Without really looking, he noticed Donnie Donaldson loading a bag of trash into his white contractor’s truck, while Constantine’s bright blue pickup hulked in Ophelia’s driveway. Jabez must have left at first light.

  But something about Ophelia’s house and Ophelia’s presence there sucked his gaze to the side, and he really looked.

  He swerved into the driveway, Ophelia and her guns and her prohibition be damned. Before he had even opened the door of the Mercedes, a melancholy howl sounded from behind the trailer. He got out of the car and saw the extent of the damage, and an almost physical pain gripped him. “What the hell happened here?”

  Donnie Donaldson balanced a TV-sized box on the tailgate of his truck and shifted an orange trash bag to make room for it on the bed. “Someone poisoned her garden. Weed killer.”

  “Where’s Ophelia? Inside?”

  Donnie shook his head, tsk-tsking. “She went for a walk. Wanted to be alone. She’s all shook up, poor thing. Coupla years’ work shot, just like that.” He straightened a pile of two-by-tens next to a roll of carpet cushion and tied a red rag around the wood where it hung off the end of the truck. “Stinks, don’t it?”

  “Why didn’t she take my dog with her?”

  “Like I said, she wanted to be alone. She’s putting up a good front, but if you ask me…This shit, on top of Willy and Lisa threatening to call the cops last night ’cause they think she molested Joanna. I heard she was caught with a dead body in her truck. That’s not true, is it?”

  “Where’d she go?” Gideon demanded. Gretchen yowled inside the screened porch.

  Donnie motioned with his chin past the dead back lawn and the greenhouse to the row of compost piles leading toward the woods. “There’s a path to the river. She took a rifle, so you better watch your step, officer. It’s all her property, the whole way down. She didn’t want to see you last night, and she sure ain’t gonna want to see you now.”

  “I can’t just drive off and ignore this,” Gideon said.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Donnie climbed into the white truck and drove away.

  Gideon took a chisel from the trunk of the Mercedes and pried open one of the screens to free his dog, then strode down the path and into the woods after the departing Gretchen. The trail twisted through the trees for close to half a mile, and at any other time Gideon would have noted the dappled beauty of the woods in the early-morning sun, and maybe even appreciated the labor of love that kept the path clear, but all he could think of was Ophelia crying after he’d been such a jerk, and then going home to Willy’s hateful accusations, and finally waking up to a dead garden.

  He came out of the woods high on the riverbank not far from a bat house tacked on a metal pole. Another bat house stood in a cleared spot thirty yards downriver. At this point, the water picked up from its usual meander, passing a flurry of rocks and snags, till it rounded the bend farther down and quieted again close to Gideon’s place. Upriver a few old farmhouses like the one Gideon had inherited perched not far from the water. Directly across from where he stood, behind a thin layer of trees, several houses abutting the new golf course were being built.

  The path turned abruptly right upriver and descended between water oaks and pines toward the water’s edge. A flower garden twined in and out of the trees. Gideon heard Ophelia’s voice admonishing Gretchen and let go of a long breath. He came into the open a foot or so above the river. Ophelia stood barefoot below him on a snag, a wreath of ivy and tiny blue flowers resting on her curls. She clutched a rifle in one hand, and her eyes dared him to wrong her again. Gretchen nosed upstream along the water.

  Gideon cleared his throat. “Donnie told me you were here,” he said. “Art spoke to me this morning. I owe you an apology.”

  Ophelia nodded. Her grip on the rifle slackened while she watched him, saying nothing. He stepped carefully down the slick mud of the bank, feeling his heart would burst at her beauty, the water sparkling behind her, the sunshine splashing the trees across the river.

  Instinct clapped him hard between the shoulder blades. He sprang forward and toppled Ophelia into the water as a bullet whined. A knifelike pain slapped across his thigh. The two of them plunged underwater in a tangle of limbs as another shot cracked the water, and Ophelia kicked away and disappeared, the wreath bobbing and twirling in her wake.

  Gideon launched himself after her, hampered by the drag from his clothes and shoes, fighting to stay under until they rounded the first bend. The sniper was on the far side of the river; of that Gideon was sure. Across from Ophelia’s, the man had had cover, but he would be hard put to shoot at them unseen from the construction site and the half-finished golf course, which stretched below Ophelia’s along the opposite bank. Gideon came up for air at last, hopefully out of sight of the sniper, and made for the flash of her yellow top, but when he got there Ophelia had taken it off and was already diving ahead. He kicked off one shoe as he dove again, rolling downriver, cursing his thigh as he ripped off the second shoe. He hauled his shirt over his head and kept going.

  Several breaths later, Ophelia surfaced next to him by the bank. “Where’d you get hit?” Her naked breasts floated enchantingly at water level. “How bad is it?”

  “Not so bad I can’t enjoy the view,” Gideon said, but Ophelia was already underwater, widening the rip in his trousers and licking at his thigh.

  She surfaced again a few seconds later, pushing her fangs delicately back into place. “It’s just a graze. Around the next bend, there’s a little alcove under the bank where I can fix it properly.”

  “I know where that is,” Gideon said. She must have done something properly already, because his thigh no longer burned. He plowed downstream beside her until they passed the cypress that marked the bend, then pulled hard toward the bank. Ophelia shimmered ahead of him under the willows. She peeled off her shorts and underwear, wrung them out, and stashed them at the back of the alcove.

  “Take off your clothes,” she said.

  Whatever you say, honey. Gideon stripped off his trousers and boxers, then his socks, and followed Ophelia’s delectable naked behind onto the soft mud bank under the trees, instantly harder than he’d ever been in his life.

  “Lie back,” Ophelia said, and Gideon propped himself on his elbows and watched with half-closed eyes as she licked the trickle of blood off his leg, as blissful as if he’d died and gone to heaven. He gave a fleeting thought to the condom in the wallet in his pants, but where Ophelia was concerned he had long ago abandoned all caution and common sense, and as for the future, he simply didn’t care.

  I don’t care whether he likes the fangs or not, Ophelia told herself, he’s mine. He looked ecstatic, of course, leaning on his elbows as he watched her work on his thigh. I’ll make him like them, she vowed, and then realized that she was pleading, eyes closed as she tidied the graze. Oh God, please let him like them, please let him like me. As if in answer to her prayer his hand came lightly to rest on her head, playing with the damp strands of hair, brushing her cheek.

  She breathed in the musky scent of his penis and ran a hand up over it, caressing it gently, gliding her fingers over the tip, longing to run her tongue along the shaft, to savor him in her mouth. Goddamn fangs, she thought. Why can’t I just be normal?

  He wouldn’t be this hot for you if you were normal, she reminded herself.

  She crawled up and straddled him, taking control, touching her tongue to his, aflame with lust and a longing for something more, and he licked eagerly into her mouth, fearlessly negotiating the fangs. One hot hand fondled her butt, the other cupped a breast, rubbed and pulled at her nipple, shooting a sizzle straight to her sex, and she shivered with pleasure.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, surprising herself. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “Instinct,” Gideon replied, looking so happy it hurt, and then his expression changed. His hands ceased their wandering to grip her shoulders. He pushed her slightly away. “If you’re doing this out of gratitude…,” he said, clenching his teeth, struggling with himself so valiantly it stole her breath. “If you’re doing it out of gratitude,” he said again, “don’t do it at all.”

  “I’m grateful to be alive so I can do it.” Ophelia teased herself lightly across his penis, nuzzled and scraped her fangs against his throat, worked her way back to the intoxication of his mouth. “You taste so good.” She ran her nose past his armpit and the zing shuddered all the way to her clit. “You smell spectacular. So strong, so alive.” So hers.

  “As long as you won’t regret it afterward.” Gideon ran his teeth along her lip and tugged gently. The corner of his mouth lingered against hers, and his breath shivered hot on her cheek. “As long as you really want me.”

  The hell with caution. The hell with consequences, too. Ophelia reached down and poised him against her opening. “You want the truth?”

  He smiled up at her, a crooked adorable smile, and his hands clamped hard on her hips. He nudged the tip of his penis gently into her, teasing back. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve wanted you from the moment we met.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. “When you started arguing with me, I wanted to throw you down on the mud and have my way with you then and there.” She clutched him, aching with need. “It was torture keeping my hands off you.”

  “Mud, here and now,” growled Gideon into her mouth. “Hands all over each other. My way, your way. Fuck me hard.” His words dissolved into an inarticulate sound of pleasure as he thrust himself deep inside her.

  She heard her own moan through a burst of heat, rocking against him, coming already, way too soon. “Oh, damn!”

  “Bust it out all over me, honey. It’ll be good. It’ll be fine.” Gideon held her still and tight as she shook, then brought her back up fast before she’d hardly gone down, his hands tasting every inch of her, playing at her breasts and spreading her ass, his slick fingers and hot breath sending her soaring as he drove up into her, shooting them both toward another glorious peak.

  “Oh God,” Ophelia said, “I deserve this!” She thrust herself hard against him.

  “Hell, yes,” Gideon panted, gripping her ass cheeks, licking her fangs.

  “Do you realize how long it’s been?” Ophelia gasped. “I’m a vamp.” She thrust at him again. “It’s my right!”

  “Inalienable, honey. All yours.” He laughed and pulled back, and his voice came out hoarse and harsh. “Bite me.” He gripped her hips and rocked deep into her. “Do it now.”

  “Not yet.” Ophelia writhed in his musk and his heat, rode him up the crescendo, and then her fangs took over, extending all the way, drawing her relentlessly toward him.

  “Please,” he gasped. She sank her fangs into his shoulder. His blood seared through her. He shot hard inside her, over and over, with a long, tortured groan.

  This time, there was no coming back. She pulled out her fangs, licked the tiny puncture wounds, and fell immediately into a warm, relieved darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Gideon woke first to an overwhelming contentment, then to the rueful knowledge that he’d screwed up even more now than before. He hadn’t slept long, by the position of the sun through the willow leaves, but the sniper had had plenty of time to cover his tracks. If he’d tried to follow them downriver, there might have been telltale signs in the mud of the construction site, but by now, an hour or so into the workday, they’d be covered and mingled with those of workers and trucks. He put his arms around Ophelia, knowing he should be hurrying over there, rushing to town to deal with the murder case before the trail went cold, but not really caring about anything except Ophelia asleep on his shoulder and that his instinct was back at last.

  But instinct had a mind of its own, and it gave him no clue how to deal with Ophelia now. She slept so peacefully, her breath light on his chest, her eyelashes lush against her cheeks. She stirred, and his response was so immediate that he had to laugh at his own helplessness. Another instinct knew what it wanted, that was for damn sure.

  Ophelia’s eyelashes fluttered. She squirmed languidly. “Mmm.”

  Mmm, indeed. Gideon rolled her under him, kneed her legs apart and entered her with one smooth stroke.

  “Thank you,” Ophelia murmured, twining her legs around his and arching toward him. “I need this.” She moved with breathtaking voluptuousness. “Vamps aren’t supposed to do without.”

  So hot, so ready. He needed this, too. “You don’t have to do without anymore.”

  Ophelia sighed and opened her eyes. “Shouldn’t you go to work?”

  Gideon pulled almost out of her and slid easily back in. “Uh-huh.” He set up a slow, lazy rhythm. “I’m completely screwed.”

  “Might as well enjoy it,” Ophelia said, pulling his mouth down to hers. And they didn’t speak again until they lay once more, sated, on the mud under the willows.

  A soft whimper on the bank above broke the spell.

  “Gretchen came home. Good.”

  “Home?”

  Gideon pulled their soggy clothing out from under the bank. “This is my property. You can’t see much from the river, but we’re only fifty yards from my house.”

  “You own the weeping garden?” Ophelia scrambled naked up the bank behind Gideon and followed him into the tangled mess she had coveted for at least a year. With deep woods on either side and across the river, Gideon’s garden was a secret paradise. Or had been, years ago.

  “The what?”

  “Weeping garden. It’s crying out for care and attention.” Ophelia picked her way gingerly up the twisting pathway past more poison ivy than she had ever seen in her life. “It used to be a beautiful garden.”

  “How can you tell?” Gideon turned to survey the jungle, but inevitably his eyes rested on Ophelia instead. “Honey, I can’t think about plants even under ordinary circumstances. I hate to have to find some clothes for you.”

  “You do have a fig tree,” Ophelia said, motioning ahead to the right. “But this isn’t the Garden of Eden. Not any longer, that is.”

  “It wasn’t an Eden before, either,” Gideon said dryly. “It was my mother’s refuge from my dad. The plants didn’t walk away when she talked to them. They flourished under her care.”

  “Maybe they listened to her,” Ophelia said.

  “She drove him nuts with her yammering,” Gideon said.

  “Maybe if he’d been listening to start with, she wouldn’t have had to yammer.”

  “Chicken and egg,” Gideon said. “All I know is, by the time Art and I were old enough to understand, she was a nag and he was a pigheaded old bastard, and it was way too late for any remedies. I swore then that I would never become my old man.” He opened the gate, where Gretchen waited on the outside and two German shepherds paced in a small fenced yard shaded by a mature river birch. “Meet Daisy and Belle.”

  She followed Gideon and the milling dogs to the house, an elegant old Victorian with fresh sea green paint and cream trim. They strode up a flight of steps to a wide back deck with wooden benches, a barbecue, and yards of planking asking for potted plants. Gideon stopped. “Whatever my father believed was right, regardless of the consequences, regardless of others. Everybody else was stupid.” He shook out his wet trousers, fished for his key ring, which had miraculously stayed in the pocket, and opened the back door.

  The interior shone, tiled and painted and clean. Well, except for a few dirty dishes in the sink, but for a bachelor home with three dogs…

  “You like it?”

  A sense of oppression that had been creeping up ever since they had stepped onto the riverbank blanketed itself over Ophelia. “I’m not much into houses, but yeah, I do. I really do.” The ideal lover with the perfect garden—but she was nowhere near ideal or perfect or even safe.

  Gideon tossed their wet clothes into a laundry basket. “I enjoy taking care of the house, but I can’t stand yard work.”

  Unbelievably perfect…but I can’t do it. She waited bleakly for him to bring it into the open so she could tell him no, but he didn’t, merely led her up the stairs to a vast bedroom with a skylight above in which danced leaves and the sky, then through to a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and hexagonal-stall shower. The other half of the room was sealed off with plastic sheeting.

  “Theoretically, it’s for a tub, but I never take baths, so it’s last on my list.” He turned on the shower and motioned her inside. “What’s wrong?”

  “Real life,” Ophelia said. “Intruding on our little idyll.”

  “We can do some more idylling later,” Gideon said. He poured shampoo into Ophelia’s hand and then his own. “Still no idea who might have it in for you?”

  Oh, right. Someone had tried to kill her. “No.” She noticed the shampoo and halfheartedly lathered her hair.

  Gideon scrubbed vigorously. “The poison in your garden. Is that something permanent? Does it ruin your land for years, anything like that?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he used my nontoxic weed killer. I can plant again anytime.” But I don’t want to. Not there. I want to plant here. And to plant here, I have to get away from there. And there’s only one way to do that. “It absorbs through the leaves and kills the plants, but it breaks down within a few days.”

  “Still, why dump a body in your truck yesterday afternoon, poison your garden last night, and try to shoot you this morning?” He took the showerhead off its hook and rinsed her hair.

  “Weed killer doesn’t work that fast.” Ophelia stood quiescent under the warm flow. “Judging by how much I had left in the bottle and how many plants he killed, and taking the weather into account, he did it at least three days ago.”

  “Huh. Still, it looked like vengeance or intimidation up till this morning. It’s a big jump to attempted murder. What happened to change his mind?”

  Ophelia shrugged, a far grislier problem than an attempt on her life exercising her mind. She wanted this garden. She even wanted the house, as long as she didn’t have to take care of it. And she definitely wanted this man.