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control needed to stop. She laughed, low and husky.
    “Can’t have this,” she taunted, wishing he would take it as she lolled her head back to expose the length of her neck. Oh God. If only he would… she thought, a faint tickling in her thoughts warning her a war had started between her hunger and will.
    “Give it to me,” Art managed, his voice strained, and she smiled as he started to weaken. “Give this to me…”
    “No,” she breathed. Her pulse lifted under his hand, and her eyes closed. Her body demanded she say yes, she wanted to say yes. Why, she thought, hunger driving through her as she found his hard shoulders, why didn’t she say yes? Such a small thing…And he was so deliciously beautiful, even if he didn’t stir her soul.
    Art sensed her falter, a low growl rising up through him. He pressed her to him, almost supporting her weight. With a new resolve, he nuzzled the base of her neck.
    Ivy sucked in her air, clutching him closer. Fire. This was fire, burning promises from her neck to her groin.
    “Give this to me,” he demanded, his lips brushing the words against her skin. His hand slipped farther, edging between her coat and shirt, cupping her breast. “Everything…” he breathed, his exhalation filling her, making her whole.
    In a breathless wave, instinct rose, crushing her will. No! she panicked even as her body writhed for it. It would turn her into a whore, break her will and crack the lie that kept her sane. But with a frightened jolt, Ivy realized her lips had parted to say yes.
    Reality flashed through her, and with a surge of fear, she kneed him in the crotch.
    Art let go, falling to kneel before her, his hands covering himself. Not waiting, she fell back a step and snapped a front kick to his jaw. His head rocked back and he hit the floor beside the bed. “You stupid bitch,” he gasped.
    “Ass,” she panted, trembling as her body rebelled at the sudden shift of passions. She stood above him, fighting the desire to fall on him, sink her teeth into him while he knelt helpless before her. Damn it, she had to get out of this room. Two unrequited plays for her blood in one night was pushing it.
    Slowly Art lost his hunched position and started to chuckle. Ivy felt her face flame. “Get off the floor,” she snapped, backing up. “They haven’t vacuumed yet.”
    Still laughing, Art rolled onto his side. “This is going to be one hell of a week,” he said, then hesitated, eyes on the carpet just beyond the bedspread knocked askew. “Give me a collection bag,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.
    Bloodlust still ringing in her, Ivy came forward, pulled by his intent tone. “What is it?”
    “Give me a bag,” he repeated, his expensive suit clashing with the ugly carpet.
    She hesitated, then scooped up the bags from where they had fallen. Checking the time, Ivy jotted down the date and location before handing it to Art. Still on the floor, Art reached under the bed and rolled something shiny into the light with a pen from his pocket. With an eerie quickness, he flicked it into the bag and stood. The growing brown rim about his pupils said he was in control, and smiling to show his teeth, he lifted the bag to the light.
    Seeing his confidence, Ivy felt a flash of despair. It had been a game to him. He had never been in danger of losing his restraint. Shit, she thought, the first fingers of doubt she could do this slithering about her heart.
    But then she saw what he held, and her worry turned to understanding—and then true concern. “A banshee tear?” she asked, recognizing the tear-shaped black crystal.
    Suddenly the words of the distraught man in the car had a new meaning. I didn’t mean to hurt her. It wasn’t me. Pity came from nowhere, making the slice of low-income misery surrounding her all the more distasteful. He probably had loved her. It had been a banshee, feeding him rage until he killed his wife, whereupon the banshee wallowed in her death energy.
    It