Even though she couldn't hear breathing other than her own, her heightened sense of fear let her know she wasn't alone. Someone was watching her. Victoria Jones lay very still, eyes closed, heart pounding an uneven tattoo beneath her sore ribs.

Needing a few moments to orientate herself she tried to keep her breathing steady. A log flaring in the fireplace. There hadn't been a fire when she'd come in. But now she felt its heat and saw the dancing orange light through her eyelids.

To still her panic she counted to a hundred and twenty, then added another fifty for good measure, then slowly opened her eyes. The library was dim, but flickering firelight illuminated the lower half of the man sitting in the shadows across the room. Boots, long, jean-clad legs…the rest of him disappeared into darkness and shadow.

Heart lodged in her throat, she struggled to sit up. She'd accidentally fallen asleep, and now she was groggy and disoriented and at a distinct disadvantage.

The fact that the man wasn't saying anything intimidated her and made her feel defensive and automatically in the wrong. But she could be overreacting. Fear and exhaustion had taken up permanent residence in her body.

Her hair had come loose and floated around her shoulders and down her back as she swung her feet to the floor. Searching with her toes for her shoes, she tried with one hand to tame her hair back into its customary bun.

The man, and Tory knew he was Marc Savin even though he had yet to say a word, observed her without comment, increasing her unease. Still, her grand-mother's strict teachings came to the fore and she said in a prim, polite voice, "I'm sorry. I must have fallen asleep