Michael strode down the street, annoyed at himself as much as the witch who seemed to know him so well. Damn! He had better control than this. He'd fed earlier tonight and shouldn't have needed to feed again for a least another day or so.

But the need for blood thrummed through his veins, and not just any blood. He wanted her blood, wanted to taste the sweet life that flowed under her creamy flesh. His teeth elongated further at the thought, and he swore.

Maybe she was right. Maybe there was a spell on him. There could be no other explanation for the desire that raced through his veins. He'd spent too long denying the darkness to have it raise its head this easily, this quickly.

And if it was some sort of spell, maybe she would know how to stop it. Darkness swirled and pain hit, a blinding jolt that had him stumbling and falling. He shook his head free of the pain and climbed back to his feet. He frowned and tried to catch the trail of his thoughts but couldn't. His gaze hit the stable. That's where he'd been heading. He drank his fill from a brown mare, then retreated. He stopped in the street, his gaze sweeping the darkness. The drunken revelry had eased, and though he could see life and movement in a few of the rooms above the various hotels, most of the miners had apparently collapsed into an exhausted and drunken sleep. He couldn't see the strange blur of energy that was Kinnard. Couldn't see Dunleavy. Damn it, the men had to be here, somewhere.

Or did they?

He frowned and glanced under his feet. Maybe the rat was back in his hole. And maybe his reluctance to search that hole had nothing to do with the desire to wait for the day, but had everything to do with the spell the witch insisted lay on him. He'd certainly never worried about cornering a fiend on his own ground before, and he certainly had nothing to lose by doing so now—or did he?

The nagging sense that he did wouldn't leave him alone. Yet the only one he truly cared about these days was his brother Patrick, and Patrick was still on a ship on his way here to America. He strode down the street, but his gaze went to the blonde's house as he came out of Main Street. Light still shone from her window. She wasn't asleep yet. Part of him wanted to go there and discover what she was up to, but he resisted the temptation. He was here to kill Dunleavy. It was high time he began concentrating on that.

A short time later he arrived at the trap door. The sandy soil was still free of footprints. He wedged his fingers under the wooden hatch, feeling along the edge until found the catch and released it. Soil puffed skywards as he dropped the hatch to the ground, revealing a set of stairs leading down into a deeper darkness. He could feel no sign of life within, but the smell coming out was of dank earth and sour, unwashed human. Kinnard, not Dunleavy. Switching to infrared, he slowly entered the rat's hole. And it was a hole, not the tunnel he'd half expected. It was round, small, and shored up with wood that had bent under the weight of the earth. There was a bed covered with several foul-looking blankets, a small table on which sat a candle and some matches, several cases of booze stacked next to this, and little else. Except pictures. They were everywhere, filling almost every inch of the rough-hewn walls. Unable to see just what the pictures were with his infrared, he switched back to normal vision, swept several photos off the wall and moved back to the entrance. At least there the starlight provided a little light.

It was a woman. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair that shone with auburn highlights in the sunlight. A woman with pixie features and rich amber eyes. A woman he somehow knew, and yet he didn't know her.

Rage swept through him, a rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He spun, sweeping more photos off the wall, bringing them to the light. Kinnard had obviously been watching her for some time. There were photos of her laughing. Photos of her eating with an older man. Photos of her in a large, bubble-filled tub with a dark haired man whose face he couldn't see. Photos taken through her window as she changed clothes.

His rage grew, until every muscle shook with the need to find Kinnard and kill him. To rip his body limb from limb, as Dunleavy had ripped that woman's.

Instead, he turned, tearing the photos from the wall and piling them on the filthy bed linen. When the last of the photos had been taken down, he grabbed the matches and set the pile afire. The rat would know he'd been there, but Michael didn't particularly care. He waited until the bedclothes had caught, then he climbed up the stairs and slammed the hatch shut on the smoke. And stood there, scanning the night, shaking with anger and wondering why. There was still no sign of Kinnard or Dunleavy, but rats usually had more than one hole. And as much as he needed to find them, he suspected he needed answers more. There was only one person in this town who seemed to know what was going on. And, oddly enough, that woman had eyes the same color as the woman in the photo. He suspected it was more than coincidence. Suspected that there was a hell of a lot more happening here than what he'd originally thought.

His simple need to kill Dunleavy suddenly didn't seem so simple any more. He ran swiftly to her house and went inside, only to stop just inside the door. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her pretty face serene in sleep.

He couldn't wake her. She needed sleep more than he needed answers. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm the turmoil and anger still surging inside. He closed the door and walked across to her, tucking his arms under her body and carefully lifting her. She stirred, murmuring something he couldn't quite catch, and snuggled closer to his chest. God, it felt so right holding her like this.

Pushing the thought away, he found her bedroom and placed her gently into bed. She didn't stir as he tucked the rest of the blankets around her. In the darkness, her blonde hair looked almost brown, but her face was nothing like the woman in those pictures. So why did he have the certainty that, somehow, the two were related?

It was so damn frustrating, this not knowing. He turned and pulled down the blind, determined that Kinnard would not be spying on this woman. Then he stripped and lay down beside her, under the top blanket but not the rest. A possibly dangerous move, given her earlier attempts to seduce him, but the need to simply lie here and hold her close was one that would not be denied right now.

Nikki woke to the realization that she was no longer on the sofa. And no longer alone. Michael lay with her, his arm wrapped around her waist and his body pressed against her back, warming her spine, despite the layer of blankets between them.

She smiled. Sometimes love could not be ignored, no matter how strong the magic or the will. She shifted slightly and realized then she was still in her T-shirt and sweat pants. Damn . Seducing him when she was naked would be a hell of a lot easier. And she had a feeling if she took time to undress in the middle of the action, he might take off again. He was determined to be honorable, which was absolutely wonderful in one respect, but not what she wanted right now. She slipped free of his arm and carefully got out of bed. He stirred and she froze, watching as he turned onto his other side. He flung out a hand, as if searching for her, but quickly settled back to slumber. She stripped, then carefully pulled back the first blanket and climbed in beside him. Knowing she couldn't allow him time to think, only react, she pressed herself against the length of him. The heat of him flowed around her, through her, burning her skin, stirring the desire long held at bay. She'd always found it a little weird that he was so warm given he was a vampire, but as he'd often said, he was undead, not dead dead.

She slid her hand down his firm, flat stomach and touched him intimately. His response was immediate. Instinctive.

As his body leapt to life, he made a sound that was almost a growl and turned around, pulling her into his arms. Then he was kissing her as if his very life depended on it, and whatever slivers of control she'd had were totally and irreparably smashed by the force of it. By the passion behind it. God, she loved this man. And right now she needed him more than she needed to breathe. His hands seemed to be everywhere, urgent yet gentle, leaving her shuddering with pleasure and yet aching for more. He kissed her, caressed her, until need, deep and primal, rushed through her, and all she could think about was getting him inside, feeling him fill her, complete her. She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, claiming him in the most basic way possible. He groaned, his hands sliding to her hips, pressing her down harder. Then they began to move, and thought became impossible. All she could do was savor the sensations flowing through her. There was nothing slow, nothing gentle, about this lovemaking. It was all passion and heat and desperation, and she'd never felt anything so damn good in her life. The fever burning between them became a furnace that made breathing difficult, and deep inside the pleasure built, until her whole body burned with the need for release. She clung to him, clung to that edge, staring deep into his beautiful black eyes, willing him to remember this, remember her. For a moment, she thought she saw a response—a spark of joy, a spark of love.

Then pleasure spiraled beyond her control, and her climax hit, the convulsions stealing her breath and tearing a strangled sound from her throat. He came a heartbeat later, his body slamming into hers, the force of it echoing through every fiber of her being.

Once the shudders had subsided, she leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her in place as he lengthened the kiss.

"You do not play fair, woman,” he said eventually, eyes sparkling as amusement touched his lips.

"I never said I intended to."

"This does not mean I will work with you."

She grinned. “You won't have any other choice, because you won't be able to keep your hands off me." He chuckled softly, then rolled them over so that he was lying on top. “Nothing like being comfortable with your own sexuality."

She kissed him again, soft and lingering. “It's more a case of being comfortable about us."

"There is no us—not beyond this, anyway."

She didn't bother disputing his claim. Until more of his memory returned, or until she was able to soap away some of the spell on his back, there wasn't much point. “Why do you stink of smoke?" The amusement and tenderness died in his eyes, the black depths becoming hard. Furious. “Because I made a bonfire of some pictures I discovered in Kinnard's rat hole." She frowned. “What sort of pictures?"

"Photos of a woman with brown hair and amber eyes. Her features were that of the dead woman we saw earlier.” He ran a finger down her cheek, sending warm tingles of desire shooting through the rest of her. Desire hadn't finished with her yet—but then, that wasn't exactly unusual when they made love. “But her eyes were rather like yours."

While the thought that Kinnard had been not only watching her, but taking photos of her, left her cold. The fury so evident in Michael's dark eyes, and the fact that he'd burned every one of those photos, made her heart sing. Deep down, he knew her, spell or no spell. And if he could now see her eyes were amber, did that mean the spell concealing her identity was fading, or that he was beginning to see beyond it?

"Kinnard will know you did it."

"I don't care."

She smiled. “So where was this rat hole?"

"Near the old reservoir.” His voice was distracted as he slid a little further down her body and began to trace the outline of her breasts with a soft fingertip.

"Near where he was hiding in the bushes?"

The look in his eyes set her pulse racing again. “You don't miss much." Neither did he. Especially when it came to getting her aroused. His touch was moving in on her breasts in ever tightening circles, sending goose bumps fleeing excitedly across her skin. “No." It came out breathlessly, and he chuckled—a throaty sound as seductive and as arousing as his touch.

“You may have started this, woman, but I intend to finish it—and a lot more leisurely this time." She had no problem at all with that, and normally she would have been right there with him. But there was the situation and the spell to consider as well. “Stinking like a bonfire? That's not at all seductive, you know."

His breath was warm on her skin as he dropped a kiss on a nipple. “Didn't seem to bother you a few moments ago."

"That's because my sense of smell was still half asleep."

"So what will it take to get you concentrating on the business at hand?"

"A bath.” She grinned. “We can share, if you like."

"I like.” He shifted back up, kissed her fiercely then rolled out of bed. “I shall go prepare it."

"And I'll get the soap and the salve for your shoulder."

"Hah,” he said, as he walked out. “I knew there was an ulterior motive."

"Yep. I went to all the trouble of seducing you just so I can tend to your wound."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised."

Grinning at the dry edge to his voice, she climbed out of bed and grabbed the second of her packs. The salve for wounds was there, but the soap Camille had given her to help wash the symbols off Michael's skin was gone. She swore softly. When he'd gone through her things, Kinnard must have recognized what it was and stolen it.

"And if you intend treating all my wounds with seduction first,” Michael continued, the sound of running water almost smothering his voice, “then I might be tempted to get wounded a little more." She grabbed the salve, some clothes, a towel and a washcloth, and headed for the bathroom. Steam was beginning to fill the room, and she reached for the small window, intending to open it. "Don't.” He caught her hand and pulled her close against him. His body was warm and hard against hers, and he was more than ready to play again. She couldn't help smiling. Vampires certainly had great stamina. And, thanks to the fact she now shared his life force, so did she.