A part of her had even dared to hope that when he did come back, it would be on his knees. But with her luck—the infamously unreliable Dore luck—that was highly unlikely to happen.

That was the way with dreams. The good ones had the decency to vanish forever with the dawn. Nightmares, on the other hand, had a nasty tendency to return to haunt you again and again.

"You're kidding." Nancy Halifax looked around the crowded gallery, her attractive face alight with excitement. She did not have to ask who "the bastard" was. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Lyra muttered into her glass. Another whisper of intense awareness shivered across her senses. She knew Cruz was nearby in the same way she would have known if any other species of top-of-the-food-chain predator was in the vicinity.

"This is just a small gallery affair," Nancy said. "It isn't the sort of high-end auction or museum exhibition a Sweetwater would attend. There's only one reason why your guy would come here tonight. He knows you're here. He wants to talk to you."

"He's definitely not my guy, and if you think he's here to see me, I've got a lovely amber mine I can sell you," Lyra said. But deep inside, hope spiraled through her.

"I'll bet he wants to beg you to forgive him and take him back. I don't see him, though. Are you sure he's here?"

Nancy was a striking woman who stood close to six feet tall in her bare feet. Tonight she was wearing three-inch heels to accent her sleek-fitting black sheath. Her view of the room was no doubt excellent.

"Positive," Lyra said. "If you don't see him, it's because he doesn't want you to see him. Not yet, at any rate. He's hunting."

"Oh, come on, Lyra. You make him sound like a specter-cat stalking its prey."

"Wrong analogy."

"I should hope so."

"Think professional hit man," Lyra said. "A really, really well-dressed hit man."

"Isn't that just a little over-the-top?"