Greg White's Residence

Cliffside Cavern Hotel

Firelight turns Rena Carlson's hair bright red, and casts a glow on her pale round face. The young nurse sleeps soundly on her left side, one arm tucked beneath her, the other clutching the forest green velour throw blanket on top of the sofa.

Greg White pads back out to the living room, glancing out the window to the early morning winter sky. Last night, they both fell asleep while watching television, just as he'd predicted when the exhausted pair left the hospital. When Greg awoke a half hour ago, he found Rena leaning on his chest, dead to the world -- not surprisingly, since over the past two days she's had even less sleep than Greg. After all, following the elevator accident, he only had to worry about his brother's welfare. Rena seems to have taken responsibility for everyone else even remotely involved in the disaster at the Schuyler Falls Record building.

Greg's hair and skin are still damp from his shower, but the fireplace radiates enough heat for him not to feel chilly. Besides, seeing Rena lying there, with a pajama top that's fallen open to reveal more of her ivory skin than Rena would probably prefer ... Greg is plenty warm.

Grinning, he kneels down in front of her, gently brushing his fingers through her bangs to sweep them away from her forehead. Feelings of protectiveness battle far less noble impulses as he glances down at her body, all the way down to her bare legs and back up again.

Despite her diminutive height, Rena isn't as petite as Greg would have thought. Not only are her breasts a little fuller than he expected, but her hips are too, and he can't resist the temptation to run his hand from her waist over the curving slope of her hips and down to her upper right thigh. She's surprisingly compact, muscular, but still feels deliciously soft beneath the thin cotton material of his pajama top.

Apparently his motions have had an impact on her dreams, because Rena gives a contented little sigh and turns onto her back. As she does, the shirt twists around beneath her, pulling the buttons open to reveal -- well, everything, from the hollow of her throat to her rounded, faintly freckled breasts; from the almost invisible golden hair on her stomach's pale skin to her adorably plain sky-blue cotton panties.

He takes a steadying breath. Every instinct honed from years as an expert tells him that this is a prime opportunity for the patented Greg White Seduction. His mouth goes dry with longing, and his hands ache to touch her. And a lot more aching is starting to occur beneath his bathrobe.

Somehow, it's his brain that takes charge. As he catches himself lowering towards her bared, inviting flesh, a single thought flashes through his mind: though he can name at least twenty women who would adore being woken up by his deftly roaming lips and hands, Rena Carlson wouldn't be among them.

If she wakes up I'm dead, he realizes without the slightest doubt. Hell, she'd kill me just for glomming her like this.

That doesn't stop him from glomming for a little while longer -- he's not a candidate for sainthood, after all. What he sees makes him all the more determined to move past Rena's innate modesty and get her into his bed, or any other reasonable locale, for that matter. The campaign might take one more date, possibly two, but he knows it'll be worth the wait.

Suddenly he remembers back to medical school, and the fellow student in his study group whose nun-like behavior despite many late night cram sessions frustrated him. Turned out she was just making up for a torrid past, a so-called born again virgin. Eventually he was able to charm her back into circulation, and she ended up teaching him a lot more about biology than he'd dreamed possible.

Buoyed by the recollection, Greg smiles down at Rena, tantalized at the delicious possibility that beneath her shy demeanor lies a passionate dynamo. Then he sighs, having to ignore his desire for the time being, and reluctantly pulls the pajama top closed.

Unfortunately, because luck has long ceased to be a lady to Greg, it's at this very moment that Rena's eyes open. Her sleepy gaze falls on his hands, frozen just as he's started to re-button the pajamas. And Greg has the sinking feeling that his gentlemanly behavior is about to be badly misconstrued.

Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Shoving a barrette in her mouth, Chelsea Stanford keeps it between her teeth as she uses her hands to pull her golden hair into a loose ponytail. She glances across the small pass-through kitchen counter to examine the man standing by the window.

"Uh, earth to Jem," she says, removing the barrette and clipping her hair in place. "Did you hear what I said? Is there coffee in this place or not?"

Jem Van Doren turns halfway towards her, not looking directly back at Chelsea. "Should be some in the freezer. But you're on your way out, aren't you? Can't you get coffee from Starbucks or the Red Flame?"

"I don't leave the house without having some coffee, thank you very much. Some people get arrested for driving while intoxicated, but I could be snagged for driving without caffeine." Smirking at her own joke, she turns and opens the upper door of his refrigerator. Though she's clad only in a large T-shirt borrowed from Jem, the temperature from the freezer doesn't affect her -- mainly because it's barely working. "Jesus. You ever hear of defrosting? Looks like the polar ice caps in here."

"I've been stuck in a hospital for two months. Defrosting my freezer wasn't the first thing on my list of things to do."

Chelsea frowns at the thick ice crystals, poking her fingers into the small gap remaining to pluck out the bag of coffee beans. She grimaces while looking inside the bag. "Oh, great. They stink."

With a guttural noise, Jem swivels to face her. "Excuse me, Princess, but I've got bigger problems in my life than stale coffee beans."

"Man, you're a pleasure to wake up to." Plonking the bag in the sink, Chelsea opens the fridge again and pulls out a can of Coke. Not ideal, but caffeine is caffeine. As she takes a long sip, she looks at Jem contemplatively. He's wearing a black silk bathrobe, a nice change from the ratty old thing he's been wearing for the past week, and matching pajama bottoms. Beneath the robe his chest is bare, just as Chelsea likes it, and the sunlight breaking through the clouds casts his smooth skin with an orange-copper hue. His golden brown hair also seems brighter thanks to the sun. His blue eyes gaze at the barren fireplace without really seeing it, with an expression that appears solemn, thoughtful.

If he could keep his mouth shut, he'd really be a treat to look at, Chelsea thinks. Even so, she's not doing any complaining at the moment. Though she's only sleeping with him as part of their bargain -- in return for his reciprocal agreement to seduce Rena Carlson away from Greg -- she has to admit she's enjoying herself. He's an incredibly attractive, skilled lover.

The mood is broken when suddenly his eyes flick upwards to glare at her. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing. Except you look much better now that you finally bathed and changed clothes." She smiles a little despite herself, remembering last night. "You've got a comfy bathtub, by the way."

"And you wield a wicked scrub brush." His own smile is very brief. "Thanks for ... you know, all that. Haven't had a real bath in months."

Chelsea shrugs and puts down the can of soda. The more she thinks about their time together last night -- the many times together last night -- the more she's interested in seeing just how much more his supposedly injured body can take.

She walks from the kitchen over to Jem, standing only a foot away from him, hands provocatively on hips. "You know, I could stay around a little while."

Jem looks down at her, his wide mouth crooked. "You said you have some errands."

"Well, yeah, but nothing that can't wait. And nothing that I can do this early." She pulls at his robe's silk belt. "Except for you. You I could definitely do."

His tongue moistens his lips, but to Chelsea, it seems that instead of being a prelude to something good, Jem's attitude is one of someone preparing for something unpleasant. "I don't think that's a good idea."

She raises an eyebrow. "Playing hard to get?" With a grin, she slips her hand beneath his robe, running her fingers from his chest down to his tight abs -- not as tight as they were before he was hospitalized, but still not bad. Then she moves still lower. "Or just hard?"

"Chelsea." He claps his hand around hers, stopping her from reaching her destination. "I mean it. I don't want to, okay?"

"Whoa, what're you, a clone? What've you done to the real Jem Van Doren? 'Cause the one I know is permanently in heat."

Jem keeps holding her hand. "Look, I just don't -- I just need you to back off."

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Residence

"High Meadow"

Cornwall, New York

The young man sits down at the breakfast table, flipping his linen napkin off the china onto his lap. Ian Nichols glances over to his stepmother, who sits at one end of the long table, staring at him with the sly, dangerous expression of a just-fed cat eyeing a mouse.

"Yes, Danny?" he says expectantly as he leans forward to clasp the curving crystal handle of a pitcher full of orange juice. "Is there something you'd like to say to me?"

Danielle Nichols sips her coffee. She's been up a while, having already had a session with her personal trainer fifteen minutes ago, and looks radiantly beautiful. Ian always feels uncomfortable looking at her after she's just exercised, because her glowing face -- with her cheeks slightly flushed, her green eyes bright and dark -- reminds him of a time he's been trying to forget for a year.

Finally she sets the cup down, her steady hand not spilling a drop. "What are your plans today?"

"Nothing much. I was going to meet some friends and head down to the rink."

"I didn't think you still played hockey, a grown man like you."

Ian raises an eyebrow, pouring the juice into his glass. "Look throughout Canada, Danny. The country's chock full of grown men playing hockey."

Danielle waves Canada away with her hand. "Nevertheless, I thought you'd become bored with it. Along with other youthful endeavors." Her poppy-colored lips curl slightly. "How gratifying to know you can return to things you thought you'd outgrown."

"Not everything," Ian says dryly. "I don't plan on returning to Legos any time soon."

Chuckling, Danielle pats her mouth with her napkin and drops it on the chair next to her. "Besides playing with your friends, have you other plans?"

"No. Why are you interested in my agenda? What are your plans?"

"My day is fairly open. And as far as why I'm interested ..." Danielle gestures with her hand to the empty chairs around the table. "As you see, the rest of the family isn't around. I thought we might join forces to find something to occupy ourselves."

Ian sends a dark glance towards her and focuses on the first part of her comments. "Where is everybody? I know Dad took the plane to Atlantic City, but what about Nana--"

"Adele is off breakfasting at the Met Club with her attorney, and the twins are off doing whatever they enjoy doing."

"Nice to see you take your job as a mother seriously. Shouldn't you know where your own children are?"

"I know where you are."

"I'm neither yours nor a child." Despite his cool tone, he suddenly gives her a secretive smile. "Something that should make you breathe a sigh of relief."

Danielle laughs deep in her throat. "It certainly makes me thankful. At any rate, what do you think about my suggestion? We'll have the house all to ourselves. Just like old times."

Inhaling, Ian looks down at his hands, which break the corner off a piece of toast.

It's the evening of Ian's birthday, and he's spent it out at a party. Now he's returned home, to the nearly empty, dark mansion. Draping his coat on the white leather living room sofa, Ian walks up to the bar, not willing to head upstairs to bed yet. He opens the small silver refrigerator and reaches for an ice cold bottle of club soda.

"Is that you, Ian?"

Straightening up, Ian looks over his shoulder to find his stepmother's silhouetted figure in the arched doorway leading to the hall. "Hi, Danielle. Didn't think you'd still be up."

"I couldn't sleep. With no one else in the house, I felt as if every noise was some ghost out to get me."

Laughing, Ian twists off the bottle cap. "Never knew you were so squeamish."

"I'm not, now that you're back." Her voice sounds warm with her smile, and when she approaches him Ian catches the scent of her perfume. "Did you have a good time at the party?"

"It was all right. Everyone else was talking about college, and I felt a little ... out of it."

Danielle's head tilts slightly. "You're not looking forward to it?"

"Not particularly. It seems like a waste of time. I'd rather be living my life, starting my career ..."

"Nothing's forcing you to go."

Ian's mouth twitches with an ironic smile. "Just two people named Adele and Cameron. With all the money they've invested in Harvard over the years--"

"They weren't investing in Harvard. They were investing in you. And what's most important is what you want." Danielle brushes her hand across Ian's chest, then reaches for the bottle in his hands. "You should be having something a little more celebratory, don't you think? How about some champagne?"

"Well, I -- to be honest, I had enough at the party."

Danielle shrugs her expressive shoulders, apparently unconcerned at his underage drinking. For the first time Ian notices that she's wearing nothing but a silk nightgown, so thin and filmy that it looks like gold paint brushed over her body. Though he's been taller than her for two years now, tonight Ian suddenly feels small and awkward.

."Then forget champagne. Let's share some brandy to finish off the night. It'll help me sleep. And I hate to drink alone."

Ian nods, watching her move over to the sideboard. He'd be fooling himself if he pretended his examination of her body is anything approaching filial, and he's glad for the darkness that hides his flushed face.

She pours the drinks and hands him a glass, leaning languidly against the mahogany sideboard. "So, you don't want to go to college. Shouldn't you tell Cameron?"

It doesn't escape his notice that she doesn't say your father. In fact, she rarely does, for some reason. "I can't. I don't want to disappoint him."

"You wouldn't be disappointing him. But if it makes it easier ..." Danielle caresses the thin stem of her glass with her fingers. "I could talk to him, soften the blow a little. To be honest, I think he'll be a little relieved at the thought of your staying here. He'd miss you terribly if you go away." Her voice lowers slightly. "We all would..."

Ian lets the toast crumble in his fingers, and then abruptly stands up, avoiding Danielle's arch gaze. "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. I guess I'll go to the weight room, have a workout."

Danielle smiles at him. "It won't help, you know. But you do whatever you think you have to, if you're so unable to sit alone with me."

He flinches. Angry, and refusing to let her get the better of him, he sits back down and tries to ignore her. But the memories aren't as easily dismissed.

Greg White's Residence

Cliffside Cavern Hotel

Exhausted as she is, Rena immediately wakes up fully alert, a natural response to seeing Greg leaning over her, his fingers nimbly working at the loose pajama top buttons.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, shocked. "Get off me!"

He pulls away. "Rena, I -- okay, this isn't what it looks like."

She clutches at the green blanket and pulls it up over her chest, which like the rest of her is flushing bright red. "Then tell me what it is, if it's not you undressing me?"

Greg sits back on his heels, his blue eyes twinkling. "If I'd wanted to undress you, you'd be undressed already. I'm pretty good at that. But I'm not going to undress someone who's sleeping. Give me some credit, Nurse."

"I'll give you something, but it's not credit," she says shakily, buttoning the pajamas all the way up to the top. She doesn't dare look into his gaze, instead focusing on her own trembling fingers. Truth is, the second she opened her eyes to find him inches away from her, feeling the warmth of his hands near her bare skin, Rena wanted to stay like that, enjoying his nearness. But when she realized he was trying to take advantage of her while she was sleeping...

"How could you? I thought you had some respect, some self-control. I trusted you, or I'd never have just let myself--"

"Damn it, Rena, I told you I wasn't doing anything wrong. In fact, I was trying to help you out."

"I just bet."

Greg chuckles, seeing the double entendre in his words. "Um, okay, I didn't mean it like that. Look, just listen to me, okay? I'm not likely to make a move on you with my niece in the next room, am I?"

"Then what were you doing?"

"Trying to get your clothes back on. Truth is, you'd managed to disrobe yourself, and I, like a good chaste knight of old, was buttoning your top. The very opposite of your accusation, in fact. You owe me an apology."

Rena stares at him, still flushed. "You mean, I was -- uncovered?"

"Yes. My God, I'm a doctor, I've seen it all. And then some," he admits with a sideways grin. With a groan, Rena falls back against the sofa arm, keeping the blanket tightly around her. "How embarrassing."

"Why? You don't have three of anything." Greg chuckles. "Seriously, you have nothing to be ashamed about. You're lovely, don't you know that?"

Rena's breath catches in her throat. She opens her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "That's very nice of you to say, but you don't have to."

"I know I don't have to. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I'm not the world's most well-spoken guy, but you'd be amazed how many different ways I can describe a woman's appearance."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me." She hears him laugh gently, and she tilts her head to stare at him. "Greg, please don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you. Rena, why would I laugh at you?"

She can't respond -- she doesn't know how to answer him. He takes her hand and pulls a little, coaxing her up to a sitting position. Greg then smiles encouragingly at her. "Do I look like I'm laughing at you?"

He doesn't. He looks -- oh, so gorgeous in the firelight, the orange flames turning his dark hair a deep burnished auburn. But more importantly, his clear gaze is sincere, warmer than the fire's glow. "No," she whispers. "You don't."

"Tell me why you'd think I'd laugh at you. After seeing you nak--uh, half naked? That's nothing to laugh at. To applaud, maybe, but never to laugh."

Rena hugs herself. "Now you are making fun of me."

"Man oh man," Greg murmurs, frowning as he tilts his head to examine her. "Some guy sure did a job on you. Who was it? I'll go beat him up."

"What -- what do you mean?"

"The guy who made you feel like you're so unattractive. Actually, he won't be too hard to find. I'll just hunt down everyone with a Seeing Eye dog, and then work my way--"

Rena giggles despite herself. "You're nuts, you know that?"

"I'm not the one with a warped view of my own physiognomy. Seriously, Rena," Greg says, his voice softening. "I found it a privilege to look at you, something I've wanted to do for a hell of a long time. Surely other guys have told you how pretty you are, right? I can't fathom why you'd be so worried about me seeing you naked."

Because you're the only one who ever has. Rena just shakes her head, unable to say the words, but instead leans forward to kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry I jumped all over you before," she says quietly. "I shouldn't have mistrusted you."

Greg captures her face with his hand, cupping it around her chin. "I won't lie," he murmurs. "Seeing you like that, I was tempted to touch you. Not just because you looked so damned delectable, all golden and soft and sweet." He tenderly kisses her forehead. "But because you're special to me. And when I see something special, I want to hold it, and treasure it. I would treasure you, Rena -- do you know that?"

She bends nearer, her heart beating in her throat. "I think I do," she says at last, staring into his crystalline gaze, lost within it and glad to be so. Their kiss starts gently, and Rena is the first to increase the intensity as she pulls herself closer to him.

A noise from a few yards away interrupts them. They both turn, and Rena blushes again when she sees the teenager walking through the living room.

"I'd tell you guys to get a room," Daphne White says, arching an eyebrow at her uncle. "But I guess you already have one. So don't mind me, I'm just getting some cereal."

Greg casts an amused glance at Rena, who covers her mouth with her hand. Tacitly they agree to continue things later, and Greg stands up to get some breakfast for all three of them.

Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Jem's words make no sense to Chelsea, not in light of everything they did last night. Or considering his constant pursuit of her since they first met. She laughs a little in disbelief. "You want me to back off."

"Yeah. Nothing personal, it's-- I'm not interested."

"Is this an early April Fool's gag or something? I never thought I'd see the day that Jem Van Doren isn't interested in sex."

"I don't mean I'm uninterested in sex. I mean ... " He drops her hand, unable to finish.

But Chelsea's mind is able to complete his sentence just fine. "You're uninterested in me," she says, her voice suddenly hollow. "That's it, isn't it?"

Jem's gaze meets hers, as if he's forcing himself. "Right now, yeah. I don't mean that as bad as it sounds, it's only--"

"Only what? Oh, forget it. You think I care? I don't." Chelsea spins around, making it halfway back to the kitchen before returning to his side. "Lemme get this straight. After grabbing at me for three years, and after I come over here yesterday to -- to service you like some kinda home delivery whore, now you suddenly lose interest? Why, because last night for once you didn't have to chase me? Is it 'cause I met you half way? Yeah, I bet that's it. I bet you lose your cheap thrills if I actually look like I'm having a good time." Chelsea pauses only long enough to take a breath. "That's really sick, you know that? It's perverted -- I mean, more than you usually are."

Watching her, Jem remains remarkably silent and calm, although something behind his pale blue eyes flickers dangerously. "You done?"

She clamps her teeth together, trying to control her anger. "Why, do you have a better explanation for me?"

"I don't owe you any explanations."

"Like hell you don't. After all you put me through, you're just gonna give up on that deal we made? After last night, six goddamned times we had sex, you think you're just gonna quit? Throw it all away without taking care of your half of the bargain? Hell, the way I figure it, you should be walking up the aisle with that little bitch--"

"Leave her out of this."

Jem's words are flat and tired, but brook no disagreement. Brought up short, Chelsea stares up at him in sudden recognition.

"Oh my God," she says hoarsely. "You've got a thing for her. That's what this is about. You're throwing me away because you're hot for Rena?"

He doesn't look at her. "I don't know why you're so upset. You've always said you didn't like being with me, anyway. This should make you jump for joy, right? Finally get what you want?" He turns around, limping over to the sofa to lean against it. "Merry belated Christmas, Princess."

It doesn't feel like a Christmas present. It feels like a slap in the face. Worse than Tyler's obnoxious comments yesterday, and even worse than her father's insulting words right before that. Chelsea's perilously close to crying, something she'd never dare do in front of Jeremiah Van Doren, God forbid.

Swallowing, Chelsea turns around and heads up the staircase, desperate to take a shower and get herself the hell out of this apartment. Halfway up the stairs, she pivots to face him again.

"You're a perfect pair, the two of you," Chelsea snaps, her lips curled with disdain. "You're both freaks. You don't have a conscience, and she doesn't have a sex drive. I'd love to see you try what you did with me on her."

"We'll be fine."

"Yeah. Right. She's sexually dysfunctional, you realize that?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's what you always--"

"No, I heard her talking to a friend of hers the other night." Walking slowly downstairs again, Chelsea smirks at him. "She's never had sex. A thirty-something-year-old virgin, that's who you're lusting after."

This certainly seems to have shaken Jem's complacency. He peers at her in disbelief. "You're not serious."

"Oh, I am. Just think, Jem Van Doren drooling after some frigid chick with cobwebs between her legs. Pretty damn funny, if you ask me."

Jem contemplates her words. He seems somewhat unnerved, but manages a smile. "Not as funny as a guy like Greg White -- Schuyler Falls' version of Casanova -- drooling after her."

Chelsea flushes, hurt at the reminder that Rena Carlson seems to be grabbing every guy in sight.

But she lifts her chin, aiming a steely blue stare at him. "Glad you remembered about Greg. 'Cause if she hasn't given it up for Greg White, you sure as hell aren't gonna be the one to conquer Mount Purity."

Jem doesn't respond. Chelsea waits a moment, wanting to say more, wanting him to say more. But when he doesn't, she turns and slowly walks back up the staircase.

Alone, Jem backs up against the mantelpiece, running a hand across his face. Already he regrets his decision to cut things off with Chelsea, even more so now that he's discovered Rena's secret. Not that the life of a virgin's more precious than the life of a -- well, someone like Chelsea. But it still feels wrong, putting Rena in harm's way when she hasn't even ...

Jem suddenly grimaces, curious despite his ongoing fears. Why hasn't she? What the heck's up with that? Is it a religious thing? Some neurotic fear? He chuckles dryly. Hell, going without sex for thirty years, that's something to be afraid of in itself. Maybe death'd be better--

He stops himself, and the smile fades from his lips. No, that's a stupid thing to think. No sense in lying to himself, he's not doing this as any favor to Rena. It's for Chelsea's safety, that's what this is about. Getting rid of her now will put all the focus onto Jem and Rena, which means Jonnie Adair and the rest can finally stop thinking of Chelsea as someone they can use to bait Jem.

Sighing, Jem closes his eyes. She might hate my guts now, but at least she'll be alive to do it. And I can always get back in her good graces. Can't I? She's been plenty pissed off with me before, but I've always managed to--

His doorbell rings. A stab of alarm twists in his belly, and Jem lurches over to the window to check out his visitor. But he doesn't recognize the dark blue SUV now parked across the street -- although he doubts it's the car of a hitman.

With a frown, he reaches out to unlock the door and open it. "Yeah?"

The short, pretty African American woman smiles charmingly at him. "Mr. Jem Van Doren? I'm Maxine Granger, from Glenford Insurance. I was wondering if we could have a talk?"

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Residence

"High Meadow"

Cornwall, New York

Ian stirs his coffee, feeling the weight of his stepmother's gaze on him. It's incredible, the power she still has over him, despite the fact that he was the one to break things off. If he hadn't found the will power back then, he's still be trapped in her sorcery, betraying his father and acting like a fool. And it began so simply, with a talk about school, of all things...

The brandy feels smooth and warm on Ian's tongue as he sips it. "Maybe you'd miss me if I left for college," he says, grinning. "Still, I'm sure Becca and Simon wouldn't mind my being gone."

Danielle laughs, unable to deny his observation. "I can't speak for them, true. But at least you know how I feel about you."

"Not ... not really."

She glances down at the glass in her hand, looking a bit hurt. "Why not?"

"Well, I -- I used to think you looked on me as some annoyance left over from Dad's first marriage." The minute the words leave his mouth, he regrets saying them. Realizing that the alcohol must be getting to him, he lowers the glass abruptly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- it's not that you've treated me badly or anything. I just never felt like I was ever really your son."

Despite the dim light, Ian sees Danielle's eyes shining as they meet his gaze. "And yet we've been close. Haven't you felt that?"

"Sure. Of course. I don't mean to sound like I hold anything against you, as if I'm holding some kind of wicked stepmother grudge--" Ian sighs, annoyed with himself. "I'm sorry, I'm probably a little drunk and not saying what I--"

"Shh." Her hand reaches out to curl around his wrist, a little spark of electricity shocking him at her touch. "You're not too drunk to hear what I'm saying, are you? If I tell you how I feel about you?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No."

Danielle takes the glass from him, and turns to put it back on the silver tray beside her own. She seems to stare at her reflection in the silver for a moment, thinking. Then in a movement too swift and effortless for his somewhat bleary gaze to follow, she swivels and slips into his surprised embrace. Her ivory arms wrap around his shoulders and neck, and her breasts pillow against him -- her nipples already tangibly hard as they rub against his silk shirt.

"This is how I feel," she whispers, her lips millimeters from his mouth. "It's how I've felt for a long time, watching you turn into a man. I've wanted to hold you just like this, feel your hands around my waist, taste your mouth on mine ... but I haven't ever dared show it. Now I'm going to, just once. Just once I'll throw away every restraint I have."

Ian can barely breathe, his lungs are so heavy and his stomach painfully tight. "Dan--Danielle--"

"If you don't feel the same, push me away, Ian. Push me away and I promise, I'll never be this close to you again."

Ian takes another deep breath, her hair's honey-like scent filling his nostrils. But there's clearly nothing else to do except push her away. It's the only possible reaction to this outrageous behavior, this improper advance from a stepmother who's raised him since he was a toddler.

So why, when his hands clutch her waist, does he draw her closer to him? Why can't he stop from kissing her, letting his lips --and then his tongue -- drink in the brandied sweetness of her mouth?

He'd had sex before ... several times, in fact. But Ian has always considered the night of his eighteenth birthday the first time he made love.

Swallowing, Ian shakes his head and stands up from the table again. This time, Danielle also gets to her feet. "Ian, don't run away from me. For once, let's talk--"

"There's nothing to talk about, Danny." His mouth twists into a smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go beat the hell out of a punching bag."

He pushes his chair away to leave, but the butler interrupts his exit. Danielle turns as well. "Yes, Randall?"

"Mrs. Hannah Nichols is here, madam."

Raising her eyebrows, Danielle shrugs. "I wasn't expecting her," she murmurs, her words aimed at Ian. "All right, Randall, send her on in. She knows the way."

Ian hesitates, suddenly curious. When his aunt's wheelchair rolls through the corridor to the dining room, he moves to greet Hannah with a kiss on her cheek. Danielle just nods and puts her hands on her hips, her annoyance at the interruption only evident to Ian. After a few opening pleasantries, Danielle clears her throat. "So, why this surprise visit, Hannah?"

Hannah Nichols looks unusually tense around her mouth, which seems hard compared to her usual warm smile. She glances apologetically up at Ian. "I was hoping for a serious talk, if that's all right."

Lifting his hand, Ian backs away. "Of course. I was just leaving anyway, you two can just--"

"No!" Her voice lowers. "I mean ... I wanted to talk with you, Ian."

"Really?" This piques Danielle's interest, although Ian knows that normally she doesn't care a thing about anyone's life but her own. "Will I be in the way?"

"No, no, although I guess it might be better in private, but..." Hannah sighs, suddenly smiling wanly. "There's no tactful way to put it, so I might as well just ask."

Ian frowns, pretending to be confused despite the growing suspicion in his gut. "Go right ahead, Aunt Hannah." He takes a seat so that he's at her eye level. "Ask whatever you want."

Once Hannah makes a decision, she never seems to waver -- one of the many reasons Ian's so fond of her. "Okay. If you don't mind, I'd like to know more about that girl you were at the opera with. Daphne. You see, I think -- I think I've seen her before."