"I'll make you another one at home," he managed to say, his voice raw. "We'll stop at a grocer's on the way and pick up supplies." He couldn't stop looking after her. Another small weakness, another chink in his armor.

"Can I choose the fruit?"

Her excitement was both a balm to his hunger and fuel for the same. "How will you know what to choose?"

"I'll take one of each, then decide what I like." An eminently practical answer. . . and yet the shimmering joy in her voice was nothing practical, nothing remotely Psy.

If she was a weapon, she was a masterstroke.

A little more than two hours later, Katya walked across a wide porch and into a graceful house isolated at the end of a long drive and surrounded by what seemed to be acres of trees. A fine layer of snow had turned the area into a won derland, but it was the house that captured her interest. "You consider this your home?"

Dev gave a short nod. "When I can get to it. Give me a second to put these groceries in the kitchen."

Deeply curious about the man behind the director, she turned slowly, taking in everything. The split-level house was wide and full of light, with furniture that was stylish yet appeared lived in. Blown-up photographs graced a few walls - she found herself moving toward one in mute fascination. It was a shell lying on the beach, its every precise angle illuminated by the lens. But there was warmth in the black-and-white shot, a sense that the photographer had been entranced by the beauty of the simple object. "Art," she whispered, hearing Dev's footsteps, "is not something the Psy appreciate."

"Perhaps that's why the Forgotten held on to it so hard." He leaned a shoulder on the wall beside the photograph, his arms loosely folded. "Almost all Forgotten children are brought up with a strong appreciation for art and music."

Katya considered whether that was a piece of knowledge that could be used to harm Dev and his people should she ever be thrown back in the hole, in the darkness, and decided not. "You prefer art."

A slight nod.

"You're very good." Psy didn't truly understand art, but there was a store of data in her head that told her she'd learned how to value it. Because, to those of her race, anything that gained in value was a sound investment, whether or not the owner actually found the piece aesthetically pleasing.

Dev's eyes gleamed when she looked to him. "How do you know they're mine?"

"They echo with you." Even as she spoke, she wasn't sure what she meant. She just knew she'd sensed his fingerprint on each and every piece. The clarity, the focus, it rang with his personality. But that warmth. . . something had changed. "When did you take these?"

"A few years back."

She wondered what had happened in the ensuing time. Because while he'd laughed with her, she sensed a cool kind of distance in Dev, a feeling that he held everything behind multiple shields. But then again, she was the enemy. Why should he share anything of himself with her?

Dev tapped the photograph of the shell. "Ever been to the beach?"

Sand in her shoes, in her hair, in her clothes.

"Yes." Grabbing the memory with frantic hands, she held on. "Once, when I was a child. It was . . . an accident. Our vehicle had a malfunction and my father had to pull to a stop near the beach."

"You grew up with your father?"

"Yes." Again, fragments of memory, sharp, almost vicious, as if they were being rammed out through the cells of her very brain. "No. Both."

"Both?"

"Yes." She shook her head, searching through the scraps for the piece that would complete the puzzle. Pain resonated down her spine, but she found that last, broken fragment. "They had a joint-parenting agreement."

"Sometimes," Dev murmured, "I think the Psy have it right with their agreements." The expression on his face was strangely remote. "Leaves no room for human error."

"There's no room for anything." Her mind continued to withhold so much, but she remembered the sense of isolation she'd always felt, even as a child. "There are no emotional bonds. My father could as easily have been a stranger - to him, I was an investment, his genetic legacy."

"Yet you feel strongly about him - you mentioned him first."

That halted her. She blinked, looked into those eyes she'd begun to see in her dreams. "Yes. I suppose . . . but isn't that a paradox? I didn't feel in the Net. I was Silent."

"Or maybe," he murmured, reaching out to slide a strand of her hair behind her ear, the touch inciting a shocking burst of sensation along her nerves, "you were simply silenced."

EARTHTWO COMMAND LOG: SUNSHINE STATION

18 May 2080: The medical team is reporting a higher than average number of minor illnesses, with headaches being the main complaint. Tests to date have revealed that a small number of staff are suffering from recurring pinprick hemorrhages in the cerebral cortex.

Those affected are being regularly monitored, while a biomed team has been instructed to scan the area for any toxins that may be causing the problem.

However, no one has been disabled or seriously compromised as a result of these illnesses, and productivity remains high. There is no need for replacement personnel.

Chapter 10

Dev's words - the impact of his touch - circled endlessly in Katya's head as he showed her upstairs and to her bedroom. That room proved lovely and airy, the sheets on the double bed a rich cream shot with rose. "It's perfect, thank you."

"Unfortunately, they don't open." He nodded at the two wide windows on the opposite side of the room. "The wood swelled last winter, and I haven't gotten around to replacing it. But you'll get plenty of fresh air if you leave your door open during the day."

Katya looked at that handsome face and saw a merciless conqueror, a warrior king whose sense of honor would never allow her to be mistreated. And yet . . . "It's a very comfortable prison." A low curl of anger unfurled in her stomach.

He didn't flinch, didn't pretend surprise. "What I said about why the windows don't work? Truth. But yeah, that's why you're getting this room and not one of the others."

"What do you expect me to do?" She waved at the endless spread of green and white beyond the glass. "We're in the middle of nowhere - I doubt I could find my way out if you gave me a map and a compass."

"But the car has a nav system," he said with quiet implacability. "It also has security features that tell me when someone's tried to start it without authorization."

Ice trickled down her spine, extinguishing the anger. "I'm a captive. It's my duty to escape."

"And go where?" A harsh question from the warrior, all traces of civilization stripped away. "You were dumped on my doorstep like trash."

She was the one who flinched. "That doesn't mean I'm not wanted by someone. My father, for one."

"Never lose an investment?" The razor of his words sliced over her flesh, slitting her open.

"Yes," she whispered, wanting to believe that the cold man who'd raised her, with a woman as cold, cared whether she lived or died. "He'll help me."

"Against the Council?"

No, she thought. Her father was no rebel. He'd brought her up to be a good Council soldier. But she'd chosen her own path - and in that truth, she had found her strength. "I'll help myself."

Dev shook his head, sunlight gleaming off the black of his hair, highlighting the hidden strands of bronze. "You can't even stand for ten minutes without your legs getting shaky."

It angered her, his sheer disregard for her abilities. She was - a blank. No one. She was no one. But she would become someone, she vowed, looking into that arrogant face. Devraj Santos was going to eat his words.

Walking over on the legs he'd mocked, she pushed him in the chest.

He didn't shift so much as an inch, but his eyes narrowed. "What was that for?"

Her palms tingled where she'd touched him, her skin tight with painful craving. "I want you to leave." Fighting the need for tactile contact, she folded her arms and tilted her head toward the door. "Right now."

"And if I don't?" He stepped closer, until they were toe to toe, those impossibly beautiful eyes of his staring down at her.

He was good at intimidation.

But she was through with being intimidated. "Then you'd better eat carefully," she said sweetly. "I am a scientist, after all."

"Poison?" His lips curved. "Bring it on."

"I just threatened you and you smiled. I tried to escape and you got angry?" She didn't understand him.

"The threat," he said, touching his fingers to her cheek in a slow caress, "is permissible. After all, I'm keeping you prisoner, and it's hardly as if you can overpower me. But the escape attempt? That, I won't allow - you belong to the Forgotten, and until I figure out what you're meant to do, you're staying right where I can see you."

She understood the distinction. When she dealt with Dev, the man, she might get away with a great deal. But when it came to Devraj Santos, director of the Shine Foundation, rebellion could cost her everything. The heat that had reignited within her during the argument, the sudden spurt of fire, chilled under the ice of understanding.

She didn't know what she would have said, didn't know how he would have responded, because his cell phone beeped at that moment. Except. . . he made no move to retrieve it from his pocket. The sustained eye contact stole her breath, threatened to pull her under. "Aren't you going to answer that?" Her voice sounded strained to her own ears.

"No."

The sheer iron of the answer made her heart crash against her ribs. "Has anyone ever talked you out of anything?"

"If I'm in the mood."

His answers kept confounding her. He didn't behave according to how her brain, how her knowledge of the world said he should behave. "What do you want?"