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apartment her scream still echoed.
    She scooted back in her bed, up against the carved headboard, trying to calm her panicked breathing, her racing heart. She couldn't remember when she'd last had a nightmare. Probably when she was a child, still living with her incessantly battling parents. To be sure, in the six years since she'd been on her own, she hadn't been plagued with bad dreams.
    This one more than made up for it. It was no wonder—she'd been thrown into the company of a murderer, one who showed absolutely no remorse, and her father's twisted sense of humor only made things worse.
    At least she hadn't seen Richard Tiernan again. Sean took his womenfolk, as he termed them, out to dinner to celebrate Cass's defeat, or so she thought of it, and there'd been no mention of his houseguest joining them.
    It hadn't helped. She couldn't stop thinking of him. Even eating mediocre food at the Russian Tea Room and watching Sean preen hadn't been enough to distract her from the memory of those haunted eyes.
    There was no sign of him when they returned. Cass had curled up in the white sofa, nursing the Irish Mist Sean had forced on her, and wondered what Tiernan was doing. And what he had done.
    She shoved her hair away from her face now, taking deep, calming breaths. Her room was pitch-black—the heavy velvet draperies shut out the light, if not the noise of the city. It felt like a tomb. She leaned over and turned on the lamp, but the sight of all the Gothic splendor surrounding her wasn't cheering.
    She dragged herself out of bed, fumbling around for her watch. It was quarter past three in the morning, and there was no way she was going to sleep without a little outside help.
    She knew there was any number of choices. Hot milk, the contents of Sean's liquor cabinet, the contents of Sean's medicine cabinet were all available. Hot milk would take the longest and taste the worst, and the kitchen was too close to Tiernan's bedroom. If she had any sense at all, she'd head for the chemical response to nightmares that was a family tradition.
    But there was sense, and there was sense. The memory of Sean's drunken brawls was too fresh in her mind. Her mother's slurred whine lay at the back of her thoughts as well. If she had to resort to sleeping pills or liquor to make it through the night, then she damned well wasn't going to stay there.
    The kitchen was dark and deserted, the flooring cool beneath her bare feet. Cass leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around her waist, as she watched her mug of milk heat in the microwave while she called herself an idiot.
    Richard Tiernan wasn't going to emerge from his lair, not at that hour of the night. If he did, all she had to do was grab that wreath of garlic hanging on the wall and ward him off.
    Her smile caught her in the midst of a yawn, just as the microwave beeped. She pushed her tangle of hair away from her face in a sleepy gesture, reaching for her milk, and then froze.
    "Nightmares?" said Richard Tiernan.
    She could smell the blood. For one brief, crazy second she could smell death. And then sanity reared its blessed head.
    He was standing in the door, where she'd first seen him, watching her. His hands were tucked in his jeans pockets, and his dark hair was ruffled, perhaps from sleep. Apart from that, he looked the same. Lost, dark, and dangerous.
    She pulled her oversize sweater around her in what she hoped was a suitably casual gesture. She hadn't underestimated his unnerving effect on her. Damn Sean for getting her into this! "Not really," she said coolly. "I guess I'm not used to the city noise. I seldom have trouble sleeping."
    "Lucky you," he murmured.
    She put the mug of warm milk to her mouth. It was so hot she could feel the steam burning her lips, and she paused, feeling like a fool. On the one hand, she'd look ridiculous if she put the mug down without drinking. On the other, she wasn't sure she wanted to scald her esophagus in her effort to appear unmoved by his