David is bare-chested, but he's pulled on a pair of sweatpants and has flip-flops on his feet. His eyes are clear, his expression puzzled but not vacuous.

"What's going on?" he asks again.

"How do you feel?"

He rubs fingers against his forehead and shifts. "I'm sore. In strange places. Was I in an accident?"

"What do you remember?"

He narrows his eyes, expression morphing to irritation. "Are you going to answer every question with a question?"

"Are you?"

He turns his back on me with a grunt and heads for the kitchen. I jump up from the couch and follow him.

He has his head buried in the refrigerator. "I'm starved. What happened to the steaks I had in here?" He pulls out a bottle of water and turns around. The empty bottle of wine on the counter grabs his attention. "Hey. That's a bottle of Cavallina." He eyes me. "Anna, did we . . . ?"

Just then Frey pads out on bare feet. He has one towel wrapped around his waist and is rubbing his hair with the other. He stops when he sees David and me.

David stares. "Do I know you?"

Frey addresses himself to me. "I was coming out to tell you you could leave now. Looks like I'm the one who'll be leaving."

He backtracks into the bathroom.

David's irritation is blossoming. He rounds on me. "Do I know him? I don't think I do. So what's he doing taking a shower in my bathroom? Anna, what the hell is going on?"

I pat his arm. "Humor me and I'll tell you. But first, what's the last thing you remember?"

He scrunches his face, looking again like the kid with the computer games and the two buxom playmates. "Thursday. I think. Thursday night. I was with Miranda and I got a call that you were in an accident." He narrows his eyes. "You don't look like you were in an accident."

I wave a hand at him to go on. "Anything else?"

"I caught a shuttle back, went to the cottage . . ." He stops. "That's it." He looks disappointed. "That's the last thing I remember. Except-"

I cringe inwardly.

"I had some really crazy dreams. I was having sex. There were a couple of girls. And an older woman." He closes his eyes as if trying to remember. "I think she told me something about you."

Can't wait to tell Judith about the "older woman" remark, but I temper my enthusiasm and say, "Sex with a couple of girls and an older woman. Sounds like getting a bump on the head worked out pretty well for you."

He rubs his forehead again. "Can't remember anything else. It's gone."

I steer him back to the living room. "Sit down and I'll fill you in." Sort of.

He sits, noticing newspapers splayed over the coffee table. "What day is this?"

"Monday."

"Monday? I've been out three days?"

In a manner of speaking. "You have a concussion. Mild. Nothing to worry about." Unless those blondes aren't as squeaky clean as they looked. "My friend and I have been taking care of you."

"How did I get a concussion?"

"It's the damndest thing. You fell. At the airport. At the hospital they found my contact number in your wallet and called. My friend and I have been taking care of you since you were released."

"But what about the call I got? Someone said you'd been in an accident."

"A mistake. It was a woman named Hannah Strong, not Anna. Weird, huh?"

"My god. Miranda. She must be frantic. I told her I'd call her when I got back."

"Not to worry. I took care of it. She wanted to cut her business trip short, but I assured her there was no need. She'll be back in town on Friday."

Still, he lunges to his feet, heads for the phone.

I intercept him at the kitchen door. "You need to rest a couple more days, David. Miranda understands. Concussions are nothing to fool around with."

"I feel fine now. Just need some food."

But he's not. He's swaying, and his face has gone pale. Evidently the drug is not completely out of his system. A bit of well-timed luck.

"No. You're not all right. Get back to bed and I'll fix you a plate of scrambled eggs."

"Will you call Miranda for me?"

"Of course."

Frey emerges dressed now. He raises an eyebrow as I shuffle David back to the bedroom. "How about you fix David a plate of eggs?"

He heads into the kitchen, and I tuck David in once more.

"You just stay here another day and you'll be fine."

David takes my hand. "You are a good friend, Anna. I don't tell you that enough."

I have the grace to blush.

Too bad there isn't an Olympic event for lying.

* * * *

Frey takes kitchen duty while I make a run to the cottage. Shower and change into yet another pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. It may not be proper coronation attire, but I need clothes I can fight in.

When I get back to the condo, Frey is straightening the kitchen.

"Is David asleep?"

"Out like a baby. Again."

He motions to the couch. "Why don't you stretch out? You haven't slept in two days."

"I'm not sure I can."

He gives the counter a final swipe with a towel and comes around to join me. He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. "Try."

I sink down, let him lift my feet and slip off my shoes. He sits on the edge of the couch beside me.

"When did you feed last?"

He asks it matter-of-factly, like asking if I take cream with my coffee. I have to think a minute before it comes rushing back. Underwood. In France. I still have his blood in my system. I haven't had a chance to purge it.

I don't want Frey to see the excitement that floods my body at the thought that he might be offering himself. Offering his good, clean blood. I can't ask him. I won't. I turn my face away.

He lies down beside me, smoothes a tangle of hair away from my face.

"It's all right. Take what you need."

He's opened the collar of his shirt, fits himself next to me so that his neck is exposed and close. So close. I don't want to do this, but my body is reacting as if separate from my head and heart. It is thrumming with need, burning with the hunger. Frey's blood calls to me and my body answers because it has no choice.

I nuzzle his neck, pull him against me. He yields with a sigh. He smells of soap and shaving cream, clean, good. Just under the surface, the panther sleeps, wild, strong, contained. We lay cupped together, one of my hands around his waist, one of my legs entangled with his. He is quiet except for the beating of his heart, still except for the rushing of his blood.

He lifts his chin, allowing better access. He wants me to do this. I need to do this. When I break through, when the heady rush of his blood fills my mouth, I experience something I haven't for a long time.

Peace.

We lay together when it's done. Frey is quiet beside me. I stroke his arm, his hair. I can't remember the last time I fed without having sex. Ironically, I also can't remember feeling as calm and tranquil as I do at this very moment, even despite the fact that tonight may be the end of my life as I know it.

Does Frey feel this sense of peace, too?

It seems selfish to have taken and given nothing in return. I let my hand move along his arm, down his abdomen. "Do you want me to . . . ?"

He stops my hand, raises it to his lips. "Yes. No. Later, maybe. All I want you to do now is sleep."

I'm not the only one wrestling with head-over-hormone issues. For some reason, I find it comforting. Having sex isn't the best response to confusion.

Frey changes positions on the couch so we are facing each other. He is now holding me. His arms cradle my head against his chest. I close my eyes and drift away, soothed by the strong, steady beat of his heart.