"High Meadow"

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Estate

East Cornwall, NY

In the quiet dining room, Ian Nichols feels the weight of scrutiny on him from two different women -- his stepmother Danielle, whose emerald gaze is only casually interested, and his aunt Hannah, her hazel eyes betraying an intense emotional investment in Ian's response.

The young man hesitates after hearing Hannah's question. He knows he has the luxury of pausing to gather his thoughts, since anyone would have some kind of surprised reaction if his aunt were suddenly to arrive on his doorstep asking for a dossier on his girlfriend.

So Ian takes a second to hide his instinctive flash of wariness and change it into a look of simple curiosity. "That's why you came all the way over here? To ask about someone I took to the opera?"

Hannah smiles briefly. "Like I said, I think I've seen her before. I'm trying to place her."

"I doubt you saw her here in Cornwall. She lives in Schuyler Falls."

"How do you know her? And for how long?"

Ian keeps his expression neutral, but he can tell that things are going to get ugly, fast. Hannah's not just trying to place Daphne White -- she wouldn't have stopped by just for that. She's recognized Daphne as the girl who kidnapped her foster child.

It's my damn fault, he thinks at once. Why the hell did I take Daphne to the opera? What a stupid risk to take with her life.

Outwardly, he just shrugs. "I've known her about three, three-and-a-half months," he says, picking a timeline to predate the kidnapping. "I met her at a party."

"How close are you two? I mean ... how far has this gotten?"

Ian laughs. "With all due respect, Aunt Hannah, don't you think you should explain your interest before asking me something like that?"

Danielle raises an eyebrow at Hannah. "I have to agree. Since when do you pry into his dating habits?"

"I'm sorry." Hannah places a hand on her reddening face. "I'm going about this very badly, I know. Danny, do you recognize her?"

"Me? Why should I?"

"You haven't seen her before, except as Ian's girlfriend? She doesn't look at all familiar?"

"She looks like any number of teenage girls." Danielle glances down at Ian, smiling coolly. "I'm afraid callow young women all look alike to me."

Ian ignores her dig and keeps glaring at Hannah, deciding that by now he should be getting upset. "You're starting to worry me. I wish you'd just spit out what you're trying to say. Did you see her on a Most Wanted sign at the post office?"

Hannah's mouth parts, but then she closes it again. Her fingers brush absently at a stray lock of her wheat-colored hair, more to give her something to do than to adjust her appearance. "No, Ian. And I don't mean to worry you, but I just wanted to make sure. Maybe if I met her again--"

"You wanted to make sure of what? Come on, I have a right to know."

Danielle chuckles. "A right? How very melodramatic."

"Danny, will you please stay out of this? This doesn't involve you."

"Apparently I am involved, since I'm supposed to have seen Daphne somewhere before. Tell us already, Hannah. Are you implying that you know something terrible about her? Something Ian doesn't know?"

Hannah shakes her head. "I wish I hadn't said anything. It's ridiculous to think that Ian would get involved with -- with the person I'm thinking of." She turns her gaze across to Ian. "Seriously, Ian. You do know her well? And trust her?"

He doesn't hesitate. Hannah wouldn't harm someone close to him -- he's certain of that. "Yes to both. And most of all, I care about her." Ian doesn't look at Danielle, but he continues pointedly, "More than I've cared for anyone in a long time."

Nodding, Hannah remains quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian can see that Danielle's expression hasn't changed ... but he can guess that she's no more pleased at his revelation than Hannah is.

Two birds with one stone, he thinks, satisfied for the moment. Except he knows that he'd better have a talk with Hannah alone. And soon.

Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Backing away from the door, Jem Van Doren gestures towards his foyer to invite the new arrival across his threshold. "Just the person I've been hoping to see," he says, offering the short woman his most charming smile.

Maxine Granger kicks her feet on the steps a couple of times to shake some snow off her boots, then enters. Her reddish brown hair clearly comes straight from a bottle, clashing as it does with her dark skin and chocolate colored eyes. But it's the only part of her that seems unnatural. She wears little makeup except for deep red lipstick that makes her playful smile quite sexy. And her thin down jacket and black wool sweater are as plain and unassuming as he'd expect from someone working in the insurance business.

The jeans are a surprise. He wouldn't have thought Glenford would let its insurance agents make business calls in such casual wear. Still, she's far from the company's homebase, and maybe the weather makes it more practical to dress down.

"Nice place," Maxine says, her gloved hands shoved in her pockets. Her keen gaze roams the foyer, the chandelier hanging above the upstairs balcony, and then the sunny living room a few feet away. "I've been looking around town for an apartment like this. Is it a condo?"

"A rental." He nods at the armchair near his sofa, which he's glad didn't get any use from him and Chelsea Stanford last night. "Sit down, sit down."

Maxine takes a seat, glancing up and down at Jem as moves to sit opposite her. "Looks like you've been badly hurt, Mr. Van Doren. Were you injured in the fire?"

He glances down at the bandages on his wrist and leg. "Uh, no, this happened a while ago. I was mugged."

"You're kidding! God, that's terrible, I'm sorry to hear that. Been a rough couple of months for you, hasn't it?"

"You can say that again." He smiles bravely, at least that's what he hopes he looks like. "But accidents happen."

"A mugging isn't an accident."

"Well, no, I was just talking about--"

"Was a lot of money stolen?"

Jem shakes his head, playing the role of a brave victim. "Actually none was. They -- the muggers ran off before they got to my wallet. Guess they were scared away by someone."

"But I bet all the time in the hospital must've cost a pretty penny."

"You joking? An arm and a leg. I only--" Jem cuts himself off warily. "You guys don't have anything to do with my hospital bills. Glenford's not my health insurance carrier."

"Who is? If you don't mind my asking." Maxine smiles, perfectly friendly. "Like the commercials say, Glenford can do better for you."

Jem recognizes the company's motto, but doesn't smile back at her. "Uh, I'm not in the market for any health insurance. Look, can we get off the subject? This is all old stuff, and I'd rather talk about my business. In particular, how much you're going to give me upfront for all the damage from the explosion."

Maxine reaches into her back pocket, and for a second Jem feels a thrill of elation. Holy crap, she's gonna give me a check right now!

But instead, she just pulls out a small blue notebook. "Sorry, Mr. Van Doren," she says in a smooth, apparently sincere voice. "There are some questions I have to ask first."

"Like what?"

About to respond, Maxine's attention is diverted to the stairwell, where loud stomping noises indicate that Chelsea Stanford has dressed and is making her dramatic exit. Jem doesn't stand up, hoping that the angry young woman will leave without a final comment, but his hopes are dashed when Chelsea reaches the first floor and tosses a dirty look at him.

"I'm leaving," she says unnecessarily, grabbing her coat from the rack in the corner. "I'll tell your little friend you said 'hi'."

Jem frowns again. "What are you talking about?"

"Since I'm heading to the hospital, maybe I'll run into Saint Rena. Then I'll--" Chelsea suddenly realizes someone else is in the room, and her mouth clamps shut. "Oh. So you've got another little friend."

"Chelsea--"

"Go to hell." Chelsea swings the door open and slams it shut behind her.

After an awkward pause, Jem laughs weakly and turns to Maxine. "Sorry 'bout that. She's a real crab in the morning."

Maxine taps her chin with her pencil thoughtfully, looking out the window at Chelsea's departing figure. "So I noticed."

"Anyway, you were going to -- are you all right? What's with the look? You don't know her, do you?"

"Nope." Maxine crosses her legs, making a small shorthand comment in her notebook that Jem can't read. "Nothing's wrong. Let's get down to business, okay?"

Frank Gabriel's House
30 Cypress Street

The snow blanketing the lawns on either side of Cypress Street glints with sunlight, which also sparkles on the icicles clinging to the houses' eaves and tree branches. Olivia Ortiz is glad for the protection of her Prada sunglasses as she jogs along in the center of the shoveled road. Her tall, lithe body is clad in black, from the Lycra hugging her long legs to the thin microfiber jacket keeping her upper body warm.

Olivia breathes easily despite her long run. She can't say the same for the Labrador beside her, since Baxter's panting is almost louder than the ice scraper that's currently being wielded by some guy clearing his car's windshield. But Olivia herself feels nice and loose.

Life's at a strange place for her right now. Things are actually going well. OmniCorp has embarked on a new era, with Olivia's leading the company into a direction that will amp up its national profile. Sure, publishing is a risky field, but without risks one might as well be dead. And Olivia has little doubt that Omni's ventures will be successful. She may have made some mistakes in her personal life over the years, but businesswise, there's no one in the city who can deny her winning streak.

When she reaches the driveway to Frank Gabriel's house, Olivia drops the dog's leash and heads up to the front door, a smile curling her lips. Despite those past mistakes in her personal life, Olivia has no complaints right now. None at all.

She opens the door and lets Baxter in, taking a deep breath to enjoy the warm house and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. From the kitchen, she hears Frank laugh when, apparently, Baxter rams into him on the way to the water dish. "Yo, watch it," he says with obvious affection, and then raises his voice. "Livvy? You back?"

"No. Your dog learned how to open the door all by himself." Olivia removes her coat and tosses it on one of the hooks by the door, smirking. "He's that brilliant, after all."

Frank limps over to her, his gait now fairly even thanks to his growing skill with the cane. His thick maroon sweater makes him seem more muscular, not that he needs the help, and his loose black slacks hide the soft cast covering his still-healing leg. He tilts his head, examining her. "You making fun of my dog's genius?"

"I'm making fun of you. Dogs are not known for their genius. Especially not that one."

"Excuse me?" Frank puts his arm out to block Olivia from embracing him. "Baxter's pretty damn smart. He just doesn't show off, that's all. He's humble."

"Then why did he stop on the street to eat an empty egg carton from the trash?"

Frank grins and runs a hand across his goatee. "Um, I'll have to mull that one over. Sometimes he's a bit too subtle for a guy like me to figure out."

"How's this for subtlety?" Olivia locks her lips onto his, pressing herself up against his solid strength. He enfolds her with his arms, so tight and warm she could nearly cry out in pleasure.

When they part, he pierces her gaze with his. "That's the kinda subtlety I like."

"I'm glad. There's a lot more where that came from."

Frank runs a thumb across her lower lip and then tweaks her chin. "I just realized why Baxter's genius forced him to eat the egg carton."

Olivia arches an eyebrow. "Why, dare I ask?"

"He somehow figured out that I'm gonna make us my special potato and egg omelet. The anticipation was too much for him, and he decided to--"

"Just a minute, put the eggs away." Olivia shoves at his chest. "We're going out to breakfast. Frances Granger called while I was running and invited us."

Frank's smile diminishes slightly. "You take your phone with you while running?"

"I take my phone with me everywhere." She pats her waist, where her mobile phone is fastened to a thin belt. "What's wrong? Don't you want to go?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't know her very well."

"It's time you did, then. I socialize with the Grangers a great deal. They're old family friends, and of course Ronald is--"

"I know, I know. OmniCorp as always."

Olivia brushes her sleek hair from her face. "Is that a problem, Sergeant?"

"Don't get all huffy. I'm just saying--"

"As a matter of fact, we don't only talk about Omni. Besides, I think you have a lot in common."

"Me and the Grangers?" Frank laughs. "The only thing we've got in common is our skin color, far as I can tell."

Embarrassed, Olivia tightens her lips. "Yes, that's exactly what I was thinking," she says dryly. "I figure you all know each other, right? In fact, there's some black guy outside scraping his car windows, maybe you should go out and say hello--"

Frank pulls her into a kiss to shut her up. "All right, all right," he says, pulling back after a moment. "Forget I said anything. I know you just want me to get to know your friends."

"That's right. And I don't want you giving me an ulcer every time I invite you--"

"Did you get an ulcer when I agreed to go to the opera?"

Softening, Olivia glances down to pluck some lint from his sweater. She hasn't forgotten his selfless behavior that night, dragging his tired, wounded body to the opera despite exhaustion from his first day back at work. "No," she admits, but then lifts her lips in a sideways smile. "But I paid you back for that, didn't I?"

"That you did." He chuckles and caresses her shining black hair. "Not in kind, though. If I do things you like, you've got to hang with my friends. Once my leg cast is gone, I expect to see you bowling with me and Mike some night."

Olivia doesn't hide her grimace. "Good God. I've never gone bowling in my life."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me." With a wicked grin, Frank kisses her cheek and walks to the kitchen. "But I'd never been to an opera either," he calls back. "So we're even."

Sighing, Olivia heads upstairs to the shower. "Thank God it'll be some more weeks till he gets rid of that cast," she mutters.

Clark Durand's Residence

42 Adams Street

Beth Durand pulls her pale green bathrobe more tightly around her and hesitates outside her brother's bedroom door. In her right hand she carries a mug of tea with a slice of lemon, and she uses her left to knock gently on the door. Only when she hears his voice does she enter Clark's room.

She finds him sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "How are you feeling?"

Clark lowers his hand to look at her. "Like someone hit me with the butt of a gun. Funnily enough..." He yawns, then winces. "Ouch. Even yawning hurts like hell. Pulls at the stitches, I guess."

"Sorry. I brought you some tea."

He smiles and lifts a hand, and Beth moves to his side to hand him the mug. Patting the side of the bed, Clark invites her to sit. "Mmm," he says after taking a sip. "Good stuff."

Sitting down, Beth touches the fingers of his free hand. "Did you sleep all right? I was afraid you'd have nightmares or something."

"No, I don't think I even dreamed. I was so zonked, I don't know how I made it upstairs after Noah finally left."

Beth nods. "You were pretty much out of it."

"I must have been, to let him stay with us as long as he did." Clark frowns, his gold-brown eyes darkening. "I still don't remember getting a straight answer out of him. Why was he even here?"

"He said it was his duty. Something about a Chinese proverb, if you save someone's life you're responsible for them..."

"Yeah," Clark says with a grimace. "I suppose he'll be playing that 'guardian angel' card for some time. Gives him an excuse to stalk me."

"Clark, after what he did--"

"Look, call me ungrateful, but I'm not convinced that his behavior yesterday was selfless."

"But he did rescue you. If he hadn't stopped that robber--"

"Yes, yes, I know. But he never did tell me what he was doing in that garage in the first place. I can't help it, Bethy, the man is ... there's something about him... Don't you feel it?"

Beth nods slowly, thinking about Noah Morgan's charming smile, coupled with the dangerous glitter in his deep brown eyes. And the way he'd reacted when that disturbing stranger had insulted her and Clark...

The dark haired man persists with his jealous accusations. "Why should I think you'd confine yourself to something conventional? God knows you've proven that nothing's beyond you. Maybe it's not just you and him," he says, gesturing brusquely at Noah while keeping his icy blue gaze on Beth. "Maybe all three of you are linked together in some kind of twisted--"

With the abruptness of a striking cobra, Noah backhands him across his face. The man staggers backward at the force of the slap, his own hand automatically lifting to his cheek in shock. Beth makes a strangled sound in her throat.

Noah, meanwhile, just puts his hand in the pocket of his coat. "It's not that I object to being linked with the lovely Ms. Durand," he says mildly. "But your insinuations about her and her brother are objectionable. I strongly recommend you listen to her the next time she asks you to be quiet."

Beth had been frightened by Noah's casual use of violence, but at least it had stopped the man from continuing. Her mind turns to this stranger, wondering if Noah's actions were enough to keep him from following her. From showing up on her doorstep, practically out of nowhere.

How does he know where I live? How does he even know who I am? She hasn't been able to concentrate on much else since helping Clark to bed last night. This stranger accosted her the night of the opera, and now somehow knows her name and address. What is he after? And why does he have so much hatred towards her? The things he said ...

Beth realizes Clark is saying something to her, and she apologizes for not paying attention. Her brother watches her over the rim of the mug as he takes another sip. "I said, you look exhausted. And you're white as a ghost. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm a little lightheaded. I didn't sleep very well last night, I guess."

"I'm not surprised. Having two family members knocked out probably isn't a guarantee for a good night's rest." Clark rubs her fingers gently. "Are you going to the hospital to visit Mama?"

Beth knows the answer he wants to hear. "Yes."

"Good. Don't tell her what happened with me. She doesn't need to worry about that. If she asks why I'm not there, just tell her I -- tell her I've got a cold or something. I'll visit later." Clark suddenly shakes his head. "Speaking of visits, I don't think I ever asked you what Campbell was doing here last night."

"Who?"

"What do you mean, 'who'? Tristan Campbell. The guy you were talking with on the porch."

Inhaling sharply, Beth stares at him. "You know who he is?"

"'Course I do. The man's a local celebrity, God help us."

"I didn't know his name," Beth says weakly. "I don't know him. He was just -- he just showed up."

This only deepens Clark's frown, but then he shrugs. "Well, who knows with that one. Hell, maybe he's running for office again."

"For office?"

"He once ran for State Senator. Geeze, Beth, are you really telling me you've never heard about Campbell? I know you were up in Albany during most of his days in the spotlight, but his story must've filled a lot of out-of-town newspapers."

Beth shakes her head. "I may have read something, but I ... I don't remember names very well." She swallows at the understatement. Most names, dates and places fly right out of her head moments after she learns them. "You -- you don't like him."

"Not particularly. He sets my teeth on edge, always has. I want to be fair, he went through some terrible times over the past couple years. Then again, sometimes I think he's invited his own bad karma. That's pretty harsh, I suppose, and maybe I'm just used to playing devil's advocate whenever Rena would sing the boy's praises."

"Rena likes him?"

"Likes him?" Clark pauses, then smiles thinly. "Well. Let's just say she used to have a bit of hero worship for the guy. Fortunately that's over with, at least I think it is. Are you sure he didn't say why he was here last night?"

Beth slips her hand away from his, bristling. "Yes!" she says, her voice high and tense. "Why would I lie?"

"I'm just asking, chill out. It's just very odd that he'd show up on my doorstep. I don't think he's said more than a sentence to me since I first met him. What did he say to you when I went inside?"

"Nothing." She stands up, feeling ill and shaky. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Clark peers at his sister. "What did I say wrong now?"

"You didn't say anything, I just -- I have to get dressed if I'm going to visit Mama." Beth takes his now-empty mug and cradles it between both her hands as she moves to his door. Then she hesitates. "Clark. You said this man invites bad karma. What did you mean by that?"

"Just that some of the stupid things Campbell does are indirectly responsible for the bigger messes he gets into." Clark sighs. "For example, he was arrested for killing his ex-girlfriend."

Spinning around, Beth nearly drops the mug. "What?"

"Calm down, he didn't do it. But part of the reason he was a suspect was his obsessive behavior after their breakup. I suppose he doesn't like taking 'no' for an answer." Clark yawns again and lowers himself down on the pillow, making sure to avoid pressure on his head wound. "Dang, I think I'm going to lie in bed for a little while longer. Let me know before you leave, okay?"

Barely hearing him, Beth turns and hurries out to the hallway. She leans against the wall for a moment, hoping her fright and queasiness will subside, and finally finds the strength to continue towards her room.

Nick and Hannah Nichols' Estate

East Cornwall, NY

Rolling her chair through the corridor, Hannah heads straight for her husband's office. Though the door's closed, she already knows he's inside, just as he was when she left to see Ian earlier this morning. On Saturday mornings he has meetings with his closest associates. After knocking, she enters.

Nick stands from behind his desk, and after a slight pause the other two men rise as well. Hannah's not surprised to see Dean Nelson in the room, but Jonnie Adair is a bit of a shock. He's a trusted chauffeur, and increasingly used as a muscle man, but no one at that level has ever been invited to one of these inner circle meetings.

But Hannah's attention is directed towards the fourth occupant of the room, and she moves to the playpen to get a better look. "I see Hope is now helping you with your affairs?" she murmurs, slipping her hand over the plastic rail to touch the baby's sleeping face.

"You kidding?" Nick grins at his wife. "She's the brains behind the whole operation."

"You'll have to rely on your own for a little while. She needs to be fed, and changed for that matter."

"I was about to do that. You're not gonna take her, are you? I like having her here -- reminds me what all this work is for."

Hannah smiles, amused. "I can change her here, if you insist. But I'm not sure Dean and Jonnie will approve."

"The guys can stomach much worse than the contents of Hope's diaper. Right?"

Dean casts a disinterested look at the playpen, his cold clear gaze as emotionless as ever. "Whatever you say, Nicky."

Jonnie just shrugs, rubbing his thighs nervously. Hannah notices how edgy he seems, not his usual tightly controlled self, but her own thoughts are elsewhere than Jonnie's state of mind. She pushes down the movable playpen barrier and lifts Hope into her arms. The baby reaches for her hair, as she always does, and makes a gurgling, laughing sound.

Hannah holds her to her chest for a long moment, closing her eyes. You're so special, little one, she thinks while brushing Hope's curling hair with her fingertips. How can I love you so much after only a few months?

Maybe it's because she can't have any more of her own. The doctors have told her it's possible, barely, for her to conceive and carry a baby to term. But ever since the shooting three years ago that put her in this chair, she's been afraid to try. Hannah's adjusted to her life now, but she doesn't think she can handle being let down by her own body when it comes to bearing a child.

She shakes her head and, stretching her arm enough to reach the backpack with the baby's things resting on the floor, moves over to a side table to change Hope.

"So you'll tell Lou to go to Valarti," Nick is saying to Dean. "Tell him to keep an eye out for this ADA. What's he look like?"

Jonnie clears his throat. "Tall, black, average weight. About mid-thirties I guess. Dresses nice, but that doesn't mean anything, he could be undercover."

"Dark or light-skinned?"

"Dark. And his hair's real short, practically shaved."

Dean shifts in his chair. "Lemme get this straight, Nick. We tell a rival that we've got wind of a sting going down during the playoffs, and they need to be careful. Why in hell are we doing this?"

"I told you why. Because--"

"I know why, Nicky, I'm talking about what Valarti's gonna be saying to himself. Why's Lou coming to him with this? We're warning him outta the goodness of our hearts?"

Nick sighs. "Lou'll ask for money. Like he's playing both sides of the fence. Anyway, the point is, I'm counting on Valarti not to believe us. That's how this whole thing is gonna work to our advantage."

"I don't like fancy setups." Dean leans forward. "I say we should just forget about the whole thing. I don't even buy any of this -- Operation Mousetrap, who the hell talks like that these days?"

"An ambitious DA, that's who." Jonnie's voice is surprisingly strong, and Hannah turns towards him as she pulls a damp cleaning 'baby wipe' out of its warmer. "You think I'm making this up? Fine, then when Granger and the whole Skyfalls police department grab all your bookie's records and the hundreds of thousands of bucks they've each taken in after the Super Bowl, don't come crying to me."

"Calm down," Nick says in a low but non-threatening voice. "Just calm--"

"No, I'm sorry, Nick. You don't get it." Jonnie pushes away from his chair, his youthful face hard and stubborn. "Granger comes to me and wants me to betray you. You tell me fine, go ahead, let's hear what he's planning. So I agree, and then he gives me this whole Operation Mousetrap plan. Now I could've just played ball with them, right? It'd get them off my back as far as my plea bargain's concerned. But instead I come here and spill everything to you. And now you're all just gonna ignore it anyway? I mean what the hell? What in God's name am I risking my ass for?"

Hannah raises her eyebrows, impressed by Jonnie's passion -- and the longest speech he's ever given since she's known him. She flicks a glance at her husband, who meets her gaze with a questioning look.

"He has a point," she murmurs, expertly wrapping the diaper around Hope's wriggling bottom. "I haven't heard the whole story, but if Jonnie's little description just now was accurate, I can't see the profit for him in lying to you. Just the opposite -- he has much more to lose by coming to you with this story. When the sting fails, Mr. Granger won't be happy with Jonnie, will he? But Jonnie still came forward. He's shown you where his loyalties lie."

Nick nods. "You're right, Goldie. Loyalty gets rewarded, that's something I stand by. And I'm not gonna reward Jonnie's loyalty by ignoring what he tells me. Understand, Deano?"

"Like I said before. You're the boss." Dean swivels slightly to shift his opaque eyes to Hannah. "Or maybe Mrs. N. is."

Nick grins, but Hannah ignores Dean's words, and returns her attention to the baby.

"High Meadow"

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Estate

East Cornwall, NY

Ian jogs down the stairs, carrying a large bag with his skates and equipment behind him. Halfway down, he slows his pace, seeing his stepmother crossing the marble foyer to meet him. Her full lips curl as she lifts her gaze from his jeans to his black thermal knit sweater.

"Now this takes me back," Danielle says, curling her hand around the newel post at the end of the banister. "Senior year of high school, remember? All those late afternoons after practice..."

He smirks and walks the rest of the way downstairs. "I suppose you mean my senior year, Danny? After all, I wasn't born during yours."

Danielle's smile doesn't even flicker. "Bitter words for a man who should be on top of the world."

"On top of the world?" Ian stops in front of her, leaning against the post. "What makes you think that?"

She brushes some invisible lint from his sweater. "You're in love."

Catching her hand, Ian stops her movements. "I never said that."

"Isn't that what you were implying before? That your feelings for Daphne--"

"I said I care deeply for her."

"More than anyone else in a long time, you said." Danielle glances down at her wrist, where his fingers clutch at her skin, and lowers her voice to a murmur. "More than me?"

He lets go and takes a step backwards. "What are you trying to prove?"

"Prove? I'm not trying to prove a thing. I'm asking you a simple question.."

"There's never been anything simple about you, much less about you and me."

Danielle folds her arms across her chest. "But this isn't about you and me. It's about you and Daphne."

"Look, I don't want to--"

"If you found true love with this girl, I'd be thrilled for you. All joking aside -- and we have joked a great deal, the two of us -- I do want to see you happy."

Ian's dark eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing even as she moves up to him again. Danielle slips one arm around his neck, and uses her fingers to comb his wavy brown hair away from his forehead. "But the trouble is, I know you're lying."

"I'll tell you what the real trouble is." He stares down at her smooth, porcelain-like face, trying to keep his breathing even and slow. "You use deceit as a weapon, Danielle. And a liar always thinks other people are lying."

Danielle leans forward, her lips pressing against his cheek, then his lips. "Then tell me the truth," she demands in a whisper in between kisses. "Tell me you're not still in love with me."

"I'm not," he says softly. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not."

She doesn't back off, chuckling deep in her throat as she kisses him more deeply. Ian doesn't return her kisses, but he can't seem to find the strength to push her away. "For God's sake, why are you doing this?" he mutters, dropping the equipment bag and putting a hand on her waist. "You have other men. What do you want with me?"

"The same thing you want with me."

Ian sighs, closing his eyes as she lowers her attention to his neck and tastes his skin with her tongue. If he could deny her words, he would. But somehow the thought dies long before he can express it, and slowly his hand traces a path up her silk shirt towards her breast.

Thus preoccupied, neither stepmother nor son notices the front doorknob twisting open.