring, sailing, faster, deeper, harder. She couldn't catch her breath, didn't want to, she just wanted him, more of him. Neverending. Relentless. Forever.

It started slow and hit her with the force of a sledgehammer, a cataclysm of such power she could only hold on to him and let it happen. He went rigid against her, rock hard in her arms, and he probably muttered "oh, shit" again, but she was beyond hearing, lost in some mind-scattered cloud of inexpressible pleasure. She fell back, limp, awash in shimmering sensation, and she knew an odd, faint trace of regret that he'd used a condom. She'd wanted all of him inside her, a total giving, and he'd withheld something.

He collapsed on top of her, heavy, damp with sweat, his heart slamming against hers, his breath rasping in his chest. As the powerful sensations began to ebb, regret took their place. She hadn't seen him in the dark, hadn't touched him. She'd lost her virginity in the darkness to an experienced predator, in exchange for a moment of fleeting pleasure.

Well, it was more than a moment, she thought fairly. And pleasure was a pretty tame word for what she'd just experienced. If he just said something sweet to her. Something gentle, something even mildly flattering.

"Shit," he said, and pushed away from her, rising from the floor.

She could feel the scratch of the rug beneath her back. She could feel the chill returning to her overheated skin. She could feel the worst shame she'd ever felt in her life. Not shame that she'd finally done this. But that he'd walked away from her, cursing.

She heard a door close in the darkness, heard the water running. She didn't hesitate. She practically sprang to her feet and had to steady herself on a nearby piece of furniture as her legs wobbled beneath her.

She had to get out of there, fast. She didn't know which of them would be more embarrassed, and she wasn't about to find out. All she knew was that she had to escape before he said "shit" one more time.

It was getting light outside. She didn't let the screen door slam. Her nightgown was on the floor of the porch, and she grabbed it and ran into the murky, predawn light, pulling it on as she went.

She half expected to hear him calling after her, but no sound emanated from the old cottage. She'd escaped, and he could only be grateful. No morning-after recriminations or difficult small talk. Hell, with luck he'd leave town after that debacle.

Maybe debacle was the wrong word for it. He certainly hadn't been happy to find out that she was still technically a virgin, but it hadn't seemed to slow him down any. Still, it must be embarrassing to face someone you unwittingly deflowered. He'd probably rather leave town. Or at least she could hope so.

She felt close to tears by the time she reached the open expanse of lawn in front of the inn. The day was getting brighter-it must be after five. Not that anyone in the house would be waking to ask her embarrassing questions. Both Grace and Marty liked their beauty sleep.

Sophie walked down to the water's edge, stepping out onto the dock. It was too early even for the most devoted of fishermen, and if they came by she didn't care. She dropped her unbuttoned nightgown onto the dock, looking down at her body.

There was blood between her thighs. Well and truly de-virginized, she thought, and she dove into the lake, a neat, clean surface dive that barely made a ripple in the still, cool water.

She was gone, of course. He should have known she'd run like a scared rabbit, Griffin thought, cursing. Hell and damnation, he couldn't even have two minutes in the bathroom without her taking off into the woods like a ravished virgin.

Which, in fact, was exactly what she was. How in the world did someone with a body like hers make it into her twenties without ever getting laid? Had she spent years in a convent or on some deserted island? What was wrong with the men she'd met, that no one had taken advantage of that sweet mouth and delectably lush body?

It wasn't as if she'd put up a hell of a fight. He liked women, liked sex, and he knew perfectly well when a woman was attracted to him, even if she didn't want to be. Sophie Davis couldn't keep her eyes off him, in between snapping at him, and all he'd had to do was taste her mouth this afternoon to know he could have her.

He hadn't been in any particular rush to do anything about it, but she'd shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, dressed in that ridiculous nightgown, and he was hardly a man to refuse such an unexpected gift. So he'd taken her, she'd been willing, and he had no reason to feel guilty. Though why in hell she was still a virgin was beyond his comprehension.

He couldn't figure out why she hadn't told him. Maybe she'd tried and he'd been too busy concentrating on getting inside her to listen. And if she had told him, what would he have done? Been noble, had second thoughts, put her away from him and forswear being a cad?

Like hell. He probably would have made it all the way up to the bed instead of taking her fast and hot on the rug like a horny teenager, but that was about the limit of his self-control. The moment she'd appeared out of the woods he'd known this was going to happen, and nothing was going to stop it.

It was a mistake, and her being a virgin had nothing to do with it. From now on she'd be so skittish around him he'd have an even harder time getting into the old inn. He'd screwed things up big time, and if he had any sense at all he'd keep his mind and his hands off his neighbor. He should be kicking himself. In fact, though, she'd almost been worth it.

Of course she'd run off, refusing to face him. She was probably crying, probably hating him. That, or even worse, she'd decided she was in love with him. He shuddered at the thought. That was the last thing he needed at a time like this. Women tended to be sentimental, particularly when it was their first lover, and she'd probably convince herself it was the romance of the century that made her give up what she'd been hoarding for too damned long.

She'd be hard put to fashion a romance out of this, he thought, pulling his abandoned cutoffs back on. He stared down at the rug, trying to imagine her lying there beneath him. The early morning light was creeping in the cottage window, creating strange shadows. With his luck the lugubrious Kings would show up on his doorstep. At least they hadn't walked in on him and Sophie.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a pot of coffee. He'd actually been looking forward to stretching out in the bed upstairs with Sophie and taking his time. A virgin deserved more than a quick tumble and a good orgasm, and he'd intended to take care of her properly once he got her upstairs. He should have realized she'd run, and he now had no interest in going back to bed alone. Maybe he'd take a nap later on. Maybe Sophie would find some excuse to come back and yell at him, and they could take a nap together.

He took his coffee out to the porch and sat with his legs propped on the railing, watching the lake. He reached for his glasses. Someone was out swimming at that hour, someone at the beach next door. It didn't take much to figure out who it was.

He rose and strolled down to the edge of the water where he could get a better glimpse of her. She swam well, slicing through the water with an elegant economy of motion. He shivered, remembering Lorelei, dead in his arms, weighted down by the water.

Lorelei hadn't been able to swim. She'd been childishly nervous about the lake. It had always bothered him that that was where the killer had dumped her body. He only hoped she was dead before she hit the water. She wouldn't have wanted to feel the cold wet darkness closing over her....

He spun around, heading back to the porch. He didn't want to think about Lorelei and how she died. Not right now. That was what he was here to find out, to see if he'd had anything to do with it. But for just a few hours he'd rather think about Sophie. And the deliciously erotic squeaking noises she made when she came.

He was watching her, and in the darkness he wept. Whore of Satan, with her virgin's blood staining her thighs. The waters of Still Lake wouldn't wash the sin from her. It would take his hand to do it.

He had never shunned his duty, and he wouldn't this time. Sophie Davis had given herself over to the wickedness of the flesh, and there was no hope for her. He would cleanse her body and her soul. And she would enter the kingdom of God, purified.

He just had to decide when.

He watched her move back up the lawn, her nightgown wrapped around her wet body. In the early morning light he could see her quite clearly, the calm determination on her pale face. If she'd shown remorse he might have hesitated. But there were no tears, no regret. She had sinned, and she must suffer the consequences.

Much as it pained his heart to do it. She would die, and be born again in rapture. He only had to decide when to act. And how much to make it hurt.

13.

The buzz was insistent, ripping into Sophie's fog-shrouded sleep. It had all been a dream, she thought. An erotic, unsuitable, thoroughly enjoyable dream that she wouldn't have to give a second thought to. Her body felt lazy and luscious and utterly relaxed, and if erotic dreams did that to her every night, then she'd make a habit of fantasizing about men, even one as unsuitable as her unwelcome neighbor.

It was the phone, but she wasn't going to answer it. She was going to stay in the nice cozy afterglow of her sexy dream and enjoy herself, and someone else could either get the phone or the answering machine would take care of it.

It stopped, abruptly, and she figured the machine must have picked up. After all, she always got up hours before Grace and Marty did, and why should today be any different? Apart from the fact that she'd had a dream that had been so luscious it had been downright embarrassing....

She slid down in the bed, and then froze. She wasn't wearing a nightgown. She never slept nude-she just couldn't feel comfortable without some kind of clothing on. Gracey had always been a bit of an exhibitionist in her own nudity, and Sophie had reacted by being prudish. Fortunately in her currently foggy state Grace had decided to stay decently clothed, but the aversion had lingered with Sophie.

But there was no doubt she was naked in bed. And her hair was damp. She turned over and squinted at the alarm clock, then let out a squeak of horror. It was after ten o'clock. She never slept that late, even when she was sick.

There was a sudden rapping on her door, and she jumped nervously as her sister's sharp voice called out to her. "Phone's for you, sleepyhead. And you've got a visitor downstairs."

"Shit." The reaction was instinctive, and immediately more details began to flood her mind. It was a dream, wasn't it? She couldn't have been so stupid. And if it wasn't, then that was probably John Smith downstairs, and how was she going to face him...?

"Phone," Marty said irritably, then she stomped off down the corridor.

Sophie sat up, groaning. She was most definitely naked, and her hair smelled like the lake. Her hand was shaking when she picked up the phone, but she managed to keep her voice steady and businesslike.

"Yes?"

"I think you already said yes." He sounded cool and faintly ironic.

She almost slammed down the phone, but at the last minute pride stopped her. Okay, so it wasn't an erotic dream. He must have drugged her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a frosty voice. It was a weak defense, but the only one she could come up with at the last minute.