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curtains she'd pulled against the violence of the night, and he watched the lightning flash through the sky, illuminating the mountains. The distant rumble of thunder was an angry counterpoint, but it wouldn't rain. He knew that, as surely as he knew that no one would die. Everything was on hold for the next two days. The weather would threaten, the wind would blow, but nothing would happen. The narrow road up the canyon would be blocked by fallen trees, and no one would risk coming out in such a storm to clear the way. No one would even know about it, with all outside communication severed. He had two days at his command, and no one would interfere.
    He heard the sound of her breathing, smelled the heavy scent of her perfume. By the time he turned around, Cynthia was already in the room. She was carrying a down comforter, and there was a predatory expression in her shallow blue eyes.
    She was scheduled to die in four years, in a drunk-driving accident with a married lover, though now that future seemed a bit uncertain, cloudy. Nothing was ever carved in stone; life had a habit of changing, and her fate was by no means definite. If he took her earlier, it would surely do the world no great disservice. He watched her through the mirrored sunglasses, curious.
    "You must have caught a chill," she said in her deliberately husky voice. "I've never felt anyone so cold in my entire life. I brought you the heaviest down comforter we have, and later I'll see if I can find you some sweaters. What do you sleep in?"
    "I beg your pardon?" He kept his voice perfectly polite, simply because he knew it irritated her.
    She dumped the cover on the bed, then moved closer, attempting a sexy glide. She came up close to him, so close he could almost taste the whiskey on her breath. "I said, what do you sleep in? You seem the silk-pajama type. Or maybe you wear nothing at all."
    She put her hand on his chest, and for a second he felt her flesh jerk beneath the touch of his. But she didn't break contact. "You're
sooo
cold," she purred. "I've never met a man as cold as you. I think I need to warm you up."
    He didn't move. She stood too close to him, and the musky scent of her skin, the gleam in her eyes, the life that flowed in her veins, were all strong and stimulating. Take what she offers, he told himself. Maybe that will be enough.
    She swayed against him, and her large, soft breasts pressed up against his chest. Her nipples were pebble-hard, but he had no illusions that the cause might be sexual excitement. He knew just how cold he could be.
    But Cynthia was determined to persevere, even in the face of his lack of cooperation. She slid her arms around his waist determinedly, tilting her face up to his, a smile playing around her full, pink mouth. "Do you want me to warm you up, Alex? I think you do."
    Her lush hips were tilted up against his, and he felt himself grow hard against her. So this was what it was like to be human, he thought absently. Mortal. The flesh could respond, even when the spirit was bored. Just how far could the flesh take him?
    He had bent down to put his mouth over her open, smiling one when he glanced toward the doorway. Cynthia hadn't bothered to close the door when she began her little visit, and now they had a witness. Laura stood there, her pale face paler still as she watched them.
    Cynthia must have felt the sudden stillness in his body. She slid her arms away from him, turning with a faint, mocking smile. "Hullo, Laura," she said smoothly, smugly, sauntering toward her. "Are you going to try your luck, as well?"
    "I think you've had too much to drink," Laura said in a quiet voice.
    "I usually do, darling. What else is there to do in this wretched place except sit around and wait for the old man to die? Don't look at me like that!" Her voice rose shrilly, even though Laura's face seemed entirely blank. "Don't you judge me. Jeremy and I have an understanding, and it's not up to you to come in and—"
    "Go away." Alex