Charon's Crossing

And like the shower being better suited to polar bears than people. The water was finally reaching tepid. Another couple of minutes and she'd grit her teeth, pull off her robe and nightgown, and go for it.

At least it would be warm, where she was going. Charon's Crossing was in the Caribbean on some island Kathryn had never heard of. Her mother had seen the place once. Or she might not have. She wasn't sure.

"I think I was there years ago, after your father and I first got married," Beverly had told her. "You won't like it much, Kathryn. If I'm right, it was this gorgeous, romantic old white elephant of a house. Not the kind of thing that would appeal to you at all."

Romantic, hell. It was probably a disaster. Only Trevor Russell, who'd prided himself on what he'd called his artist's eye, would have been fool enough to have hung onto it.

The truth, as her mother so often said, was simply that he was blind to reality. Wasn't that why Beverly had finally divorced him?

Kathryn spread a white ribbon of Colgate on her toothbrush. The divorce, and the separation from his wife and daughter, hadn't seemed to bother Trevor very much. Except for an occasional postcard from places she couldn't even find on the map, Kathryn had never seen her father again.

And then, a few months ago, word had come of his death, followed by the news about Charon's Crossing.

Well, in just a few hours, she'd see the place for herself. Right now, it was time to be brave and deal with the shower. Kathryn took off her robe, hung it behind the door. Slippers next, then the braid...

But the braid was already undone. How...?

The dream. Of course. That silly dream. A soft flush rose in her cheeks.

"Audience participation, Kathryn," she whispered.

Well, that was a first. She had never...... his fingers, tunneling through her hair until it falls loose...

Kathryn went very still. Images were surfacing, rising from her subconscious mind as if through layers of dark, still water. A tropical sun, setting on the sea. A garden, lit by moonlight. A man stepping out of the shadows, a man with a voice that whispered of desire and hands that brushed her with flame.

She stared into the mirror. Wisps of steam had risen past the shower curtain. They eddied in the air around her, curled lightly over the silvery surface of the glass so that it seemed as if she were standing in some faraway place of distant enchantment.

Her hand rose, crept to the high, frilled collar of her nightgown and to the row of opened buttons that marched from the hollow of her throat to the rounded

curve of her breasts, and she swayed a little.

His hands at the buttons of the gown, opening them one by one, baring her throat to his mouth, baring the swell of her breasts, her head falling back, her lips parting...

* * *

Five stories below, Jason Carr stepped out of a taxi, a bag from Mister Donut in his hand and a clutch of hopeful expectations in his heart.

He tugged at the waistband of his grey sweatpants and ran a hand through his dark hair.

Hell, Jason, are you sure this is really such a great idea?

He'd asked himself the question at least six times in the past half hour. The answer this time was the same as it had been before. Of course it was a good idea. What woman wouldn't be thrilled to have her new fiancé drop in for breakfast?

Jason opened the door and started up the stairs. Besides, he'd resorted to a little spontaneity last night and look where it had gotten him. A grin spread over his face. Engaged, that was where, and by God, he still couldn't believe his luck.

He'd never know what had made him pop the question again last night. Heaven knew Kathryn had turned him down enough times over the past months. But he had, somewhere between the take-out moo goo gai pan and the fried dumplings. And Kathryn had looked up, chopsticks poised, smiled and said yes. He'd been so surprised he'd damned near knocked over the coffee table in his rush to leap up, take her in his arms and kiss her.

But when he'd followed that wonderful, extraordinary moment with the suggestion that she spend the night with him, she'd gone back to being the Kathryn he knew, not only the most gorgeous lady computer analyst he'd ever laid eyes on but also the most sensible.

"It's a lovely thought," she'd said, smiling just enough to take the edge off his disappointment, "but it's late and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow. It's just not practical."

Jason paused on the third floor landing and let an old lady and a tiny white poodle dressed in look-alike Black Watch plaid maneuver past him.

She'd said the same thing when he'd wanted to drive her home instead of letting her take a taxi, and then again when he'd offered to take her to the airport this morning. She'd even turned down the idea of having breakfast together.

"I won't have time," she'd said.

And he'd accepted that—until half an hour ago, when he was in the middle of his morning run through Central Park. He'd stopped dead in his tracks and said, to the astonishment of a drunk sleeping it off near the statue of Alice in Wonderland, "To hell with being practical!"