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absurd—out of the question.”
    “Oh?” He moved a few steps toward her from the window, and she was fully aware, despite the darkness of the glasses, that his eyes were searing into hers. “You were willing to sell out for a night, but not for two months?”
    “I never said any such thing,” Cat grated. She suddenly realized that she was close to tears; she was finding it difficult to breathe. Belated remorse filled her. How did I get myself into this? she wondered desperately. She knew how to handle herself, but he was corroding the self-confidence of a lifetime. Nothing she said daunted him. He was like a cat playing with an unwary mouse, fully aware that the mouse was trapped while the mouse still believed in an escape hole.
    “Will you please get out of my bedroom!” she demanded, not caring that her voice held a note of beseechment.
    Something about her plea seemed to touch him. His voice gentled. “Soon,” he promised. He began to stalk the room again, the scrimshaw still in his hand, still being idly massaged by his fingers.
    “What about Mr. Miller?” he suddenly queried, fingers tense around the ivory.
    Cat was too overwrought at the moment to sense the depth of the question. “What about him?” she asked through clenched teeth. The stranger said nothing and she uneasily blurted, “Mr. Miller is ancient history.”
    “Oh,” the stranger said lightly. He finally returned the scrimshaw to the dresser. “Think it over, Mrs. Miller. You have until tonight. All I want is two months.”
    “There’s nothing to think over,” Cat told him. “I’m not for sale. I’ll think of something.”
    “Well,” he warned, his deceptively low tone carrying a husk of danger, “I wouldn’t go to Monsieur DeVante if I were you.”
    “Oh, and why not?” She shouldn’t have asked him, Cat realized, she should have just let him go.
    “Because you won’t be marrying him.”
    “I certainly will.”
    The stranger shook his head. “Correction,” he said firmly, and a tone that was low, carrying a strange combination of bitter sadness and mockery, suddenly sent eerie shivers through her. Even before he slowly slipped the glasses from his eyes, a part of her knew . As Sam had said, she should have known all along !
    Pinwheels in black exploded in her mind; her limbs grew as weak as liquid. How could she have known? Clay Miller was a ghost, a ghost of the long-forgotten past. Almost seven years had passed since she had seen him, almost six since she had accepted his death. If he really were before her now, he had to be a ghost.
    He had changed. Drastically. He was a good twenty pounds heavier. The years had changed his frame from that of pliant youth to that of well-defined maturity. She had never seen him with a beard, never seen his hair long enough to curl over his nape, wave past his forehead, the color changed by the bleach of the sun. The mustache had hidden his mouth, the glasses, his eyes.
    But now that she could see those fathomless eyes, she knew there could be no mistake. No one had eyes quite like Clay. Their brown so dark … so incredibly dark. When he was angry, they seemed as black as jet. They could pierce the soul, sizzle and burn the heart. And sometimes, sometimes touch upon one with such tenderness that the entire earth might have been swept into an ocean-blue hole, leaving only the delight of that strange mesmerization.
    But, oh, God! She had been married to him, how had she failed to recognize him?
    Because he is a ghost … a ghost … a ghost.
    Cat’s hand moved to her throat; it jerked before her, fell back to her side. Quicksand. Drowning hadn’t been in the water. This was drowning, in a quagmire of emotions that crippled and stunned. What was she feeling? Everything was whirling. This man had used her; their lives had been hell. When he had disappeared, she had wanted to die. She hated him; she loved him. She didn’t feel anything because it had been so long. …
    He was alive!
    “I