"Just relax," Julie told herself aloud, but she was rested now and fully alert, and her mind was tumbling over itself with possible escape solutions, none of which were even remotely feasible. On top of that she was famished. Food first, she decided, then she'd try to think of a way out of here.

From her suitcase, she pulled out the jeans she'd worn to Amarillo, She'd washed out her underwear after her shower, but it was still soaking wet. Pulling on her jeans, she went into the large closet and looked at the heavy men's sweaters neatly folded on the shelves, longing for something clean to wear. She took out a bulky cream fisherman's knit and held it up to herself. It hung down to her knees. Deciding with a shrug that she didn't care how she looked, and the thick sweater would hide the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra, she put it on. She'd washed her hair and blown it dry before she went to bed, so there was nothing to do but brush it. Automatically, she bent over, brushing the shoulder-length tresses from underneath as she always did, finding an odd comfort in following this one small, familiar routine. Finished, she straightened, gave her hair a few more brush strokes, then brushed it back off her forehead, letting it fall into natural waves at the sides. She reached for her purse to put on lipstick then she changed her mind. Looking nice for an escaped convict was not only completely unnecessary but probably a major mistake, considering that kiss in the snow she'd participated in at dawn this morning.

That kiss…

It seemed like weeks, not merely hours since he'd kissed her, and now that she was rested and alert, Julie felt reasonably sure his only interest in her was merely to ensure his safety. Not sexual.

Definitely not sexual.

Please, God. Not sexual.

She glanced at the mirrors on the bathroom walls and felt reassured. She'd always been too busy and preoccupied to worry much about her appearance. When she had taken time to study it, she always felt she had a rather odd face filled with startling features that were too prominent, like her eyes and cheekbones and that absurd cleft in her chin that had deepened to real visibility when she was thirteen. Now, however, she was thrilled with her looks. In jeans and an oversized sweater, with her hair like this and no makeup on, she wouldn't appeal sexually to any man, particularly one who'd been to bed with hundreds of gorgeous, glamorous, famous women. His interest in her would definitely not be sexual, Julie decided with absolute confidence.

Drawing in a long, steadying breath, she reached for the door handle and turned it, reluctant but ready to face her captor—and hopefully a delicious meal. The bedroom door wasn't locked. She distinctly remembered locking that door, on principle, when she went to bed.

Silently, she opened the door and stepped into the main room of the house. For a split second, the inviting beauty of the scene made her feel completely disoriented. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, the lights on the beams high above were dimmed, and candles were lit on the coffee table, flickering on the crystal wine glasses he'd set out beside linen place mats. It might have been the wine glasses and candles that suddenly made Julie feel as if she was walking into a seduction scene, or perhaps it was the dimmed lights or the soft music playing on the stereo. Trying to inject a brisk, businesslike tone into her voice, she headed toward Zachary Benedict, who was standing in the kitchen, his back to her, taking something out of the broiler. "Are we expecting company?"

He turned and looked at her, an inexplicable, lazy smile sweeping over his face as he surveyed her from head to foot. Julie had the staggering, and impossible, impression that he actually liked what he saw, an impression that was reinforced by the way he lifted his wine glass to her in the gesture of a toast and said, "Somehow, you look adorable in that oversize sweater."

Belatedly realizing that after five years in prison, any woman would probably appeal to him, Julie took a cautious step backward. "The last thing I want to do is look nice for you. In fact, I'd rather wear my own clothes, even if they're not fresh," she said, turning on her heel.

"Julie!" he snapped, all goodwill gone from his voice.

She lurched around, amazed and alarmed by the dangerous swiftness of his mood swings. She took another cautious step backward as he stalked toward her, a wine glass in each hand. "Have something to drink," he ordered, thrusting a long-stemmed glass toward her. "Drink it, damn it!" He made a visible effort to soften his tone. "It'll help you relax."

"Why should I relax?" she countered obstinately.

Despite the stubborn lift of her chin and her rebellious tone, there was a tiny quaver of fear in her voice, and when Zack heard it, his annoyance with her evaporated. She'd shown so much courage, such indefatigable spirit during the last twenty-four hours; she'd fought him so relentlessly that he'd actually believed she wasn't very frightened most of the time. Now, however, as he looked at her upturned face, he saw that the ordeal he'd put her through had left faint blue smudges beneath her glorious eyes, and her smooth skin was decidedly pale. She was amazing, he thought—courageous, kind, and plucky as hell. Perhaps if he didn't like her—genuinely like her—it wouldn't have mattered that she was watching him as if he were a dangerous animal. Wisely suppressing the urge to put his hand against her cheek and try to reassure her, which would undoubtedly panic her, or to offer an apology for kidnapping her, which she'd definitely find hypocritical, he did something he'd promised himself he'd never bother to do again: He tried to convince her of his innocence. "A moment ago, I asked you to relax, and—" he began, but she interrupted him.

"You ordered me to relax, you didn't ask."

Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to his lips. "Now I am asking."

Thrown completely off balance by what sounded like gentleness in his voice, Julie took a sip of her wine, stalling for time, steadying her confused senses, while he stood only two feet away, towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out her view of anything but him. It hit her suddenly that he'd evidently showered, shaved, and changed clothes while she slept … and that, in a pair of charcoal trousers and a black sweater, Zachary Benedict was far more handsome than he'd ever looked on screen. He lifted his hand and braced it against the wall beside her shoulder, and when he spoke again, his deep voice had that same strange, compellingly gentle quality. "On the way here, you asked me if I was innocent of the crime I was sent to prison for, and I gave you a flippant answer the first time and a grudging answer the next. Now I'm going to tell you the truth simply and voluntarily…"