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fieldstone fireplace, sending waves of heat out into the room where her family was gathered.
    "Is he gone?" she asked flatly.
    Justine sat huddled in a chair, a glass of whiskey clutched in one shaking hand, a defiant expression on her tear-streaked face. "Where were you?" she demanded.
    The stranger was directly behind her. She wasn't sure how she knew—she had no sense of his body heat, and he didn't touch her. But he was there, and she found herself grateful. "Looking for you, Justine," she replied, mildly enough. "Is he dead?"
    "Morbid, aren't you?" Ricky said, his voice faintly slurred. "But as a matter of fact, my esteemed father-in-law is not dead. We thought he was about to bite the bullet, with both his precious daughters off communing with nature or whatever the hell the two of you were doing, but he suddenly seemed to take a turn for the better." Ricky rose, ignoring his wife, and swaggered toward Laura. "Though I guess I can see exactly what, or who, you were doing. Who would have thought it of sweet Saint Laura?"
    "Please, Ricky..." Justine begged.
    "Listen, guys, could we stop arguing?" Jeremy said from his stance by the fireplace. "Father's not dead yet, but he's living on borrowed time, and we certainly don't want his last memories to be of us squabbling with each other."
    "Laura doesn't squabble," Cynthia murmured. Jeremy's pampered, undeniably gorgeous wife was curled up in the most comfortable chair. She, too, had noticed the shadowy figure behind Laura, and her expression had altered from one of sullen boredom to faint interest. "Who's your friend?"
    "Alex Montmort," Laura answered politely, then dutifully made the introductions. "This is my family. My stepbrother, Jeremy, and his wife, Cynthia, and my younger sister, Justine and her husband, Ricky."
    "Montmort?" Ricky said with a snort. "Mountain of death? That's a hell of a name, buddy. What do you do for a living, with a name like that?"
    "I ski." The response was cool, faintly tinged with that odd, seductive accent.
    "Extreme skiing, I suppose," Jeremy said, with an attempt at normalcy. "The kind of stuff where you ski over cliffs and hope you don't die?"
    "Most people who ski over cliffs are fully prepared to die," he replied, closing the door behind him and moving deeper into the room. Once more Laura had the sense that he wanted to touch her, wanted to cup her arm. But he didn't.
    "Gloomy subject," Ricky said carelessly. "We've got too much death around here as it is. Lemme get you a drink, Al. What are you having?"
    "Alex," the stranger said calmly. "Cognac would be ... pleasant."
    "Cognac it is," Ricky said, taking his own empty glass over to the bar tray. "Ginger ale for you, Laura."
    "She will have cognac, as well," Alex said.
    They all turned to look at him with a mixture of shock and speculation. "Laura doesn't drink," Jeremy said flatly. "It's not good for her health."
    "It won't hurt her tonight," Alex said calmly.
    "It could kill her!" Justine cried.
    "Not tonight."
    Laura broke into the argument, feeling oddly unsettled. "Alex has decreed that no one will die tonight, including Father," she said with a faint smile. "Personally, I can't imagine fate daring to disagree with him. I think I'll risk a small glass of cognac, Ricky."
    "Most unwise, my dear," Jeremy murmured, clutching his own tall glass of whiskey.
    A few moments later the cognac burned quite nicely as she sipped it. Alcohol was just one of the many normal pleasures in life that were denied her, and having seen its inroads on her family life, she'd never regretted that. But there was something undeniably pleasant about sitting on the overstuffed sofa with the dark stranger beside her, watching as he cradled a Waterford brandy snifter in his long, elegant hands.
    "So tell me," Jeremy said, with a heavy-handed attempt at affability, "how did you happen to find your way up here? This is private property, and we do our best to keep it that way."
    "Alex is an old friend." Laura didn't