Amy Shane was never too tired to hope for one of her dreams, the ones that woke her in panting breaths and damp with perspiration. A man whose face was always in shadow, touching, kissing, loving her. The same man in every dream. She grinned. Even in her dreams she wasn't a slut. She had seen his body, though, lean but muscular, olive skin, with a head full of dark, soft waves. In these dreams, she loved and was loved, there as never in her life. She was safe to let herself go. Four months ago, she had never felt an orgasm. Now she experienced the shattering of her body and soul every night. What an amazing realization, that she could physically experience what she dreamed about. She slipped through the hypnagogic state of sleep, where she sometimes heard voices, and dove into REM. Deep in an ordinary dream her eyes snapped open, her heart thrashing against her ribs. She hadn't heard a thing, couldn't see a thing, but she knew someone was there. Her second thought—after Oh, shit, someone's in my room!—was: What can I use as a weapon? Clock. Brass table lamp with sharp corners. Bingo. Her hand darted out to grab it and collided with hard flesh. Before she could scream, he was on top of her, his hand over her mouth. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. Oh, God, he was going to rape her and kill her and cut her up in pieces. This can't be happening. Fight! Kick! But he was on top of her, his weight pinning her down. Panic squeezed her chest. He shifted to the side, reaching for something. She heard a click. Knife? Gun? Light flooded the room. She blinked in the sudden onslaught. Her eyes focused on the man in front of her. Gorgeous, with gray-blue eyes, and dark brown, wavy hair, he didn't look like a crazed rapist killer. That didn't ease her fear any more than his words of assurance did. It hit her then. He made no attempt to hide his face. That's because he doesn’t intend to leave a witness. Whimpering sounds emanated from her, as though a small animal was trapped in her chest. She quieted them, because, dammit, she wasn't going to go down like a mouse beneath an eagle's talons. He leaned close. A gold cross on a chain dangled before her eyes. The sight of it was surreal. A cross on a killer. If he tried to kiss her she'd spit in his face or, better yet, tear off his lip with her teeth. His mouth hovered just above her cheek. He spoke in a low, soft voice that would be soothing if he wasn't a terrifying intruder. "Amy, my name is Lucas, and there are things I need to tell you. I'm sorry, really sorry, I had to do it this way. I didn't have time to gain your trust. Am I hurting you?" She'd swear by the concern in his eyes that he cared about her comfort. He pressed his hand over her mouth only as much as necessary. She shook her head. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might explode. "Good. I'm here to talk to you about your father's supposed suicide." Her brain scrambled to process his words. Her father's suicide. Gunshot coming from her house! Spray of blood. Shallow breaths. His eyes wide and fearful, pleading, Save me. Save me. "Daddy, no!" Twenty years ago, but it felt like yesterday. She'd found him in the garage that horrible day after hearing the gunshot on her way home from school. The man who claimed he loved her killed himself where he knew she'd find him. Her sole provider made no arrangements for his five-year-old's care. The bigger question was, why was this possible rapist and murderer talking about her father's suicide? Unless he wasn't a rapist and murderer. She must be crazy, because he didn't feel like either. That's when it her: his aura wasn't like any she'd seen before. Not one color but all of them, like static on a television. Wait a minute. Had he said her father's supposed suicide? He obviously saw her curiosity. "If I release you, you won't scream? I'd rather not continue the conversation like this." She shook her head, and he freed her. She scrambled away from him, feeling the grooves of the headboard bite into her back when she slammed into it. He sat back on her bed, his hands on his jean-clad thighs. The hair at his neck curled from dampness. "You don't have to be afraid of me." She almost laughed. "A stranger breaks in, and I'm supposed to be cool with that?" "Amy, we're not strangers." The way he looked at her, with a soft smile and his g