He came.

She knew he'd come. Somehow she'd known.

She dreamed of him last night. She often dreamed of him, dreams so vivid she woke with tears on her face, aching for him.

Elle Thomason rose from where she'd thrown dirt onto her father's coffin, before the two undertaker's assistants covered it with earth and he would finally, finally be at peace—and that was when she saw him.

He was outlined against the chilly winter sun on the small hill where the chapel stood. He was only a dark figure against the dying sun, but she would recognize him anywhere, anytime.

Nick Ross. The boy she'd loved so much, now clearly a man. The dark outline against the pale winter sun was tall and broad–shouldered He'd been lean as a boy, like a young panther. Now he was a lion.

He saw her. He didn't wave to her or nod. Neither did she. She simply watched as he walked down the small hill toward her, eyeing him hungrily. She'd waited five long years for this moment.

In all the dead years, the years of caring for her father as his mind died long before his body, she'd yearned for this moment. As everything else fell from her life, as she lost everything, as her life was taken over by the daily care of a man who no longer controlled anything about himself, the only thing left to her was her imagination. And in her mind, she went wild.

In her mind, she and Nick were together.

Her favorite daydream was meeting him in some sophisticated city. New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Even better, London or Paris. Of course, she was sophisticated herself. She'd had a number of love affairs that had taught her a lot. She was well–groomed, successful, utterly in control.

Turning around in an expensive restaurant, there he'd be.

In her fantasies she could figure out what she was—poised and successful and happy. But she could never figure out what Nick was. What he'd become. She only knew he'd be handsome and he'd love her. She couldn't get beyond that point—that he still loved her, after all these years.

She'd ask why he'd disappeared so suddenly. It was still unfathomable to her. One night she'd gone to bed teasing him that he'd grow up to be Commander Adama of Battlestar Galactica, and the next morning he was gone. Completely disappeared. His things left in his room. The only articles missing were two pairs of jeans, some T–shirts, a winter jacket and his gym bag.

She'd been frantic. She wanted to call the cops, report him missing, but her father had gently taken the phone from her hand and flipped it closed. He never answered her questions and soon, very soon, he became incapable of answering any questions at all.

Not a phone call, not a letter, not even a postcard. It was as if Nick had dropped off the face of the earth, taking with him her entire existence. From a carefree teenager, the beloved only daughter of a respected and wealthy judge, her life plunged into the pits of hell. Her father started losing his mind day by day, darkness descending, and Nick wasn't there.

How many evenings she stared out the window, pretending to read, her father having finally exhausted himself enough to nap in an armchair. Going out on a date was unthinkable. There wasn't enough money to pay a nurse for evening hours. She'd had to earn extra credits over the summers to graduate at seventeen because she could see the day coming when the money would run out and she'd have to stay home all day to nurse her father, and she wanted at least a high school certificate.

Dating was out, going to movies with girlfriends was out, having friends over was definitely out. What she got was a nurse coming for a few hours a day in which she could rush to do the shopping and rush to the library to stock up on books. What she got was staring out the window, waiting for Nick.

Hoping for Nick.

Yearning for Nick.

Who never came.

So in her daydreams, when she finally did meet him, utterly by chance in a big city, she got to choose how it would be. He was either immensely rich and handsome or powerful and handsome. He was never a loser, a drunk, or an addict. That wasn't Nick.

Hello, he'd say, stepping back in admiration. Aren't you beautiful?

Thank you, she'd answer. I hope you're well. I'd love to stay and chat, but I need to get back to my—

Here Elle's imagination struggled a little. To what? Get back to what? What could possibly be more important than Nick?

But it didn't really matter because then he'd say:

—Have a drink with me. Please. Just five minutes. I'm so glad to see you.

And, well, this was Nick. And so she would. And then he'd say he loved her and would never leave her again.

It was a fine daydream and it had to be because it replaced more or less everything a young girl should have—school, friends, first love, dreams, plans...

The details wavered but the core of it was always the same. He found her whole and happy and successful. Beautiful and elegant and self–assured.

Not the miserable creature she was now. Pale and pinched from the last four nights of watching her father die when she hadn't slept at all. Wearing a too–thin jacket that didn't protect in any way against the cold because the only winter coat she had was ripped along the sleeve.

It wasn't supposed to be this way at all. But it was.

She simply watched as he walked toward her, and everything about her was numb except her heart. Her treacherous, treacherous heart, leaping in joy to see him.

He didn't hurry down to her, but his long legs seemed to carry him quickly. He had on a big down jacket that came down to midthigh; his gloved hands hung by his side.

Elle was aware of her own hands, gloveless, almost blue with cold. Embarrassed, she stuck them behind her back.

And that was how they met, Nick towering over her, face in shadow, looking down at her. The sun was at his back, huge just before sunset, an enormous pale disk. They stood and looked at each other. Elle was struck dumb.

He was here, right in front of her.

How she'd longed for this moment and here it was, by the side of her father's coffin.

She should say something, she should—

"Miss?"

Elle turned. She'd completely forgotten the attendants. "Yes?"

"You're going to have to stand back, Miss. We're going to cover the coffin with dirt."

"Oh." She stepped back and Nick stepped with her. "Of course."

She and Nick watched as dirt covered the coffin of her only living relative. She didn't cry. She'd shed so many tears over the years. There were none left. Her father had gone long before this. What had been left behind was a shell of a person, human meat.

Her father had been witty, well–read, strongly opinionated, charming. That man had died years ago.

So she watched as they covered the coffin, quickly and efficiently. It was cold and they wanted the job over as fast as possible. When they finished, they put away their tools and faced her.

There was a gash in the ground now, raw and red. Someday it would be covered with grass as the other graves were, but for now it was clear that the earth had recently claimed one of its own. A tombstone would come, eventually, when she could afford it.

The funeral home director had quoted figures that made no sense to her. The cheapest one cost over two thousand dollars. It might as well have cost a million. She didn't have it.

She didn't have anything.

One of the gravediggers pulled off his hat. "Real sorry about the Judge, ma'am. You have our condolences."

Elle dipped her head. "Thank you. Um..." She opened her purse and peered inside, though she didn't need to look to see what was in it. One bill. Not a big one, either. She pulled out the twenty and handed it to the man, well aware of the fact that it should have been a hundred–dollar bill, fifty for each.

He picked it up gingerly, looked at his mate in disgust, stuck it in his pants pocket and glared at her.

Elle understood completely. They had done a hard job. The ground was frozen and they'd toiled. The funeral director had let her know clearly that the cheap option she'd chosen didn't cover the diggers and that she would have to recompense them herself.

This was so awful. She felt so raw and exposed, reduced to ashes, to dust. All of this was playing out right in front of Nick, who was observing everything.

She remembered how observant he was. He always had been. He was seeing her humiliation in 3D HD, up close and personal.

Elle cleared her throat, reached out a hand toward the gravedigger, then stuck it in her pocket. "I'm sorry it's not more," she said quietly. "Perhaps—"

"Here." Nick handed over two bills. Her eyes widened when she saw Benjamin Franklin's face twice. "Thanks for your help."

The cap came off again, both men thanked him, nodded to her and walked off.

Elle stared at the ground, breathing through her pain. Nick had left many years ago, and for all those years, not a day, not a minute, had gone by in which she hadn't missed him so fiercely she thought she might explode from it.

All this time she'd yearned for Nick.

And here he was. At her lowest point.

"He loved you very much," she said, looking at the ground.

"I know," he said quietly.

His voice, already deep as a boy, had become deeper, rougher. The voice of a man.

He was a man. He'd been mature beyond his years when he'd come into their life, a runaway her father found in their backyard one winter evening. He was lying in the snow with a broken, badly infected wrist, dying, so emaciated her father was able to pick him up and carry him in his arms to the car to take him to the hospital.

From that moment on, Nick Ross belonged to them.

Until he left them, inexplicably, another cold winter night.

She looked up at him, hungry for the sight of him. How she'd dreamed of him over these past years! Her dreams had been so vivid, often unsettling. She'd seen him shooting, jumping out of planes, fighting.

She'd seen him with other women. That had been so hard because her dreams had the bite of reality. She'd seen him naked, making love to women, harsh and demanding, impossibly sexy.

The Nick standing next to her looked just as he had in her dreams—hard, tough, fully a man. Dark eyes that gave nothing away, close–cropped dark hair, broad shoulders, lean muscles. A formidable man in every way, even though the last time she'd seen him he'd been just on the verge of manhood.

"He was...sick?" Nick's voice was hesitant.

"Yes," she replied, looking down at the raw gash in the frozen earth. "For a long time."

Since you left, she thought to herself. He was never the same, and then he started his fast decline.

"I'm sorry." The deep voice was low, as if murmuring for her ears alone, though there was no one else on the cemetery grounds. There had been about thirty people at the funeral itself, but they left immediately, as soon as the service was over. Everyone had jobs, places to be, things to do. Nobody stayed for the interment. They'd paid their respects to the man her father had been and left. Her father had been dead to the town long before his body left this earth.

She nodded, throat tight.

"It's cold. You should have worn something warmer."

Elle huffed out a breath that would have been laughter in other circumstances. The cloud of steam rose quickly and dissipated into the frigid air. Yes, she should have worn something warmer. Of course.

"Yes," she murmured. "I, ahm, I forgot."

Why are we talking about coats? It seemed so surreal.

"Where's your car?" Nick asked in his rough voice. "You should get home. You're freezing."

Elle looked back up at him in panic. He's leaving already? That couldn't be!

Her throat tightened even more. He couldn't leave, he couldn't. He couldn't be that cruel.

The words tumbled out without her thinking. "I don't have a car. The undertakers were supposed to give me a ride home." Nolan Cruise, the DA, had driven her to the edge of the cemetery and dropped her off, apologizing for not being able to stay.

She looked around, but they'd gone. The cemetery was utterly deserted. Obviously, the two men had thought she already had a ride home. With Nick.

Oh God. The first time she saw him in five years and she needed to beg a ride home from him. She straightened, pulled her lightweight jacket around her tightly, trying to wrap her dignity around her too.

"That's okay. I—" Her mind whirred uselessly. Saying she'd walk would be ridiculous. Nick knew perfectly well how far home was. At least a two–hour walk. She was trying to invent someone who could plausibly give her a ride home when he took her elbow in a firm grip and started walking toward the exit. "Let's go."

Elle scrambled to keep up. Nick, always tall, had grown another couple of inches. His long legs ate up the grassy terrain. In a few minutes they were outside the gates of the cemetery, walking under the arched stone sign with Requiescat in Pacem engraved on the front.

Yes, indeed. Rest in peace, Daddy.

His last years, as his mind went, had not been peaceful. They had been dark and despairing as he felt himself slip day by day. Even after his mind had gone, she'd sensed the lingering despair.

He's gone to a better place, the few people who'd come to the funeral had said. The old truism was right. Wherever he was now, it couldn't be worse than the life he had left behind.

She and Nick were walking along an empty driveway, which was always full of cars on Memorial Day and was mainly empty the other 364 days a year. Nick pulled out a remote and a big black expensive–looking car lit up, the doors unlocking with a whomp.

"Nice car," she ventured. There was so much to be said, but his face was so forbidding, so remote; she could only make the blandest of comments.

"Rental," he said tersely and held open the passenger side door for her.

A thousand questions jostled in her head but she simply sat, holding her jacket tightly around her while he got into the driver's seat and took off. A minute later, warm air was washing over her and the trembling she hadn't noticed eased off.

He knew exactly where to go, of course.

He might have forgotten her, he might have forgotten her father, but he wouldn't have forgotten where they had all lived together. That was another thing about Nick. His amazing sense of direction. The last few years before he ran off, whenever they went on an outing together, her father had counted on Nick to guide them; and for the last two years, after he got his learner's license, to drive them all where they needed to go.

The judge had probably started dementing already, though there were no signs of it then. He had been, as always, ramrod straight, with iron gray hair brushed back, always elegant and collected. The opposite of the shambles of a man she'd buried.

It helped to think of Daddy and not to concentrate on Nick, driving with careless expertise. He'd always been superb behind the wheel, right from the start. The instructor had told Daddy that he hadn't had to teach Nick anything. It was as if he'd been born knowing how to drive.

Elle stared straight ahead, doing her best not to take peeks at Nick. It was almost impossible. He was like a black hole, pulling in gravity toward him. Impossible to ignore, yet impossible to look at directly.

A thousand words were on the tip of her tongue. How are you how have you been where do you live now do you like it there... Empty words really. Because what she wanted to know, she couldn't say.

Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?

The unspoken words choked her. She was afraid to open her mouth because they would come tumbling out. She had no filter, no defense mechanism. Plus, she'd lived alone so long with a father who could neither understand her nor respond to her, she'd grown used to saying exactly what she thought.

She wasn't even fit company anymore.

But something should be said. They hadn't seen each other in five years. Five years, seven months, and two days. Each minute of which she'd missed him. Even in her sleep.

She concentrated on practicing the words. If she said them slowly, one at a time, surely nothing else would escape her mouth. How have you been?

How. Have. You. Been?

There, she could say that. Four simple words. And he'd answer and she'd try really, really hard not to push. She could do this. She could—

"We're here," Nick said and swerved so that the vehicle was parked outside the garage.

She hadn't even noticed that they'd made it home.

She swallowed. The garage had been left open. Her mistake. She'd rushed in to get slippers for Daddy's last visit to the hospital, and in her haste hadn't closed it. There were no cars. Daddy had always kept a Cadillac and a Toyota, but both had been sold two years ago. She took the bus to the few places she had to go.

Nick didn't bother putting the rental inside the garage.

He wasn't staying.

Elle swallowed the pain and turned when he opened the passenger door. He held out a big hand. She didn't need help. But...this might be her only, her last chance to touch him.

She put her hand in his, and in a second, he guided her down to the gravel, dropped her hand, then held it out again, palm up.

She looked at it blankly, then up at him. He wanted to hold her hand?

"Keys," he said tersely.

Oh.

Numb with cold and pain, she opened her purse and gave him the door keys. She didn't have to rummage. Her purse held a now–empty wallet, a cellphone with very few minutes left, an old lipstick and the keys.

In a moment, Nick had the door open and was standing there, waiting for her.

He watched her walk the few short steps to the porch and up to the portico. Lucky thing he wasn't looking around.

The grounds had always been a showpiece. When Nick disappeared, Rodrigo was still coming twice a week to take care of the extensive gardens. The drive had been flanked by seasonal flowers in large terracotta vases. The vases and flowers were long gone. There were no flowers anywhere and the hedges had long since lost their shape.

Elle had received three official notices of "abandonment" in the past six months.

Nick didn't seem to notice, thank God.

Inside the house, though, it was worse than outside.

The house had always been immaculate. Ever since her mother had died, when she was five, the house had been ruled by a benevolent tyrant, Mrs. Gooding, who kept it polished and fragrant with the help of a maid several times a week.

Mrs. Gooding was long gone, as was the maid.

Elle had done her best, but the house was big and the last months of her father's life had required round–the–clock care from her. She napped when she could, exhausted, and did the best she could to keep a bare minimum of cleanliness.

Her father had taken ill during the night, and they'd rushed to the hospital. She kept vigil by his side for four days and four nights. Then the funeral.

The house was a mess. A freezing cold mess, because she hadn't turned the heat on, knowing she'd be away all day.

This time Nick noticed.

He stopped inside the foyer and she stopped with him. His neck bent back as he looked up at the ceiling of the two–story atrium. Once there had been a magnificent Murano chandelier with fifty bulbs that had blazed as brightly as the sun. Now there was simply a low–wattage lightbulb hanging naked from a cord.

The rest of the foyer was naked too. Watercolors, the huge Chinese rug, the console with the ornately carved mirror atop it, the two Viennese Thonet armchairs on either side of the Art Deco desk with the enormous solid silver bowl full of potpourri— Gone.

Nick didn't react in any way. His face was calm and expressionless.

What was he thinking?

Later, after he'd disappeared, one of her high school classmates said that he'd been earning extra money playing poker with lowlifes, and that he always won because he had the best poker face anyone had ever seen.

She was seeing that now. There was no clue to his thoughts.

Perhaps— Perhaps she'd hoped to see some softness or gentleness when he looked at her. But no.

She gestured awkwardly toward the back of the house. "Would you... Would you like something to drink?"

He nodded his head briefly without saying anything. She turned and walked into the kitchen, knowing he didn't need her direction. He knew the way.

His showing up had scrambled her brains, but now she forced herself to think, to reason things out. Where had he come from? Had he traveled a long time? Would he stay the night?

Her heart gave a huge thump in her chest at the thought.

"So"—once in the kitchen Elle turned to face him, plastering a smile on her face, making a real effort not to wring her hands—"what can I offer you?"

Oh God.

Too late she realized that there was very little to offer. If he wanted alcohol, there was none in the house. Her father had had a fine collection of whiskeys, but they had gone years ago and she had never bought another bottle. There was no food, either, she suddenly remembered. Only a last frozen pizza in the freezer.

"Coffee would be fine." His voice and eyes were so calm. She tried to cling to that, to calm herself down, but it was hard. This was Nick. Nick was here, right now, in her kitchen.

"Coffee. Right." There was coffee. Enough for one cup at least.

She turned and tried to keep her hands steady as she opened the cupboard to get the coffee. To her horror, except for the glass canister with an inch of grounds, the cupboard was bare.

Exactly like in some horrible fable.

She closed the cupboard, making a louder noise than she wanted, then set about making coffee with trembling hands, for Nick.

Nick.

Who was here.

Preparing the coffee, setting out the pretty Limoges cup and saucer, part of a set that she hadn't sold because there were only four pieces, and setting out a silver spoon and the Wedgewood sugar canister, calmed her down a little.

He was still standing, and that was another blow to the heart.

This had been his kitchen once too. He had once been completely at home here. She remembered the thousands of evenings Nick had teased her and made her father laugh in here while Mrs. Gooding prepared dinner.

Now he was standing, needing her permission to sit. Tears blurred her eyes but she willed them back. She'd had a lot of experience at that. She could do this.

"Please sit." She pulled out a chair.

He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat. Underneath the jacket he had on a heavy flannel shirt.

Oh God. She should do the same, of course. Except she was still cold, and underneath the jacket she had on only a thin sweater. She did still have a few thick sweaters, but her mind had been so befogged by the exhaustion of the last days of her father's life, and the funeral arrangements, that she'd simply grabbed the first thing that came to hand. As luck would have it, it was a thin cotton sweater.

But she could pretend with the best of them. She hung her own jacket over the chair and sat down across from him.

They looked at each other mutely.

The coffee machine percolated. Elle sprang up and poured him a cup.

Nick hesitated. "What about you? Still don't like coffee? You always liked tea. Can I make you some?"

"No!" Elle cleared her throat. "No, thanks." She'd kill for a cup of tea, but it was in the cupboard above the stove and that was bare too. Two bare cupboards—it was too much for Nick to see.

Nick blew on the cup and sipped. As always, the delicate china looked out of place in his large hand, but she knew from experience that it was safe. His hands were huge, had always been huge, but he was far from clumsy.

They sat in silence until he finished half the cup, then looked up at her. "How long had he been ill?"

Elle didn't sigh, but she wanted to. "Several years. But his doctor thinks, with hindsight, that the illness started five years ago, only he managed to hide it."

Something—some faint expression crossed his face.

Oh God. He'd left them five years ago. It sounded like she was accusing him of precipitating her father's decline.

"Must have been hard. For you."

Elle simply dipped her head. Yes, hard. Very hard.

"So—what will you do now? Go back to college?"

"I wasn't enrolled in college."

That surprised him. It took a lot to surprise Nick, but she'd done it. "What do you mean you're not in college? You were a straight–A student, always had been. Or have you already finished college?"

She had to smile at that. She'd had anything but straight As while she struggled to deal with her father's eccentricities. It would be another year before she understood he was ill. She'd missed almost every other day her sophomore year.

"No...I, ah—it's complicated."

Nick was frowning. Okay. That was easier to deal with than that look of pity he'd had.

"Well, now there's nothing holding you back, is there?"

Well, if you didn't count no money and medical debts, and put like that..." No, there isn't."

The answer seemed to relax him. He looked around again, then back at her, his dark gaze penetrating.

"You're too thin. And too pale. You need to eat more and get outside more."

That hurt. Nick had been in her heart always, since he had first come into their lives. She'd only been seven, but she loved him the moment she laid eyes on him. She'd been a girl then, but she was a woman now—and everything womanly in her was concentrated on him, his handsome face, those broad shoulders, the outsized hands.

Every female cell in her body was quivering. And he spoke to her like an elderly aunt would.

Eat more, get out more. Don't be so pasty–faced and thin.

Yeah.

Next thing, he'd be telling her to bundle up warmly.

"And Christ—what's the matter with you, going out in this weather dressed like that?"

There you go.

How she'd dreamed of this moment! For years. And now here he was, sitting across from her, so closely she could touch him if she simply reached out—and they were talking about her wardrobe.

"Don't," she said softly. "I had to get dressed in a hurry. But I don't want to talk about this. I want to hear how you've been doing. Where you've been."

And why you disappeared without a word.

But she couldn't say that. He was here. Right now she wanted to fill the empty years with images. She could only do that if she could imagine where he'd been, what he'd been doing.

Once upon a time, he'd told her everything.

Nick settled more deeply in the chair, frowning. "I can't really talk about that."

"Because you're in the military?"

He straightened, shocked. "How did you know that? Who told you?"

Nick sounded actually angry. It had slipped out of her mouth without her thinking about it, which went to show how tired she was. She never let slip things she shouldn't know, but did. She'd learned that the hard way.

She'd seen him. In her dreams. Not normal dreams—that floating phantasmagoria of disconnected images most people had during the night. She had those, too, like everyone else. But she also had Dreams. She went places in these Dreams, and it was like being there. Frighteningly, exactly like being there.

She'd visited Nick, without a clue as to where he was, but so real she felt she could touch him. He was exercising with a hundred other men, doing jumping jacks and climbing ropes and crawling under barbed wire. Shooting. Shooting a lot. Jumping out of planes.

And with women. That had been the worst of all. She'd watched, helplessly, as he made love to a series of women, rarely the same one two nights in a row. Elle would be looking down from the ceiling, watching the muscles of his broad back stretch and flex, his buttocks tightening and releasing as he moved in and out of the woman. Usually, he held himself above the woman du nuit on stiff arms, touching her only with his sex.

Those nights, as she watched from the ceiling, she would wake up with tears on her face.

A part of her thought she was crazy. And another part of her thought she could somehow travel outside her body.

Whichever it was—and maybe it was both—she'd said the wrong thing to Nick.

He reached across to clamp his big hand over her wrist.

"Did someone tell you something?" he demanded. "Someone spying on me?"

His grip was tight. Not painful, but definitely unbreakable. Nick had always been strong, even as a boy. Now he was a powerfully built man.

Slowly, unsure if her touch would be welcome, Elle laid her hand over his.

"No one told me, Nick," she said gently. It wasn't the first time she had to answer how she knew something she shouldn't. And it wouldn't be the last. When he lived with them, Nick had never known. Her father hadn't known. She hadn't known. "You have the bearing of a soldier, and your hair is cut military–short. There is a pale patch on your jacket. Where there would have been an insignia. You look like you're doing well, but you're not in a suit. You've got combat boots on. They're sold in stores, too, but taking all these things together—" She shrugged.

Nick relaxed, smiled. Oh, how she'd missed that smile! It had taken him almost two years to smile when he first came to live with them. She'd been only a child, but she understood instinctively that he'd come from pain and cruelty and she'd made it her personal challenge to make him smile.

Once he started, he smiled often. He was breathtaking when he smiled.

Like now.

He shook his head. "I forgot how smart you are. How perceptive. So you put all that together and came up with military, hm?"

It hurt that he forgot anything about her. She hadn't forgotten anything about him.

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to guess which branch of the service and how far you've climbed." She tilted her head, studying him. "So...was I right?"

"Bingo."

Elle relaxed. She'd reasoned her way out of the trap. "Which branch are you in?"

A cloud moved across his face, but he answered calmly enough. "Army."

A word flashed across her mind. She didn't even know she'd had it in her head, but the information she gleaned in her Dreams had its own agenda. The word came out of her mouth before she could censor it. "Rangers?"

Nick straightened, frowning. "Now, how the hell would you know that?" His look was keen, penetrating, impersonal.

There was no sense now that she had a special place in his heart. None. Ever since Nick had arrived in their lives, she knew he had a soft spot for her. That she could take risks with him. Like a puppy that could pull a wolf's tail with impunity.

Not now. She had no feeling at all that she was allowed liberties with Nick. His frown was deep and serious, and a little scary.

She swallowed, and started on the lies. She'd never had to lie to him before. "Sorry. That was stupid of me. I have no idea what's going on with you. There was a movie on TV the other night and the main protagonist was an Army Ranger. That's what they called him, in fact. Ranger. That's all. I don't even really understand what it means."

Even if she hadn't Dreamed that he was a Ranger, she'd have wagered money that if there was a special place in the army, Nick would have achieved it.

He relaxed slightly. "A movie hero? That's not me."

Oh, but it was. Nick was much more handsome than most of the actors she saw on TV. Most actors had a softness about them that was reflected in their faces. They might spend eight hours a day at the gym, but their faces were puppyish.

Not Nick. Nick had known real tragedy. Wherever he'd spent the first eleven years of his life before he came to them—and he never spoke a word about it—they had been hard, tough years. He'd had the bearing of a man even when young. As a teenager, he'd been wise and tough beyond his years. The other kids in high school either worshipped him or steered clear of him. No one ever tried to bully him. They wouldn't dare.

There was no actor on earth who could look as tough as Nick at twenty–three.

He'd had a rough life, which had made him hard. The military had taken him and made him harder.

He frowned at her. "How come no one was at the graveside? The judge was well known and respected. I'd have thought there would be thousands of people."

Elle didn't want to talk about that, about the past. She wanted to talk about the here and now. But he wanted to know, and she was hardwired to give Nick what he wanted.

"There were people at the funeral. Some. Not many. They couldn't stay for the interment." She swallowed. "Daddy...was sick for a long time."

Nick narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, you said that. So?"

"He also hasn't been a judge for a long time. I think...I think people sort of forgot about him."

Nick was really frowning now and Elle understood completely. When he'd left— Wait, use the right term. When Nick abandoned them, her father, Judge Oren Thomason, had been one of the most important men in the county. Nick had felt her father's natural authority firsthand. When she and her father had found him behind the house, in their backyard, starving and with a broken wrist, the Judge had taken care of everything. Within a month, Nick had become his ward and was regularly enrolled in school.

Nick had often said his real life began the day the Judge found him. He seemed to forget that Elle had been there too. A tiny girl, only seven, but it seemed her real life began that day too.

Nick had lived under the Judge's protective aura. So Elle could understand that he found it hard to understand his last years.

"Daddy...declined. Mentally. He was forcibly removed from the bench via an injunction." She swallowed. Her father had been beyond understanding exactly what had happened, but he had understood very well that something important had been taken away from him. He'd been agitated for an entire year.

"Alzheimer's?" Nick asked

She hung her head.

"Tough," he said.

You have no idea. She lifted her head, nodded.

They sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally, he gave a sigh and shifted in his chair. Elle panicked.

He was leaving already! He'd just arrived, and she hadn't seen him in five years. She was still gulping up details about him every time she dared to look at him. The hard cut of his jaw, the two wiry white hairs mixed in the thick black hair of his temples. His hands, bigger than she remembered. Clean but callused, with a strip of thick yellow callus on the edges. Judo calluses, or some kind of martial art. She'd read about that.

The shoulders that stretched beyond the shirt seams.

Nick was unshaven, his stubble thicker than she remembered. He was now one of those men who should shave twice a day.

That was new. So many things about him were new.

Including the fact that he was sexy as hell.

That was new, for her. As a child, as a young girl, Nick was... Nick. The person she loved most in the world after her father. Always there, always dependable, always fun. With a natural authority that made her feel safe and protected. The two men in her life, looking after her. Her father, with his understanding of the law, his status as a well–respected judge—nothing in society could harm her while he was around. And Nick—always strong and tough, with quick reflexes, always alert for trouble. Nothing in life could hurt her while he was around.

It was only now, alone, that Elle understood what a privileged childhood she'd had. And Nick had been a big part of that.

Nick wasn't her brother. She had no idea what feelings you could have for a brother because she'd never had one, but she instinctively understood she never thought of Nick as one. Nick was her friend, her protector.

She thought he'd always be there. How foolish. It hadn't even occurred to her that someday he'd fall in love and leave. She didn't know if he'd fallen in love, but he'd certainly left.

He'd definitely had women. Tons of them. She'd never seen male genitalia in person but in her Dreams...Nick was the epitome of maleness. She'd seen him with women, she'd seen him in bed pleasuring himself—

She swallowed, hoping she wasn't turning red. She'd always been an open book to him. Please God, let him not understand that she was remembering the violently arousing image of him having sex with other women and with himself.

Sitting across from him, she totally understood why women fell for him. As a girl, her feelings had already started turning. But now she was a woman, and what he evoked in her was sexual desire—of a scale and intensity she didn't know how to handle.

Nick shifted in his chair, huffed out a breath. "Well," he began. "I guess I'd better be—"

"Where did you come from?" she blurted.

"What?"

"Where were you today? Or yesterday? When you decided to come?"

"Are you asking why I came?"

"No." And she wasn't. Why he came was clear, to her at least. They were linked by a thread that had become thin and stretched over time but still held. She'd needed him desperately and he came. That was bedrock for her. She didn't even question it.

He wasn't answering her question. She tried another tack. "I can't let you leave without feeding you. Dad would... Dad would have been appalled."

His hard look softened. "Honey, it doesn't look like you have much food in the house."

Elle swallowed, lifted her head. "Dad was very, very ill the last couple of weeks. I didn't have time to do any food shopping." She pulled her cell out of her pocket. "I can call Foodwise, though. Jenny would gladly send us a meal. Promise you'll stay at least to eat."

There were still a couple hundred dollars left on the checking account. The undertaker's bill would come later and plunge her into the red, but for the moment she had more than enough to cover a meal. Two meals, even. She didn't even think of ordering a pizza or a burger and fries. Nick deserved better than that.

He dipped his head. "Okay."

Elle beamed at him. He wasn't leaving right this minute. She still had time with him. There was so much to memorize. The lines beside his mouth, brand–new, that disappeared when he smiled. How the tendons in his neck stood out when he turned his head. How she could see his pectorals through his shirt.

How utterly handsome he was.

How he heated her blood.

She had to memorize this effect he had on her, because it wasn't coming back, not without Nick. She knew herself that well, at least. This was her one shot at feeling sexual desire and it would leave when he left.

Everything about her was aroused. Her skin was supersensitive. The small hairs on her forearms and on the nape of her neck prickled against her sweater. Even the lightest touch against her clothes seemed to burn her skin. It was hard to breathe, as if oxygen had suddenly mutated into a liquid. She had to concentrate to keep her lungs filled.

The biggies. Her breasts, never large, now felt immense and heavy. Her nipples brushed against the cotton of her bra. Between her thighs—that unmistakable feeling of heaviness and heat and emptiness she had when she woke up from ordinary dreams of Nick.

The changes in her body excited her and scared her. Excited her because, well, heat and pleasure were novelties. She'd been cold and hollow for a long time. These tingling sensations, as if her body were waking up after a long sleep—they were wonderful. They also scared her because as far as she knew, only Nick could make her feel this way.

But he was staying for dinner, or as much dinner as she could muster.

Take this second by second, she told herself. Enjoy every second.

She watched him as she dialed the number. Jenny herself answered. She had a soft spot for them. Once, when she was a young girl, long before Elle had been born, the Judge had kept her out of trouble. Jenny herself had told her; the Judge had never said a word.

"Hey, hon." Jenny's smoky voice, as always, was warm. Elle could imagine her leaning against a wall on a cigarette break, short gray hair brushed back, her long, lean, elegant frame slightly slouched. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make the funeral. We had to cater two luncheons. I'm really sorry, honey. If I'd had advance notice...but that's not the nature of funerals, is it?"

"No, it's not." Elle smiled. Trust Jenny to say the exact right thing. No doubt in the days to come she'd have thousands of people apologizing for not coming, though in most cases it was simply that the Judge had fallen off their radar. He wasn't off Jenny's radar. If she'd been free, she would have come. "That's okay, Jenny. Dad knows you loved him."

"I surely did, hon. So what can I do for you? Can I send you a dinner over?"

Oh, bless her. "Yes, thank you. Today's special." She hesitated. "For two people."

Jenny didn't pry. "Two specials, you got it. I'll send them over around seven, with a nice bottle of wine. All on the house."

"Thank—" Elle stopped. It was an incredibly generous offer. Dinner would be at least seventy dollars, plus the wine and tips. But...that was the beginning of a long slippery slope straight to hell.

So far, Elle had kept up appearances. No one came to the house anymore, so they wouldn't notice that almost everything that could have been sold was gone. But Jenny knew, or suspected. If Elle started accepting charity now, it would snowball. The wives of former friends of her father would start sending over used clothes—Just wore it a few times, Elle sweetie. You're welcome to it. Maids would start leaving casseroles on her front doorstep.

It didn't bear thinking about.

Not to mention the fact that Jenny's smoker's voice came over loud and clear, and Nick had undoubtedly heard every word.

She injected confidence in her voice. "That's kind of you, Jenny, but not necessary. I'll give the delivery boy my credit card. But thanks for the offer."

She could barely look away from Nick's dark eyes. It took her a moment to realize Jenny was taking a long time to answer.

Finally— "Okay, hon. That's fine, then. But the wine will be on the house."

Yes. That was acceptable. A gesture of solidarity, not charity. "Thanks, Jenny."

"I loved that old man," Jenny replied and Elle nearly burst into tears.

That was what her father had been. The kind of man other people loved because he'd done such good in the world.

"Yeah," she whispered, forcing the word out, and broke the connection before she broke down.

She raised her eyes to Nick.

"I loved him, too," he said quietly.

And that broke her. It was like a sharp punch straight to the heart. Reaching past skin and bone in a nearly fatal blow.

"Then why did you leave us?" she whispered as tears began rolling down her face.