~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria DeLuca sighed and shoved a lock of blonde hair from her face. It had been a long, hectic day. Briefly, she longed for a cigarette, but shook her head. She'd started smoking in college, for no real reason, and it had taken her nearly three years to quit.

Her footsteps echoed almost eerily in the corridor as she walked toward the teachers' lounge. A tiny smile touched her lips as she remembered the same hallway a while earlier. It had been filled with shrieking children ranging in age from five to eleven, all running hell-bent-for-leather to the nearest exit.

"What a difference an hour makes, huh, DeLuca?" The sudden voice startled Maria. Then she smiled at the tall, grinning brunette who fell into step beside her. "I didn't scare you, did I? You looked about a million miles away," Frederica Wheeler observed.

"A little," she admitted. "Actually, Freddie, I was just thinking about how quiet it gets in here once school lets out."

Freddie giggled. "Don't I know it! The rugrats leave...and the real work begins." She sighed resignedly and pushed open the door to the lounge. "After you, amiga."

Maria rinsed her coffee mug well before snatching a paper towel from the roll next to the sink. The mug, which featured a cartoon drawing of a classroom setting, had been a gift from one of her students a few years back. She agreed with Freddie. She adored her students; dealing with administration was the less fun part of her job. Belatedly, she realized Freddie was still talking, and dragged herself from her thoughts.

"...but Spencer kept insisting there was nowhere near enough money in the budget for that sort of thing. I tried explaining to the harpy that virtual reality is a valid learning tool, but she wouldn't listen. A VR library could help facilitate learning tremendously for lots of kids with certain types of learning disabilities--Wait a minute." She stopped speaking abruptly and stared at Maria, who was adding a prodigious amount of nondairy creamer to her coffee. "What's up?"

"What do you mean, Fred?"

Freddie leaned one slim hip against the edge of the nondescript round table that graced the center of the room. "You know what I mean. Role reversal? How come I'm rambling like you usually do, while you're doing a fairly respectable imitation of someone who's taken a vow of silence?"

Stirring her coffee slowly and methodically, the tiny blonde shrugged...and remained silent.

Freddie moved to place a gentle hand on Maria's shoulder. "It happened again, didn't it? Today?"

Maria couldn't speak, so she nodded. Freddie cursed under her breath.

Ever since she was a child, Maria had experienced moments of emotion that were, for all intents and purposes, inappropriate to the situation at hand. The feelings seemed to bubble up from nowhere, and varied from anger to amusement, from joy to sorrow. Today, it had been sadness so quick and deep it had left her breathless.

When she was younger, those sudden sensations had often manifested themselves in outbursts, mostly crying spells and anxiety attacks. It had frightened her parents to no end, and she'd seen therapist after therapist. So far, no medical professional had ever been able to pinpoint a cause, mental or physical, for the strange moods. As she had grown older, however, Maria had become more able to deal with the occurrences. For the most part, they were less troublesome now.

Freddie, not only a co-worker but also a good friend, was familiar with Maria's problem. Maria quickly told her about the anguish she'd felt earlier.

"Damn, " Freddie sighed, rubbing Maria's shoulder. "I wish I could do something to help, kiddo. That has to be scary as hell."

Maria shrugged again. "It's not so bad anymore."

Freddie tilted her head skeptically. "Tell me that when you're not crying and I might believe it."

Freddie was right, she realized, lifting a hand to her cheek. She was crying. "I don't...I don't know why I'm crying, Freddie."

Her friend hugged her solemnly. "Look, why don't you blow off Spencer's faculty torture today, huh? I'll cover for you. She'll be none the wiser."

Maria shook her head emphatically. "No," she insisted. She'd tried so hard not to let her condition ever affect her work, and she wasn't about to let today be a first. She was strong. She could do it. "No way, Fred. Let's go." She sniffed resolutely and grabbed her coffee. "I, for one, can't wait to hear what Spencer has to say about this season's Christmas activities."

Freddie snorted. "Sure, kid. If you say so."

"Hey, Freddie? Thanks."

"Hey, that's what I'm here for, right?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael Guerin had never felt so helpless in his life. From the moment he'd answered his phone that afternoon, he'd been fighting the urge to cry...or hit something. So far, giving in to his raging emotions was looking awfully appealing. Instead, he clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead at a pale yellow wall.

Max appeared in the doorway of the small room. Michael's heart plummeted at the look on his best friend's face. "How is she?"

"Physically, she's fine. Mentally?" Max shook his head and sank into a chair near Michael, the vinyl creaking as he did so. "As well as can be expected, I guess."

"Was Alex able to get here?"

Max nodded. "He must have broken every traffic law known to man to do it, but he's here." He paused. "I had to get out of there, Michael. They needed to be alone for a while." Max's eyes were flat and bleak. "I can't imagine how they must..." His voice trailed off. "I keep thinking about Liz and..."

Michael kept his eyes on the floor. His mind couldn't begin to grasp the enormity of Isabel and Alex's loss. "You don't have to go back to work, do you, Max?"

He shook his head. "I arranged for someone to cover my shift downstairs."

Max had been working a shift in the emergency room when the ambulance carrying Isabel had arrived. Michael didn't want to think about how it must have felt for Max to see his sister wheeled through those doors. He simply couldn't think about the small life that had ended.

A tired-looking woman in scrubs leaned into the waiting room and beckoned. "Dr. Evans? Can I have a moment?"

From his seat in the far corner of the room, Michael could only hear snippets of the conversation between the two. He was able to catch only a few words, but they didn't sound good.

Michael said nothing when Max returned, knowing that he would tell him what he needed to know. Finally, after a long moment, Max spoke. "Isabel's miscarriage was incomplete." His throat worked. "She has to go through a procedure called a D&C now." As Max explained, clinically and concisely, exactly what that meant, Michael felt ill.

"God, Max..."

He never noticed when Max left the room. Head in hands, he sat, weeping. He cried for Izzy, and for Alex, and for the niece or nephew he would never know. He cried for Max and Liz, whose greatest wish was to have a child.

When they'd all first heard about Isabel's pregnancy, it had been a time of hope and fear. They had no way of knowing whether a child who was essentially a hybrid could survive. The hope was gone now, but the fear remained. Was the miscarriage a coincidence, or could he and Max and Isabel truly never look forward to being parents?

But he had no answers, and Michael Guerin's sobbing continued.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Six months later...

Maria juggled two paper bags and nearly tripped over her cat, Doogie, trying to get to the phone. The machine picked up a split second before she grabbed the cordless handset, and she flinched away from the squealing feedback. "Hello?"

"Maria?"

It was Stephen Reynolds, her boyfriend of several months. They chatted for a few minutes, during which Maria sorted through her mail, fed Doogie, and unpacked her grocery bags. Finally, the conversation turned to their plans for the evening.

"Are we still on for that dinner tonight?" Stephen asked.

Weeks ago, Stephen had asked her to attend a dinner party hosted by the senior partner of his accounting firm. She'd agreed, although she'd begun to regret her acceptance. She wouldn't know a soul, and the party's main purpose was, of course, business. "Of course. I'm looking forward to it," she insisted, crossing her fingers at the lie.

She could hear his relieved sigh over the line. "You don't know how much this means to me, Maria. I'm certain you'll find it horrifically boring, but I really would like for you to go."

She was immediately deluged with guilt. She should be glad to attend the dinner, not silently begrudging the time she'd have to spend there. "Pick me up at seven, Stephen. I'll be ready."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael threw the basketball against the wall again, absently listening to it smack against the brick. Shifting the back of his head more comfortably into the sofa cushion, he sighed. "I'm bored out of my skull," he murmured aloud, then groaned. "And I'm talking to myself again."

He sat up, letting the basketball fall from his hands and dribble weakly on the hardwood floor. He was more than a little irritated with himself. Here he was, loafing around his loft like he had nothing to do, when there were plenty of tasks that needed his attention. He had some bills lying around somewhere that needed to be mailed. There were piles of laundry upstairs on his bed. And, most importantly, his show at the Dartmouth Street Gallery was due to open in a week and he still hadn't fully decided on which paintings to sell.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. For the most part, he'd picked the show selection already. Almost of their own volition, Michael's eyes fell on the one painting he hadn't been able to settle on yet.

Michael didn't consider it his best work, but Isabel assured him it would be the first painting sold. It was a far cry from his usual landscapes and abstracts. Structurally speaking, it was fairly hideous, and any art critic worth his salt would instantly dismiss it. Michael grinned a little as he imagined the snooty review: "Mr. Guerin's work is off-balance and muddled, and this effort is a particular nightmare, with contrived subject matter that brings to mind a painfully inept Norman Rockwell."

The painting depicted a small child bent over one foot, laboring to tie the lace of her red sneaker by herself. She was pulling the lopsided knot closed. Though her eyes were obscured by a cascade of blonde curls, it was evident that a joyful smile was just beginning to wash across her face.

Liz and Isabel both had already offered to buy it from him, even if it wasn't up to critical snuff. "I look at that canvas and I see pride, Michael," Isabel had said one day. "I see love." She had asked about his inspiration, and he'd shrugged. How was he supposed to explain? He couldn't tell her that he'd woken up one morning and sketched the scene, then painted it entirely from memory, a memory he shouldn't have even had.

Michael forced himself to look, really look, at the painting. He stared for long moments, then admitted to himself that he couldn't place it in the show. Angered by his weird feelings of propriety toward a mere painting, Michael made a decision.

He picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey, Izzy. It's Michael. Do you remember that painting of mine that you love? Yeah, the one of the girl with the red sneakers."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

It was after midnight when Stephen dropped Maria off at her home. Instead of leaving, however, he'd accepted her obligatory invitation to come inside for a drink. He seemed a bit nervous, and his odd behavior was starting to give Maria the jitters, too. He sat on her couch, staring at her mutely, letting the ice in his mint tea melt.

She was on the verge of demanding that he just say whatever was on his mind when he plunked his glass down on the coffee table...then plunked himself on the floor. Horrified, Maria realized he was on one knee.

"Stephen," she protested weakly.

He would have none of it. Ignoring her remonstrations, he pulled a jeweler's box from his pocket. "Maria," he murmured. "I know we haven't been dating for very long, but I think we make a pretty wonderful match..."

Maria stared at the diamond ring for long minutes, wondering at the tendrils of discomfort and fear weaving through her body. At the edges of the fear was a rage unlike anything she'd ever felt. She wasn't angry with Stephen; she was able to recognize, with a fair amount of shame, that he'd never been able to evoke such strong or passionate sentiments from her. So where was this fury coming from?

"...honor of becoming my wife?"

Maria's eyes shot remorsefully to Stephen's face. He sounded so sincere, so eager to make her happy. "I--" Her voice came out froggy, so she cleared her throat and tried again. "I need some time, Stephen, to think about this."

He smiled benevolently. "Of course, honey." He rose and kissed her on the forehead gently. "I'll let myself out. I'll call you tomorrow."

Long after her front door clicked shut, Maria remained, motionless, on the sofa. It was insane that she should be so shocked at Stephen's proposal. He'd told her numerous times that he was falling in love with her, and he tended to discuss their future on a regular basis.

She sighed. Stephen was wonderful, so what was her problem? Massaging her throbbing temples, Maria answered her own question aloud. "Your problem, DeLuca, is that Stephen has never made your heart race." She looked up and saw her image reflected vaguely in the dark screen of her television. "And you'd rather die alone than suffer a marriage of convenience like the one your parents had."

But somewhere, deep within her heart, another small voice cried out that her relationship with Stephen was wrong, all wrong, because she belonged with someone else.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael Guerin was painting...sort of. More correctly, he was punishing both brush and canvas with violent, wild strokes. He was enraged.

His erstwhile girlfriend, Leah, sighed. She'd arrived at his door shortly after he'd called Isabel, looking to spend the night. They'd been seeing each other for a few months, but it was nothing serious as far as Michael was concerned. "Michael...It's late. Can't that wait until tomorrow?"

He gritted his teeth and tried not to growl at her. She'd never really understand how much her pouting irritated him, and he'd tried not to make a huge issue of it. "I can't stop right now, Leah. I have to..." He stopped short. You have to what, Guerin? Paint? What you'd really like to do is destroy something, isn't it? And you have no idea why...

"But Michael..."

Dear Jesus, not the whining. He could handle anything but the whining. He threw his brush on the trestle table, not even bothering to clean it of the black and red oils that saturated it. Stalking past the woman who sometimes occupied his bed but never his heart, he slammed out of his apartment.

He needed to talk to Max.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"This happens to you all the time, Michael. It's part of your tortured artist charm." A slight smile twisted his best friend's lips. Max was trying to lighten the mood. "I don't see why this is different from any of the other times."

Michael struggled to find the words, though he strongly suspected there were none. "Max...This wasn't like the other times. It wasn't just a feeling. It was overwhelming, Maxwell. I just had this feeling like...like I was losing something that belongs to me, something I need. Like it's being taken from me, and there's nothing I can do about it."

The small smile faded from Max's face. "Maybe it's time you talked to a doctor about this, Michael."

"You are my doctor, and I'm talking to you." At his best friend's careful lack of expression, Michael frowned. "You mean a shrink, don't you?"

"Michael, if you're experiencing emotions that you don't understand, that you can't control, then maybe it would help to just...talk to someone." He raised a hand to silence Michael's automatic objection. "Someone trained to help you deal with this, I mean."

Michael slumped farther into the leather sofa. "I'm not crazy."

"I know that. But there's no need to make things harder on yourself by not seeking help," Max reasoned.

"Maybe it's something inherent in our biological makeup," he suggested. "A sensitivity to something, some power we're not aware of?"

Max shook his head and said gently, "We've thought of that, Michael. But Isabel and I...This doesn't happen to us. Not without us knowing why."

"But there's still so much we don't know about our powers..." Michael stopped speaking and nodded. "You're right, Maxwell. I'm reaching. I just...I wish I knew what was going on."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Saturday morning sunlight poured through Maria's bedroom window, dragging her reluctantly from a deep sleep. Rolling over and burying her face in her pillow, she groaned. She'd been up way too late the night before, puzzling over what to do about Stephen's proposal. So far, she'd come up with squat.

She supposed she really only had three options: accept, decline, or stall. Pursing her lips, Maria decided that stalling was definitely the coward's way. It was starting to sound pretty good to her.

Maybe she should take a trip...One of the things Maria loved about being a teacher was the end of the school year. Unless she opted to work with a special summer program, she had an entire three months to herself.

"Extended vacation," she mumbled aloud as Doogie jumped onto her bed and demanded attention. "What do you think, Doog? I have one more week of school, and then what? What should I do with myself this summer?" The calico she'd rescued from the Albuquerque Humane Society two years earlier twitched one battered ear and yawned. "I get it," she laughed, rubbing his chin. "You don't care, as long as I come home to you eventually, huh?"

Her phone pealed, and she gently shoved the cat aside and leaned over to grab the receiver. "Hello?"

"Ria!"

She grinned when she heard the unmistakable voice on the other end of the line. "Audrey...How 's my favorite little sister?"

Sounding remarkably young for a twenty-six year-old, Audrey giggled. "I'm fine, but I'm stranded!"

Maria frowned and sat up straighter. "Are you in trouble?"

Again, her kid sister giggled. "No, Ria, I'm not. I am, however, at the airport here in Albuquerque right now. Can you pick me up, or should I get a cab? Or...Hey, doesn't SunTran run a route near your place?"

"Stop teasing. Of course I'll come get you. Why didn't you tell me you were flying in? I would have met you."

Maria could picture Audrey waving a slender hand dismissively. "We can talk about that later, huh? Come get me! It's been ages since I've seen you, and we have tons to catch up on."

As Maria quickly showered and dressed, she wondered what her sister was doing in town. Audrey lived in northern California, where she made hippie jewelry and nearly indecent sums of money. Audrey had packed up and moved there after their parents' funeral three years earlier. Their sudden death in a car accident had been difficult for her, and she hadn't wanted to remain in Albuquerque. So she and Maria had sold their childhood home and tried to move on with their lives. They now spoke often, but were rarely able to see each other.

"Well," she said to herself, running a hairbrush through her shoulder-length hair and grabbing her purse. "At least now I have something to do with my summer."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The chiming of his doorbell startled Michael. Wiping his paint-stained hands on his faded black jeans, he peered through the peephole in his door. Isabel Whitman stood on the other side.

He smiled at the picture of poised confidence she presented. Many people had been fooled over the years by her aloof and somewhat icy exterior. He was infinitely glad that Alex had not been one of them. "Izzy," Michael offered in greeting as he slid open the door. "Come on in."

"Thanks, Michael." She walked in, inhaling the mix of scents that marked the loft as belonging to her spiky-haired honorary brother--paint thinner, linseed oil, hardwood, and something uniquely him. "There was a problem at the office, and Alex had to go in. I came to pick up the painting." She arched an amused eyebrow. "Unless your reneging on your offer, that is."

"Not a chance," he assured her. "Have a seat. I need to wash up a bit."

As he busied himself at the sink, she wandered past the sofa and toward the back of the room, where he kept the painting. It was gone from its usual spot. Then she spied a large, flat box propped against one wall. "Already packed up and ready to go, huh?"

"Yeah," he answered, drying his hands absently.

She caught a note of something slightly wistful in his voice. "You know, Michael, maybe you should put it in the show next weekend instead. Liz and I weren't kidding when we told you it would sell."

"I know you weren't." He leaned against the wall in front of her and ran his thumb distractedly along the top edge of the white box. "I just want you to have it, that's all."

The longing edge was back in his voice as he spoke of the painting. Isabel sank her teeth lightly into her lower lip and wondered if he was even aware of it.

Michael hadn't lived an easy life. Of her two brothers, Michael had always been the one who seemed a little lost. It was almost as if he knew there was something in the world for him, but he couldn't seem to find it. It had been that way since childhood, since she and Max had been adopted by the Evanses, while Michael had been placed in foster care. Her eyes hardened as she thought of Hank. She thanked God that Michael had managed to get away from him. She also knew he still bore scars from his years of torment at foster father's abusive hands.

Maybe if they had been able to find out who they were or why they were here on Earth, Michael's life would have been different. Maybe he would have found a family besides her and Max. Maybe he would have had something of his own. Instead, he always seemed to be looking out for her and Max, as if their happiness was somehow more important than his.

Like now.

"Thank you, Michael," she said simply.

Michael could sense Isabel slipping into mother mode, so he quickly changed the subject. "You're still coming to my opening, right?"

"There aren't many things on this Earth--or off of it--that could keep me away, Michael," she grinned.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The last week of school sped by for Maria. Every day was a whirlwind of parties and activities and paperwork, and every evening was spent laughing and talking with Audrey. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed her sister over the past few years.

Audrey sat across the kitchen table from Maria, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "Stop," she wheezed. "You're...You're going to make me choke." They were indulging in a ritual they'd once held sacred. Every Friday night since middle school, rain or shine, hot date or homecoming dance, Maria and Audrey had spent Friday night together, eating pizza and watching movies. Their tradition had ended with Maria's graduation from high school.

Maria snickered. "Oh, so I guess this would be a bad time to mention Andy Guerrera and the 'accidental' sleepover?" she teased mischievously.

Audrey gasped. "Oh God, Dad hit the ceiling, didn't he? And Mom with her rolled-up newspaper of death!" She waved her hands around wildly. "She just kept whacking him on the head and yelling for him to get out..."

As their amusement subsided, Maria sighed. "Do you think she ever believed that nothing happened between you two?"

"Nope," Audrey answered matter-of-factly, retrieving a fallen piece of pepperoni from her plate and popping it in her mouth. "Little did she know..."

"Huh?"

A sly smile curved Audrey's lips. "She was all worried about Andy Guerrera, when she should have been watching out for Brian Peters."

"Brian Peters?" Maria squealed. "That dorky little computer geek from down the street? No way!"

"Oh yes," she insisted. "He may have seemed clumsy to some, but I know better, yes I do..."

"Oh, I can't listen to this!" Maria yelped as her phone rang. Reaching behind her for the kitchen extension, she answered, still giggling. "Hello?"

"Maria? How's my favorite girl?"

She grimaced reflexively, and Audrey shot her a confused look. "I'm fine, Stephen. How are you?"

"I'm well. I was wondering if you'd given any more thought to what we talked about last weekend."

Maria marveled briefly at how he managed to make his marriage proposal sound like a piece of business to be concluded over lunch and coffee. "Uh, actually, Stephen, I have thought about it. Um--"

"Terrific. I have an idea, then. Tomorrow night is that art gallery opening I've been talking about. How about dinner afterwards? We can talk then."

Dumbfounded, Maria found herself agreeing. After the line went dead, she stared at the receiver in her hand.

"Ria? What's the matter?"

She looked up into her sister's worried face. "That was Stephen."

"So I gathered. What's up?"

"Um...He asked me to marry him last Friday night."

Audrey didn't bother to ask why Maria hadn't already shared the happy news. She knew her big sister better than that. "And you said...?"

"I told him I'd have to think about it." Maria picked up her fork and listlessly pushed a piece of pizza crust around on her plate.

Audrey took a deep breath and asked, "Maria, what is it with you and Stephen? It doesn't take a genius to see the fact that you've been avoiding him all week. I mean, you haven't returned his calls, you haven't--"

"I've been busy," Maria objected feebly.

"Not too busy to call the man you might be marrying," Audrey said softly but firmly. "Now, are you going to tell me, or do I have to tickle it out of you, huh?"

Maria didn't crack a smile. She simply looked at Audrey, her green eyes filled with anguish, and whispered, "He didn't even want to know my decision just now, Audrey. He said that we could talk tomorrow night, after the gallery opening."

"Maybe he didn't want to discuss it over the phone, or with me here eavesdropping," she protested.

A tear slid down Maria's cheek. "Or maybe he doesn't really care. Not the way he should, anyway." She smiled shakily. "How did I end up like this, sis? What am I doing to him? To us?"

Audrey slid over one chair and looped a comforting arm around her older sister's shoulders. "Hey, Ria...Don't cry. So you made a mistake. You tell him how you feel tomorrow night, and then you move on."

Maria's mouth was set in a bleak line. "You think so?"

"You didn't do anything wrong, sweetie. You just maybe weren't as in tune with what you wanted as you could have been. You made a mistake," she repeated, handing Maria a fresh napkin so she could blow her nose. "Speaking of which...Do you remember that hideous napkin holder you made in tenth grade?"

Maria laughed and grimaced. "You mean that unrecognizable mass of wood I mushed together in shop class and tried in vain to pass off as a napkin holder?"

"That's the one. Remember how Dad just took one look at it, went out in the garage where he thought we couldn't hear, and laughed his ass off?"

She shook her head. "God, don't remind me..."

"So, now that you're feeling better..." Audrey wiggled her eyebrows. "What's the deal with this gallery opening? That doesn't really seem like Stephen's kind of scene."

Maria snorted. "It's not. It's some artist, a local guy, Michael something. One of Stephen's clients said he's going to be the next great thing. According to Stephen, buying some of his early work would be a solid long-term investment."

"Investment, huh?" Audrey asked, smirking. "Now there's a man with the soul of a poet."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria smoothed the front of her velvet gown and called to her sister. "Hey, Audrey, are you sure you don't want to go with us to the gallery? It'll be fun."

Audrey walked into the room, dressed as casually as possible in old jeans and a Houston Astros tee shirt. "Okay, Ria, you're starting to sound desperate." She grinned and held out a small glass vial. "Here. You don't drink alcohol, so Dutch courage is out of the question, but sniff this. It'll make you feel better."

Maria recoiled from the tiny bottle, rubbing her nose. "What the hell is that? It smells like a gerbil."

"It's cedar oil, Ria. Have you completely forgotten everything our mother tried to teach you? It's called aromatherapy, and it works, okay?" she asserted at her sister's skeptical look.

The doorbell rang. Maria shifted nervously from one velvet pump to the other and turned frantic eyes to Audrey. "You don't happen to have a gallon jug of the stuff, do you?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Max scanned the main room of the gallery, searching for Michael. The opening was starting off as a solid success, having drawn a much larger crowd than expected. The place was packed, and the gallery owner had already sent her frazzled assistant to the nearest three liquor stores in search of more champagne to replenish their depleted supply.

Max, his own flute of champagne in hand, walked over to join Michael and an impressively built redhead in conversation. It took Max a mere thirty seconds to realize that Michael wasn't even listening to the effusive praise the woman was heaping on him in sugary tones. Instead, his eyes kept wandering over the crowd, the floor...even the ceiling. Unfortunately, the redhead was oblivious. Max listened as she continued to gush, barely stopping to breathe, it seemed.

"...but I feel that your "Visions" series really deals with the political aspect of emotion. There are so many people who are restricted in their thoughts and feelings by none other than our own government. It's really quite..."

Max snickered inwardly and looked down, studying the tips of his shoes until he felt the urge to laugh aloud pass. The woman might be a veritable nut, but it would still be rude to chortle in her face.

Michael elbowed him in the side. The contact was brief and appeared to be accidental. Max, however, knew better. During the nudge, he received a flash of thought. Save me, Maxwell. Please.

Again fighting the need to chuckle, Max smiled politely at the redhead. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse us. I believe the gallery owner just signaled for Mr. Guerin." As they made their apologies and walked away, he leaned in close to Michael. "You owe me, buddy."

"Do I ever," his friend replied gratefully. "I thought she'd never shut up."

"Not very nice, Michael. Without fans like her, you'd be without a job."

"Yeah, well, any more fans like her, and I'd fear for my safety." He looked around the room and smiled a little. People were milling about, chatting and discussing the selection. Soft, tasteful music could be heard above the muted noise of the crowd. "Not a bad turnout, huh, Max?"

"It's an excellent turnout, and you know it, so hang up the false modesty, Picasso."

Michael grinned widely, both at his best friend's silliness and his own flush of pleasure. "Hannah says this is probably just the first wave of guests," he commented, referring to the gallery owner. "She says more people usually show up later."

Max lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "If I were you, I'd just be hoping they brought their checkbooks." His eyes filled with pride for Michael. "They're going to need them, you know."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria held a flute filled with slightly tepid ginger ale and grudgingly admitted that Stephen's client had been right about this Guerin guy. He had talent, that was a given. The paintings she'd viewed so far were stunning, evoking emotions and sentiments of considerable force. She'd never have dreamed that a piece of canvas covered in oil and pigment could actually make her eyes well up with tears, but it was happening.

"Visions, Number 12," she read aloud from the discreet gold plaque mounted next to the frame. It was abstract, all blues and greys and greens, with no recognizable objects, but there was something about it that called to her. It made her long to be one of those people who could look at swirls of paint but see something deeper, read a hidden message.

"Excuse me, I don't believe we've met..."

Maria turned at the sound of the soft, pleasant voice to see a woman standing next to her. The woman smiled and extended her free hand. "I'm Liz Evans."

Maria shook it firmly. "Maria DeLuca. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." The smiling woman named Liz sipped her champagne and eyed the painting in front of them. "Do you like this piece?" she inquired.

"Gallery owner?"

She laughed. "No, research scientist. What do you think of it? The painting, I mean."

Maria stared at it for a moment, pensive. "I'm not sure. It's almost like I can't decide how it makes me feel, except that I keep expecting to burst into tears."

Liz nodded. "That's not the first time I've heard that. Michael hates this painting almost as much as he loves it."

"Michael?"

"Michael Guerin, the artist. He's a friend of my husband's."

"Oh, I see." So she was well-acquainted with the man who'd produced these images. Maria wondered idly what he was like.

The small, doe-eyed brunette smiled. "I don't think I've ever seen you at one of his shows, you know. Is this your first?"

"I'm not really one of these artsy types," Maria admitted sheepishly. "I'm here because my boyfriend wanted to come."

"Is he a fan of Michael's work?"

She hesitated before replying. "Stephen thinks that Michael Guerin is on his way to the top, so to speak."

"I can spot an evasive answer from a mile away, Maria DeLuca," Liz laughed. "He's here for a good investment, right?" Maria made a face in answer to her question. "How utterly practical of him." Her tone made the word a near insult.

Nodding, Maria giggled. "Stephen is nothing if not practical, that's for sure."

"Is he around somewhere? I'd love to meet him." Liz seemed sincere, and it shamed Maria to realize that she had no idea where Stephen had gone.

She was saved from admitting as much when a tall, lanky man tapped Liz on the shoulder and grinned. "Liz, you look fantastic," he observed, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"And so do you, Alex. Stunning, as always."

"Nah," he demurred. "Stunning is a word reserved for my lovely wife, who should be joining us shortly."

Liz gasped. "Oh my God, I am being so rude. Maria, this is Alex Whitman, one of my best friends from way back. Alex, this is Maria DeLuca. She's a brand-new fan of Michael's." With the last words, Liz winked at Maria. "Right?"

She couldn't resist a laugh. "That I am. Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitman," she said, shaking his proffered hand.

"Okay, what will it take to get you to call me Alex, hmm?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael wasn't sure how it happened, or even what happened. One second he was listening to Max compliment the layout of the gallery, and the next...

He was speechless. No, it was more than that. He couldn't speak, but he also couldn't hear, breathe, or think, and he was actually hard-pressed to remember his own name. More importantly, he was unable to tear his eyes away from the woman standing with Liz and Alex.

She was magnificent. She was petite, even tiny, and Michael instinctively knew that the top of her head would tuck perfectly beneath his chin. Her shining blonde hair was pinned up, with soft, feathery tendrils fighting to escape. He knew what those delicate curls would feel like against his cheek, tangled between his fingers. A dress of hunter green velvet hugged her body, draping across and over curves his palms itched to map. Alex or Liz must have said something funny, because the woman's head tossed back in laughter.

Michael suddenly knew what being dazzled felt like.

She was magnificent and beautiful, and Michael had to get closer to her, and the sooner the better. He'd always considered himself a practical man, even if he was an alien and an artist, but he had to talk to that woman. He simply had to.

He turned to Max, probably interrupting him in midsentence, but he didn't particularly care. "Who's that woman talking to Liz?"

"What?" Max looked around for his wife, finally spotting her in a corner. She was standing with Alex and a short blonde who looked to be about their age. The blonde was dressed conservatively in a long dress of deep green, and her hair was swept up and held by a couple of those weird stick things that Liz used sometimes. "I have no idea. Why?"

"I need her."

"Huh??"

Just then, Michael's view was obscured by an expanse of red satin. "Michael, this is wonderful!" Isabel congratulated him gleefully. "I just talked to Hannah and she said that you've already sold so many--"

Michael craned his neck to see past Isabel. His eyes found the blonde just as she was disappearing around a corner. He sighed in irritation.

"Michael?" Isabel's concern was evident. "Are you all right?"

He tried to smile for her and failed. "I'm fine, Izzy. But I think...I think I just saw the woman of my dreams," he confessed.

Her beaming smile told him that she had no clue he was speaking quite literally.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria knew she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere when she found herself in a darkened hallway. "Great," she muttered. All she wanted was to find a bathroom, and quickly. Trying her luck, she opened the nearest door.

Yep, just as she'd thought: an office. Sighing lustily, she kept walking down the hall. There was bound to be a bathroom somewhere, even if it wasn't a public one. At the moment, she was about five minutes beyond caring.

"You shouldn't have yapped for so long when you needed to go, Maria," she admonished herself. "Now you're seconds away from having to do the gotta-pee dance in an evening gown. How glamorous."

A few more steps down the hall, and she encountered a door that was slightly ajar. Peeping inside, she sighed with relief. "Jackpot." Several minutes later, feeling much better, she headed back down the hallway. She passed a closed door and heard hushed voices. She stopped short when she recognized one of them.

The knob turned easily. It wasn't locked.

The room was completely dark save for the scanty light from the hallway. It wasn't much, but it was enough to illuminate a woman and Stephen...who happened to be up to his elbows--literally--in royal blue moire taffeta. Both of them were oblivious to her presence.

She recognized the woman from that stupid dinner party; it was one of Stephen's clients, the one who'd told him about the gallery opening.

"No wonder she's your favorite client, Stephen," Maria mused aloud, startling the pair. She then turned on one heel and walked out.

Stephen was seconds behind her. Incredulously, she stopped and watched him smooth his clothing back into place. "Maria! Maria, wait!"

"What is it, Stephen?" She held up a hand to stop him. "Wait a minute. Before you continue, know this: if you say that you can explain, I will kill you."

Apparently, that had been exactly what he was going to say, because he just stared at her in silence for a minute. Then, "I didn't know how to tell you, Maria. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me."

"I'm angry, Stephen," she admitted, "mostly because you've been lying to me. But I couldn't hate you," she whispered sadly. "Don't you see? That's the problem. We can't even work up enough passion to hate each other's guts."

He must have understood, because he simply nodded. The next time she turned away, he didn't stop her.

It took Maria all of twenty seconds to find Liz and make her apologies. "I'm sorry, but I've got to be going."

Liz looked at the dark-haired man standing next to her, then frowned in disappointment. "Already? But you haven't met everyone yet..."

"Yeah, well, I just found my boyfriend in one of the back offices with both hands buried under some trollop's skirt."

Alex and the tall blonde next to him froze. Liz's mouth fell open. "Oh...I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not, it's just that now my party mood is pretty much shot. But let me give you my number, all right? I'd love for us to get together and have lunch sometime." Liz nodded, and Maria dug around in her tiny velvet purse for a piece of paper and pen.

As Maria was scribbling, Liz introduced her to the man and woman who'd joined them. "This is my husband, Max Evans, and his sister, Isabel Whitman. She and Alex are married."

Maria smiled at them and handed Liz her number. "Nice to meet you all. I'm sorry I have to run, but, well..."

Liz's husband smiled kindly. "Considering your situation, a hasty departure is perfectly understandable. I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon."

"Of course. Good night." Maria headed in the direction of the exit, only to find her path blocked by a very broad, very male chest. "Excuse me," she ordered carelessly, not bothering to look at the man.

"No," replied a very firm voice.

Her eyes shot to his face, and she froze.

Finally. The thought leapt, unbidden, to her mind as she shivered. The man before her was tall, with liquid brown eyes, lush lips, and spiky but soft-looking hair. He was giving her an incredibly intense look, and she was finding it impossible to look away. Her mouth worked, but no words would come.

"Pose for me," he said suddenly, breaking the eye contact as well as the spell he'd woven.

"Excuse me?" Maria was not at all certain that she'd heard him correctly.

Michael could see Liz standing behind the woman, whose name, he'd learned, was Maria. Liz was shaking her head frantically and mouthing something. He found it easy to ignore her. "I said, pose for me. I'd pay you," he added.

Maria's close friends would have recognized the smile that formed on her lips, if only by the dangerous glint in her eye. "Look, buddy. I don't know what kind of places you usually frequent, but this is a pretty classy shindig, okay? You might want to come up with a few new lines, preferably some that don't involve the offer of monetary compensation." With that, she stalked past him.

Michael looked at Liz, who closed her eyes and groaned. "You were supposed to arrange an introduction, Liz. What happened?" he demanded.

Isabel shook her head. "Michael...You have, quite possibly, the very worst timing I've ever seen."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"You have got to be kidding me!" Freddie gasped, horrified. She disregarded the startled looks she received from several of the coffee shop's other patrons. "You mean, right there, at that stupid gallery opening?"

Maria stirred her coffee idly and nodded. "Oh yes. Right there."

"In front of God and everybody?"

Maria slanted her friend a look. "Well, not right in the middle of the lobby, or anything."

"Then where?"

She shrugged. "In somebody's office."

Freddie was thunderstruck. "I didn't think Stephen had it in him," she mused distractedly, then frowned in apprehension. "Would it piss you off too terribly if I confessed that this kind of made me like him more? I mean, you know, just finding out that he has some sort of personality...It just makes him a considerably more interesting person as far as I'm concerned."

Laughter shook Maria's shoulders. "I can't get pissed off at you, Freddie," she divulged ruefully. "It's an opinion I happen to share."

"I mean, who would have thought? Stephen, the supreme cold fish, knee-deep in an adulterous affair. That's...Maria, that's completely mind-boggling."

Maria swirled a piece of almond biscotti around in her coffee. "I think what it all boils down to is that Stephen and I were just one big mistake, from start to finish. I'm actually more relieved than anything else."

Freddie scooted her chair closer to the table. "So, that's it, then?"

"That's it," she agreed.

"Well," Freddie said, still somewhat stunned. "Did anything else happen during your trip to the Twilight Zone last night?"

The image of a tall, delicious, incredibly bad-mannered man flashed into her mind. She pushed it away. "Not much. I met a very nice woman named Liz, along with several of her friends. She's a biologist, and does research at the University. Her husband's a doctor. They seemed very pleasant, very normal." Unlike some people she'd run into. "She's supposed to give me a call sometime."

Freddie shrugged. "Well, at least something good came of the evening, then."

Again, Maria thought of the spiky-haired lecher. "It wasn't a total waste of time. The artwork was actually incredibly good. Michael Guerin is extremely talented."

"So I read this morning. He got a great review in the LifeStyles section of the paper." Freddie arched an eyebrow. "Ooh, and he's quite the looker, too. They ran a picture of him with the article. Hubba hubba."

"Damn, and I didn't get a chance to meet him." Maria grinned. "That's just my luck, isn't it?"

Freddie scanned the nearby tables, spotting a discarded newspaper on one of them. "You've got to see this guy. Hang on just a sec." She retrieved the paper, quickly locating the section with the photo. "Just look at that gorgeous face!"

Maria choked on her biscotti. "Give me that." Snatching the paper, she studied the photo closely.

It was the lech who'd propositioned her.

She groaned in humiliation. "Oh my God, Freddie! He really meant that he wanted me to pose for him! Oh...I am such an idiot."

"Okay, what are you talking about?"

Maria covered her face with her hands and mumbled through them. "He stopped me on my way out and asked me to pose for him. Then he mentioned paying me, and I just assumed he was some sleazeball trying to score." She smacked her forehead in disgust. "I am such an moron, Fred."

Freddie merely leered at her. "Did he mention nudity at all? Because if he did... I, for one, am all over it."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"I’m not a miracle worker, Michael," Liz lamented, shaking her head. "From what she saw of you last night, Maria probably thinks you’re psychotic."

"And who could blame her?" Isabel added, disregarding Michael’s withering glare. "I mean, not so much as a how-do-you-do, and you’re begging her to be your Muse. That definitely smacks of mental illness, Michael. And stop pacing, or I’m going to throw up. You know how easily I get motion sickness."

Michael didn’t break stride until he’d snagged Max’s cordless phone from its base and was holding it out to Liz. "Alex said she gave you her number. You can call her."

"Michael, I barely know her. I just met her last night. What am I supposed to do, huh? Call her up and say, hey, you know. I’m sorry that my friend Michael insulted and freaked you out last night, but he’s really a very nice guy. Why don’t you give him a chance?"

Michael groaned and dropped to the sofa, running his hands roughly through his hair. He’d known as soon as Maria had walked out of the gallery that he’d screwed up; he didn’t need these two reminding him. At least Alex and Max understood. After all, they’d both had their share of idiot moments when it came to women.

"I know I was stupid, Liz. I know that." His voice reflected his irritation. "But you don’t get it. This is not about bagging a babe, okay? This is about the fact that I know that woman."

Liz's eyes darkened in confusion. "I don't understand."

He was silent for a moment. "She's the girl in the painting, the one with the red sneakers. I know she is. I feel it."

"You said that you didn't have a model for that painting," Isabel noted.

Michael clenched his fists in frustration. "I didn't. I dreamed about her, about the little girl. And then I saw that Maria woman last night, and..." His voice dropped to a heated whisper. "It's her, Izzy. She is that little girl."

Isabel got up and walked over to Michael, touching his hand. "You don't think..." She swallowed, and started again. "Is she one of us?"

He shook his head in denial. "I don't think so. I don't sense her the way I do you and Max. But there's something about her that I know, Isabel. I just don't know what, why, or how. And I need to find out." He stared imploringly at Liz. "That's why you have to call her. Please, Liz. I need to know."

Liz just stared back at him, contrite. "I'm sorry, Michael," was all she said.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria eyed the phone, wavering over her decision to call Michael Guerin. She'd found his listing in the phone book, and had circled his number, just in case.

She was torn between her mortification and the need to apologize for her atrocious behavior. In her defense, he hadn't exactly introduced himself, or even been very courteous, for that matter, but she still felt bad knowing that his strange request had been legitimate.

Demand, she corrected herself. His demand had been legitimate. A frisson of annoyance slipped through her. What had he been thinking, just accosting her like that? The more she considered it, the less embarrassed she got. By the time she picked up the phone to dial, she was angry, and confident that she'd been entirely correct in chopping Michael Guerin off at the knees. Her need to apologize had morphed into a need to make him do so.

The phone rang. Once, twice. On the fourth ring, there was a click as his machine picked up. "This is Michael. Leave a message." There was a shrill beep, and Maria realized she was trembling.

She didn't know what to say. "Uh...Um...Aw, crap." Appalled, Maria broke the connection. She couldn't believe that she'd just sat there, stammering like some dim-witted lout, while his answering machine recorded her idiocy.

Growling in aggravation, Maria slammed the phone book shut. Obviously she'd lost quite a few IQ points sometime during the last twenty-four hours.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

By the time Michael arrived home Sunday evening, he was dead tired. Besides the fact that he'd barely slept the night before, he'd spent all afternoon trying to find out everything he could about Maria DeLuca. Her number was unlisted, of course. Finding her without Liz's help wasn't going to be an easy task.

Even though Michael knew that Maria didn't frequent the gallery, he'd decided to ask around. He was able to glean from Hannah that the man Maria had arrived at the opening with was named Stephen Reynolds. According to her, he was an accountant and "quite possibly, the most tedious and unexciting man on the face of the planet." Hannah hadn't known anything but that, and even Michael thought it in bad taste to call Reynolds to ask about Maria, so that didn't help much.

It looked like he was out of luck. Discouraged, he hit the button on his answering machine that would play back his messages, then started gathering dirty dishes while he listened to them.

Beep. "It's Leah. Look, we need to talk. Call me when you get this."

Michael scowled. There wasn't a chance of him calling Leah back. She would just yell at him, ask him why he couldn't commit, and then hang up on him.

Beep. "Michael, it's Max. Look, I'm sorry about Liz not making that call for you. She just doesn’t feel comfortable using Maria's trust for some crusade of yours. At least, that's what Liz said. I just wanted to...Well, call us, okay?"

Poor Max, always the diplomat. Michael really did understand why Liz had refused his plea. He wasn't as self-centered as most people thought.

Beep. "It's Leah again. You know what? I thought about it more, and I don't think there's anything left for us to say. Goodbye."

Well, that had been fairly painless. He wondered if she wanted her toothbrush back.

Beep. "Uh...Um...Aw, crap."

Maria.

Michael nearly dropped a glass. Crossing quickly to the phone, he scrolled through the calls on the ID screen. Finally, he saw it--Maria's phone number. It was listed as private, with no name, but he knew it was hers.

A grin eased its way across Michael's face. On second thought...maybe his luck was just beginning.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The phone jingled at nearly eleven that night, and Maria eyed it, wondering if she even wanted to answer. The way she and telephones had been interacting lately, she might just throw her paperback novel at it and dive under her comforter to hide.

Abruptly, the ringing stopped. She was about to heave a sigh of relief when Audrey stuck her head in the door, waving the cordless phone. "Ria, phone's for you," she announced. "It's some guy."

Shooting her kid sister what she hoped was the deadliest of death glares, she held out her hand. "Gee, thanks, sis."

Audrey stuck out her tongue, then ran back out the door, closing it behind her.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Maria. It's Stephen." His voice was quiet and cautious. "I was wondering if we could talk about last night."

"There's not really much to talk about, Stephen." Maria pulled absently at a loose thread on her pajama sleeve. "Did you have something to say?"

He was quiet for a long time. "I guess I just wanted you to know that I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know that," she acknowledged, suddenly feeling very sorry for him. "I think we can both agree on the fact that the two of us...Well, we just don't work together, do we?"

"I guess not. I wanted us to, though."

Maria was struggling to reply when her phone beeped. "I have another call, Stephen. I'm going to have to call you back." Relieved, she pressed the button to switch lines. "Hello?"

"May I speak with Maria, please?"

"Speaking," she answered, frowning. She knew that voice...Suddenly, she froze. No...It couldn't be...

Michael Guerin laughed softly. "I got your message this evening."

"Uh...Um..."

"Aw, crap. Yeah, that was the one." He sounded enormously amused.

Maria bristled. "What do you want?" she demanded. "I mean, I'm assuming you didn't call to beg forgiveness for your behavior last night."

"Oh, such a snide remark," he laughed. "But you wound me, Maria. That actually is why I called."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed.

Michael contorted his face in exasperation. The call wasn't going well at all. His patented Guerin charm had fled, leaving him teasing and taunting her like a fifth grader. It was probably not the best way to convince Maria to have anything to do with him. "Look, can we call a truce? I'm sorry about my conduct last night. Liz explained the situation to me, and I realize now that it was a terrible time for me to approach you about sitting for me."

"Sitting for you?"

"Posing," he explained. "I was serious about that, by the way."

"Why?" she asked, baffled. "Why would you want to paint me?"

He hesitated, then thought better of telling her the truth. What the hell would he say? "I took one look at you and realized I never wanted to stop looking"? Or how about, "Because you're the most exquisite thing I've ever seen, and I owe it to my fellow man to capture your splendor on canvas"? She really would think he was nuts then.

"Hel-lo? I asked a question."

"Because my agent told me to paint some portraits," he said quickly, then groaned inwardly. What was it about this woman that tied his tongue in knots?

"Oh, that's flattering," she reflected flatly.

He was losing her. Through the years, Michael had been able to cultivate a certain charisma. Numerous women had told him that part of his allure was his way with words. So why couldn't he manage to stir up one BS reason why he wanted her and no one else to pose for him?

"Okay, look. It's late, so I'm going to go," she said finally.

"Hold on," he said quickly, then drew a deep breath. "You have this...this look, this radiance, all right? Last night, you were talking to Liz and Alex, and you laughed, and..." He paused. "You were practically glowing," he confessed. "Luminous."

Maria's heart hesitated for an instant, then resumed beating, harder and faster than before. Warmth flooded her, bringing a flush to her cheeks. The words coming out of this man's mouth were dangerous. The man himself was dangerous. If his words could turn her into a pile of mush, what would his touch do? She closed her eyes. "I'll do it."

"You'll what?" Michael was certain he'd misheard her.

"I'll pose for you, Guerin. I mean, it's kind of my civic duty, right? My gift to the art world."

He was unprepared for the rush of delight he felt at her words. "Thank you, Maria," he said sincerely.

She rolled her eyes heavenward. What was she doing? Was she nuts? "We've got to have some ground rules, though. First of all, we do this at my convenience, okay? School is over for the summer, so I don't have to work, but I do have a life. So I pose when I say I can pose, and if you're not feeling very artistic at that moment, then tough noogies."

"Absolutely," he agreed eagerly.

"And no nakedness," she informed him sternly.

To be honest, Michael hadn't even considered the possibility until she'd mentioned it. Then, all at once, his brain rapidly filled with flickering images of Maria in various states of undress. He swallowed. "Of course not," he assured her.

"Good," she confirmed. "Give me your address, and I'll come by tomorrow at about ten. Is that okay with you?"

"It's perfect." He gave her his address and thanked her again. "You won't be sorry, Maria."

She snorted. "I'd better not be." She hung up, suddenly exhausted. Placing her book on her bedside table and turning off the lamp, she snuggled under her comforter. She was asleep in seconds.

Her dreams were filled with Michael, with husky whispers and soft touches. Deep in slumber, Maria smiled.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael gritted his teeth and took a few relaxing breaths. Scanning his loft one last time, he chastised himself aloud for being an oaf. "Calm down, Guerin. It's not like the Queen Mother is coming over, or anything."

Everything looked to be in order. His couch cushions were all straight and there were no paint smears on the refrigerator door. There wasn't much to be done about the cracked tile in the kitchen; he'd noticed it only days before, and he hadn't given much thought to it, mentally noting only to have Max or Isabel fix it eventually. If only his own powers were more refined...But twenty-four years of living on Earth had given Michael plenty of time to accept his circumstances. He had faced the fact that he simply could not do the things this brother and sister could do.

Maria DeLuca would just have to deal with his cracked kitchen tile.

He'd cleared the platform in the middle of his work area, leaving only a wooden bench draped with a white cloth. The gossamer-light draping stirred with each revolution of the large ceiling fans mounted on the high rafters above.

The buzzing of his doorbell made him jump. "Get a hold of yourself," he snarled, wiping his palms on his jeans. He crossed the kitchen and slid the door open.

Maria stood there, unsmiling. She was dressed in faded jeans and a pink oxford button-up. The top three buttons were undone, and Michael caught a glimpse of a white tank top underneath as she held out a white bag. "Here," she said. "I brought bagels."

He stood aside, allowing her entrance. "Thank you," he said, taking the bag and trying his best to look pleased. He hated bagels.

"Don't worry, Guerin. There are a couple of donuts in the bag, too." She walked slowly across the kitchen and into the area that served as his living room. "Nice place," she observed. "It's a little scary, what with the entire first floor being an abandoned warehouse and all, but it's not bad. Comfortable." She leaned against the back of his sofa and grinned. "So...Where do we start?"

He pulled a plate from a cabinet. "The warehouse isn't abandoned," he informed her. He placed the bagels on one side of the plate, and the donuts on the other. "It's mine."

"You own the whole building?"

"You sound shocked," he said, irritation flaring inside him. What, did she think he wasn't good enough, wasn't rich enough, to own his own place? Over the last few years, he'd managed to generate quite a bit of revenue with his work. "Is it so hard to believe?"

She had the grace to look slightly ashamed. "That's not what I meant. It just seems like a waste of space, you know? Why own so much space if you're not going to do anything with it?"

"Who said I'm not?" He was still smarting from her implication that he was a starving artist. He hadn't starved for a very long time.

Maria held up her hands in supplication. "Okay, Guerin. I'm sorry. Let me take this opportunity to assure you that I didn't mean anything by it, all right?"

He stared at the floor. He was being an idiot again, jumping on her case over a few innocuous comments. "No, I'm the one who's sorry." He indicated the plate in his hand. "Bagel?"

She smiled a little. "Actually, I already ate. How about we get this show on the road?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"I told you, Maria...You have to be still. You can't keep moving around like that."

"I haven't moved!" she protested. At his look of disbelief, she insisted, "I haven't."

Michael had been trying to get a feel for what sort of setting and lighting he would need for some preliminary sketches, but Maria wasn't cooperating. It was as if her body hummed with nervous energy; she could not stay still. She kept looking around his loft, then returning her head to a different pose than what he'd instructed.

He'd tried to have her pose by following his directions; in short, he'd been avoiding touching her. It looked like that was no longer going to work. He sighed and approached the platform.

"Look, Maria," he began. "Hold your head like this." He grasped her chin with one hand, placing the other on the back of her neck. Her skin was silky and warm. "Now, what do you see?"

Maria's mouth opened, but her brain had decided to go on strike. Michael's fingers were strong and rough, but his touch was surprisingly tender. She could feel heat washing across her face, and silently cursed her fair skin. Finally, she managed to speak. "What do you mean, what do I see?"

She could see his smile out of the corner of her eye. "Look straight ahead and find a fixed object. What is it?"

"Oh." Great, now he was going to think she wasn't at all bright. "Uh, there's a poster on the wall."

"All right." Michael could see her face taking on a rosy hue. He entertained the brief notion that maybe having his hands on her skin was affecting her, then forced himself to come back to reality. "Now, look at the poster. If you find yourself not seeing that poster, go back to it, okay? I have to see what kind of light and shadow I'll be working with here."

Satisfied that she was going to be in correct position for at least a minute, Michael sat down in a chair near the platform and began to outline his first sketch. A few moments later, Maria sighed.

"Can we have some music, or something?"

Michael sighed, closing his eyes. "Maria, you're not supposed to be moving. That includes talking."

Her eyes widened, and she made a sound that was, most accurately, a combination squeak and whine. "Then talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Do something," she begged. "It's too quiet in here."

"I like the quiet." On his paper, his pencil outlined the sleek edge of her jaw, flowing back, blending into the curve of her neck.

"Well, it's driving me nuts," she huffed.

"Well, you're driving me nuts," he enlightened her.

Maria fumed. She supposed she sounded whiny and demanding, but she couldn't tell him why she really needed some background noise. It would help take her mind off of him, and that was something she desperately needed.

In her peripheral vision, she could still see him, and he was watching her so closely, so intently...Like she was the only thing in the world. She told herself that he was simply doing his job, studying her features so that he could translate them onto paper, but it wasn't working. She could feel her skin begin to tingle under his scrutiny.

She exhaled noisily.

Michael slammed his sketchbook down on a coffee table next to his chair and stood unexpectedly. Maria jumped at his movement. "What are you doing?"

"Come on," he demanded, putting one foot on the platform and holding out his hand. "Let's go."

"Are you kicking me out?" Maria didn't know why, but the possibility bothered her. She hadn't meant to be so difficult to deal with.

"No," he said. "We're going shopping."

She had started to reach for his hand, but froze when she heard that. "Shopping?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged. "Yeah, shopping."

Maria folded her arms over her chest and laughed. "You know, you really should find a more manly pastime, because people are going to think--"

He enfolded her hand in his, sending little tingles through her entire arm. "Come on. I know just the place."

As he dragged her off the platform and toward the door, Maria grinned a little. "Okay, but I'm warning you right now...Don't even think about asking to braid my hair or trying to borrow any of my sweaters, Guerin."

"Shut up, DeLuca."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria stared at Michael's profile as he deftly maneuvered his late-model car through traffic. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asked in a deceptively conversational tone.

"Nope." He depressed the brake pedal to stop for a red light.

She clenched her jaw. "You're the most infuriating, annoying person I have ever--"

Michael turned to her suddenly, pressing his index finger over her lips. "Ditto." He jerked his hand away as Maria shrieked in outrage.

Clasping his hands tightly on the steering wheel so that Maria would not see their trembling, Michael cursed silently. He didn't know why he kept touching her when he knew he shouldn't. She'd been sitting there, ranting at him, and his gaze had fallen on her lush mouth. The impulse had overtaken him, and he'd simply reached out.

He'd have to stop that.

Maria fell silent, squirming slightly in her seat and staring out the window. She contented herself with mumbling derogatory things about Michael under her breath. She watched as he turned onto Central and headed northeast. "Where are we--"

"We're here," he interrupted, pulling into a parking lot and into a space.

Without a word, Maria unlatched her seatbelt and climbed out of the car. After a moment of staring at the building in front of her, she turned to Michael. "Have you lost it? I mean, have you gone completely, stark-raving nuts?"

"Probably," he agreed, engaging his car alarm. "Come on. You're going to love this place."

"I cannot believe that I am about to go antique shopping with you." Maria shook her head and kept grumbling quietly.

The Antique Connection Mall had an impressive collection of shops and vendors, carrying everything from vintage toys to Wild West paraphernalia. Once inside the building, Michael headed for one particular shop.

"Morning Glory Antique Jewelry," Maria read aloud from the sign above the shop's door. "Is there an explanation forthcoming, or am I to remain in the dark here?"

Michael sighed, rolling his eyes. "Look," he muttered, turning to face her. "If it makes you happy, I'll tell you. We're looking for something for you to wear. And before you ask me why," he added, holding up a hand, "the answer is just because, okay? Trust me on this."

There was a young woman manning the displays. After an offer to help them, she returned to her work stocking and cleaning the cases. Michael browsed the items, occasionally asking her opinion.

"What do you think about this?" he asked, indicating a string of red glass beads designed by someone named Haskell.

"Nice." Maria sucked in a breath as she took note of the price tag. "But not two hundred fifty bucks worth of nice."

"All right. How about this crown thingy?"

"It's called a tiara, Guerin, and I'm not wearing one. Especially one that costs four hundred dollars."

"You're making this incredibly challenging, DeLuca." Michael stared at her for a moment, then scanned the cases quickly, trying to figure out what her particular style would be. Then, he spotted it.

He signaled for the sales clerk. "We'd like to see this piece, please," he asked, pointing out a necklace with pendant of purple enamel.

The clerk laid it out on a bed of black velvet. "This is a Czech style piece, circa 1925, with a four-inch pendant," she explained. "There's a bit of damage to the enamel right here," she informed them, pointing out the area, "but it's virtually unnoticeable with all the careful detailing."

"May I?" Michael asked.

"Of course, sir." The clerk smiled shyly.

Michael reached for the fourth button on Maria's shirt, sliding it free and exposing more of her pale flesh. He allowed himself a moment of fantasy wherein he did more than that, but quickly wrestled his thoughts under control. It was dangerous, thinking things like that while touching her. If he weren't careful, he'd soon be telegraphing his pornographic intentions to everyone within a fifty-foot radius. Mentally slapping himself, he reached out and held the pendant to Maria's throat.

"How does it look?" she asked, a little hesitantly.

"Do you like it?" was all he said.

She looked down at the pendant. Its delicate designs, both of filigree and beadwork, delighted her. "Of course I do. It's beautiful."

He handed it back to the clerk. "Wrap it up for us, please."

"Michael!"

He looked a little amused at the shocked tone of her voice. "Do you realize, Maria, that you just called me by my first name for the first time?"

"Don't try to change the subject," she admonished. "That necklace is over two hundred dollars. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not prepared to shell out that kind of money for a necklace, no matter how stunning it might be."

"You're right."

"Huh?" She hadn't expected him to give up so easily. It just...wasn't like him.

His smile was sly and just a tad bit mischievous. "You don't know about me, and I am prepared to shell out that kind of money."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"I could lose my heart tonight
If you don't turn and walk away,
'Cause the way I feel I might
Lose control and let you stay.
'Cause I could take you in my arms
And never let go..."

--"I Could Fall In Love", Selena

Michael slid his front door closed, deep in thought. Maria hadn't said a word on the drive back from the antique shop, and he was starting to worry. Was she angry with him? Had he gone too far with his teasing banter, insulting her in some way? He dropped his keys on the counter and eyed the box in his hand.

Maria wasn't angry, and she wasn't insulted. She was baffled. She still wasn't sure what had prompted Michael to impulsively spend so much money on a necklace. Was he really so impetuous? She had to admit, she didn't really know him at all. Maybe that sort of thing was a commonplace occurrence for him, dropping a couple hundred bucks for the sake of his art.

"Ready to try it on?" he asked. His voice was treacherously near, and she turned to see him standing right next to her.

"I guess." She tried to appear nonchalant, holding out her hand for the box.

He shook his head. "Turn around and hold your hair up."

His voice was low, husky, and she did as he asked. He draped the chain around her neck, then slid his hand through the loop of her arm so he could catch the free end. He was bent close to her, struggling to deal with the intricacies of the tiny closure, and his breath was warm on the back of her neck.

Maria shivered.

"Cold?" he asked softly, dropping his hands to her shoulders. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin pink cloth. Michael felt a rush of purely masculine elation as he realized that her shivering was in reaction to his proximity, to his caress. All at once, the need to kiss her hit him, rolling over his body in inescapable waves.

She could feel his hands tighten on her shoulders. She should leave, or pull away, or at least make a joke to lighten the mood. Her body had other ideas, though. She felt restless and edgy, and it would be so simple to just...Her head dropped back and slightly to the side.

Michael's breathing became labored as Maria's head fell back, exposing the curve of her neck. It would be so easy for him to simply move forward, molding her body against his, pressing his mouth to her flesh.

Hearing his harsh breathing made the fidgety feeling inside Maria grow. "Michael," she whispered, twisting out of his grasp and facing him. His eyes were deep but unreadable, and she reached up to touch his face.

He caught her hand before she made contact, lowering it slowly. "You'd better go," he whispered flatly.

Stunned, Maria stepped back. She couldn't believe that she'd misinterpreted his intentions so badly. "You're...you're right," she nodded. "I have an appointment." With that, she grabbed her purse and draped the strap over her shoulder.

"Me too." It killed him to see the hurt look in her eyes. "Hey, about next time..."

"What about it?" She kept her gaze carefully averted from his.

"Wear something a little lower cut."

The ache in her stomach faded, replaced by indignation. "What did you say?"

Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and smirked. "The chain is a bit long," he said. "The tip of the pendant hangs pretty low, so if you don't want part of the necklace obscured by your neckline, then you might want to wear something lower."

She knew he'd initially phrased his statement a certain way just to get a reaction from her. Maria couldn't believe the way this man always had to have the last word in any conversation. Well, not this time. She reached up, unclasped the necklace, and neatly placed the piece back in its box. "Well, then, Guerin," she murmured, her voice low and raspy. "Maybe I won't wear anything at all."

She smiled, savoring the glazed look that immediately washed over his eyes. She was still savoring it as she walked out the door.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Isabel Evans Whitman almost dropped her phone. She had never hallucinated before, but she supposed there was a first time for everything. "Did you just say what I think you just said, Liz?"

"Uh-huh. She actually called him. According to Max, she sat for Michael today, and she's supposed to again tomorrow." Even as Liz said the words, she could hardly believe them herself.

"Who would have known," Isabel marveled aloud. "Michael's wacky psycho approach actually worked."

Liz stirred her tea and smiled. "I called and invited her to lunch tomorrow."

"Find out if she's nuts," Isabel instructed.

"Isabel!"

"Don't yell at me," Isabel countered, holding the receiver slightly away from her ear. "There must be a reason why she actually agreed to work with Michael after his performance last weekend. Maybe she's a headcase," she reasoned.

"That would explain it," Liz acknowledged, then bit her lip. "But she seemed okay." Then Liz grinned widely. "By the way, Isabel, you don't use such highly technical terms as 'headcase' when working, do you?"

She could almost see Isabel roll her eyes in exasperation.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Audrey shook her head and grinned. "Maria, I swear..."

"What?" Maria continued to crumble crackers on top of the casserole she was preparing. "What, what?"

Her sister propped her chin on her hand and looked at her. "You've got it pretty bad for this artist guy, don't you?"

Maria dropped a cracker. In relating the details of her first modeling session with Michael, she'd chosen to omit certain incriminating facts...like the little matter of her practically throwing herself at him. "What makes you say that?"

Audrey's lips quirked. "Because you've been standing there, raving about what a conceited lunatic this guy is."

"Oh yeah, I can see your point, sis. I must be crazy about him," Maria shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"It's not the words you're saying, Ria. It's the way your eyes light up every time you think about him. It's written all over your glowing, goofy grin-wearing face, sweetie."

Maria stared at her sister. "You're enjoying yourself immensely, aren't you?"

Audrey laughed gaily. "Why, yes. Yes I am." She leaned over and picked a baby carrot out of the salad bowl. "My question is, if you're so hot for this guy, why don't you do something about it?"

"And just what would you suggest?"

Crunching the carrot, Audrey shrugged. "Have a fling with him. A crazy, mad, wild summer fling. Use him to satisfy all your baser urges, then..." Audrey waved one slender hand in the air. "Get rid of him."

Maria clucked her tongue. "Oh, that's mature, Audrey." She placed the casserole dish in the oven and set the timer.

"He's the perfect rebound guy. He's gorgeous, unattached, and he sounds pretty fun-loving to me. I think he'd be more than happy to accommodate you."

Maria slammed a bottle of salad dressing down on the table. "Audrey, we're talking about sex here, not a rousing game of tennis, okay? It's a little more complicated than you're making it out to be."

Her sister sighed deeply. "Listen, Ria, it makes sense. After boring old Stephen, you need a little excitement. You know, shake your life up a bit by trying something new. You're both adults, right?"

Maria knew it was just her libido talking, but Audrey's words were starting to sound almost reasonable. "You don't think that's...Well, you don't think it's an incredibly sorry thing to do?"

"Nothing sorry about it, Ria, as long as you both know what's going on," Audrey replied honestly. "I think it's only wrong if you're lying to each other."

Maria bit into her lower lip, pensive. "And you think he'd...agree to that?"

"Ria, there aren't many guys on this planet who wouldn't jump at the chance to have a no-strings affair with a beautiful woman."

Nodding, Maria said, "You're right, Audrey. I'm an adult and so is he, and if we want to...do things, then...Why the hell not?"

"There you go, Ria. Just walk up to him and tell him what you want."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria shifted a little on the cloth-draped bench, but was careful to remain close to her original position. The last thing she wanted to do was piss Michael off. So far, she had reached a personal record: she hadn't spoken or moved (well, not really) for half an hour. She was quite proud of herself, even though it was making her completely crazy.

Audrey had insisted on picking out her wardrobe for the session. Armed with Michael's suggestion for something low cut, Audrey had emerged from Maria's closet with a lightweight white sundress. It had tiny spaghetti straps and a fitted bodice. The skirt was straight, with a discreet ruffle at the hem. Heeled sandals completed the ensemble. After Maria had dressed, Audrey had declared Michael Guerin a "sunk ship".

Maria frowned slightly. From her vantage point, he seemed to still be pretty much afloat.

Michael looked up from his paper to see Maria's brows crinkled together. Quickly, before the look vanished from her face, he sketched it on a corner of his paper. That was the Maria he wanted to capture; all of her whirlwind emotions and moods fascinated him.

He was a little disappointed, truthfully. She wasn't being herself today. Ever since she'd walked in, wearing that scrap of sin masquerading as a respectable sundress, he'd been waiting for her to bait him, to begin a volley of insults that he could gladly and happily return.

But she hadn't. She'd simply sat where instructed, positioned her head exactly as told, and kept quiet. Even when he'd made some incredibly inflammatory remarks, trying to coax some sort of heated reaction from her, she'd simply smiled slightly and either agreed with him or ignored him altogether.

There was something wrong with her.

He looked at his watch, stifling a yawn. It was nearing noon, and he wasn't getting anything good; they might as well call it quits for the day. "Okay, Maria. I think that's got it for today. When can you come back?"

Maria blinked slowly. This wasn't part of the plan. Where was the heat, the passion he'd been exuding before? Now he just looked...well, he looked bored. And now he was ending their session. Maria comforted herself with the fact that he'd at least asked her to come back. She stood. "Um...I can't do it tomorrow, but...Thursday?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Great."

She fought to hold on to her nerve as she stood there, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. "Um, actually, Michael...There was something I wanted to ask you."

"Ask away." Maybe he'd been wrong about her fire, her energy. He'd thought he'd finally found the one woman who could match him, step for step. Maybe he'd wanted so badly for her to be the one that he'd simply fooled himself into thinking she was. But today she'd been downright lifeless.

"I, uh..." Whatever it was, she was nervous about it. "I was just wondering if you--"

Maria stopped speaking abruptly as she realized that stammering out a polite question probably wasn't the best way to proposition him.

"What is it?"

Her brain scampered to improvise. "Uh...Did you want me to come by a little earlier on Thursday?"

Again, Michael felt the sting of disappointment. "No, ten is fine. Too early and my brain won't be functioning yet, you know."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Maria mumbled under her breath, grimacing. "Well," she said brightly, "I'm off to lunch with Liz. I'll tell her you said hi."

"Yeah, that would be great."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria walked into her apartment late that evening, exhausted. Her lunch with Liz had turned into an afternoon of chatter, shopping, and chick flicks. She felt like she'd known Liz forever, and Liz had expressed a similar sentiment.

They'd discovered quite a few common interests, and well as a common background. It turned out that Liz was from Roswell, as were Michael and the others. Maria had been born in Roswell, but her parents had relocated to Albuquerque when she was a little over two years old. She smiled, wondering how different her life would have been if she'd grown up in Roswell, along with Liz and her friends.

Maria dropped her shopping bags next to the door, bent over, and unbuckled the straps on her sandals. Kicking them off and breathing a sigh of relief, she headed for the living room. There, she found a note from Audrey next to the phone. She had gone out with some old college buddies and wouldn't be back until late, if at all. Maria grinned. "Peace and quiet," she mumbled aloud.

She played back her messages as she petted her cat. There was only one.

"Hey, Maria. It's Michael. Listen, about Thursday...I have to cancel. Something's come up, something that might take some time and energy to resolve, so...Uh..." His voice hesitated. "I'll let you know if we can continue the sessions, okay?"

If. Not when, but if.

Maria didn't even hear the whirring of the tape as it rewound, she simply heard that word over and over.

If.

She'd made a huge fool out of herself, she realized. Michael had somehow, with his guy radar, known what she wanted, and obviously found the idea laughable, maybe even repugnant.

"I am so stupid, Doogie," she whispered, dropping the cat from her lap and going to change into her pajamas.

Somewhere along the way, Maria's feet took her to her closet instead of her dresser. Anger began to build within her as she yanked out a pair of jeans and a shirt, pulling them on. How dare he just call and...and...dismiss her like that? Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to just drop her like that?

By the time she was dressed again, Maria was so enraged that she barely thought to grab her keys on her way out the door.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael's first thought when he heard the pounding on his door was that his pizza had arrived. He quickly discarded that as a possibility; he'd only placed the order five minutes earlier, and Cardaggio's never set speed records like that, especially when it was raining out.

He was shocked when he opened the door and Maria, soaked to the skin, stormed past him. "What the hell is the matter with you, Guerin?" she yelled.

"Uh...Can you be more specific?"

"What the hell was the deal with that message on my machine, huh? How's that for specific?"

She looked amazing. Her green pullover was soaked and had darkened with the moisture, but it almost matched her eyes. They, too, had darkened, but with anger. She was spitting fire, and Michael felt his fascination returning...with a vengeance. This was the woman he wanted, the shrieking banshee before him. Before he could stop it, a grin crept across his face.

She looked like she was about to go ballistic. "You think this is funny? Oh, you are so dead, buddy," she sputtered, launching herself at him, fists flying.

She was small, but amazingly tough. The blows she was landing on his chest actually hurt. "Ow...Maria, stop it." He grabbed her wrists, fighting laughter. He could love this woman, this strange, incomprehensible woman.

"Stop laughing at me!" she screeched angrily.

She stopped struggling unexpectedly, and Michael realized that she was trying frantically not to cry. "Hey, Maria," he whispered, dismayed. "What is it? What's wrong?" He stroked her cheek softly.

Maria wept, clutching his shirt. "You...You just dismissed me, Michael," she accused. "Just like that, like...like you didn't even give a damn if you ever saw me again."

He felt his heart contract. He'd had no idea that he held this power over. It hadn't occurred to him that his careless thoughts or words could hurt her. "I'm sorry, Maria. I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to. I didn't."

Slowly, her sobs subsided into sniffles, and she drew away stiffly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's not a bother," he assured her, rubbing her back.

"Whatever," she said, her disbelief evident. "And to think," she laughed, "I was actually going to ask you today to sleep with me. God, what a moron I am."

Michael went still. "You were what?"

Maria shook her head ruefully. "I know, stupid, huh? But I thought that you--"

"You should go home," he interrupted.

"What the hell...?" Maria couldn't believe he was kicking her out again. "What is your problem?" she challenged heatedly. "Hot or cold, Michael? Pick a temperature."

He eyed her with incredulity, and she stared back, her gaze steady. "That's right, Guerin. Time to either fish or cut bait. Are you going to tell me what your problem is?"

"Go home, Maria," he repeated, more insistently. He was getting a strange look on his face, almost like an animal in a cage. In her fury, Maria didn't even notice it.

"I don't understand you, Michael!" she shouted. "You want me, don't you? If I'm wrong, then just tell me, but I don't think I am. I can feel it every time you look at me. But I also know that you hate it, Michael. You hate it. What, then? What is so bad about wanting me?"

He didn't react; he was stone.

Maria felt her eyes well up again with stinging tears. "Okay, then." They spilled onto her cheeks, and she dashed them away fiercely. "Well, I think I've humiliated and degraded myself enough for one evening," she muttered, shoving her wet hair out of her face and turning toward the door. "I'll just be going now."

"Not having you."

She stilled, her hand resting on the door. "What?"

She could hear his deep, shaky breath. "The worst part about wanting you, Maria, is not having you."

Facing him, she reached down into her soul and grasped for her last bit of courage. "Are you under the impression that I would refuse you, Michael?"

He opened his mouth but said nothing.

"Because I wouldn't," she declared quietly, moving back to where he stood. "Ever."

He was staring at the ceiling, and she could see his throat working convulsively.

"Look at me," she demanded softly. "Michael, look at--"

He did, and the look in his eyes stole her words. She saw reflected in them everything she felt, from the hot, clawing desire to the inexplicable tenderness and affection. Seeing her feelings in him multiplied the urgency in her body, in her heart, and she cried out. In that moment, she knew she was in love with him, so she did the only thing that made sense.

She reached for him.

"Maria." He met her with the same desperation, his hands tunneling into her hair as his open mouth sought hers. There was no timidity, no gentleness, just a frenzied explosion of need. It was the culmination of everything that had been building between them since the night they had met, or maybe even before.

She clutched his face with her hands, straining to hold him as close to her as possible as his tongue tangled with hers. She was dizzy, lightheaded, but she never wanted to stop kissing Michael. She never wanted to break the precious contact.

He was dying, and he knew it, but he couldn't wrench himself away from Maria. She was perfect, so beautiful, and he had no idea why it had taken him so long to kiss her, not when it felt like this. Not when she felt like this.

Maria knew she was in trouble when she began to hear things. "Michael," she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. "Bells. Michael, I hear bells."

Michael groaned, burying his face in the hollow of her neck. "It's the damn pizza guy," he told her, pulling away from her. "I completely forgot about ordering it."

Maria bit her lip. It was swollen and sensitive from the needy kisses they'd shared. "I'll go home, then."

She half expected Michael to disagree with her, but he didn't. "You're right. Uh...Maria?"

"Yes?" She refused to get her hopes up.

"I meant what I said," he told her quietly, firmly. "There are too many things about me that you don't know, and I...I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have."

"Back to square one, then?" she asked with deceptive levity.

Just as Michael was about to respond, the doorbell chimed again. "I'm sorry, but I need to get that. Can I see you tomorrow?"

She shook her head. "Busy, remember?"

"Thursday, then?"

She nodded, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, trying to ignore the desire that still raged through him. "We'll figure it out, Maria. I promise."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The next evening, Michael sat, moping, on the Whitmans' living room couch. Alex watched him, sighing in resignation. If he didn't just go ahead and ask, he might very well have to spend the entire rest of the evening watching his friend stare at the wall.

"Okay, Michael, what's up?"

"Huh?" Michael looked vaguely surprised at the sound of Alex's voice, almost as if he'd forgotten the other man was in the room.

"What is wrong with you?" Alex enunciated each word clearly, leaning closer to Michael. "You've been walking around all night like a zombie, and you've been staring at that wall for the last half hour without even blinking. When Is gets home, she's gonna think I slipped you a mickey, or something. Now, are you going to tell me what's up?"

Michael grimaced, shifting on the sofa. "Alex...When Liz first told you the truth about Max and Isabel and me, what did you think?"

"Easy," Alex replied. "I thought she was high on something."

"I mean, when you finally realized it was true, did it..." Michael trailed off, running his hands harshly through his hair. Finally, he asked, "Did it change your feelings about Isabel?"

Alex looked at Michael for a long time, saying nothing. "I'm not sure what the answer to that would be, Michael. In some ways, yes, it did. But it did so in a good way. Suddenly, she made sense to me, you know? I knew about the fear she'd always lived with, and I finally understood why she'd always been Isabel Evans, princess of all things icy and aloof." Alex smiled a little. "Is this about that woman from the art gallery?"

He was met with a stony glare. "That woman is the most infuriating, exasperating, confusing person I've ever met."

Alex grinned. "Sounds like love to me," he laughed.

"Does it?" he whispered. "I wouldn't know." The stone melted from Michael's gaze, replaced by loneliness so deep and cold that Alex shivered, his humor evaporating.

"Is that what this is about, Michael? How to tell if you're in love or not?"

Michael grimaced again. "How do you...know? How can you tell?"

Alex sighed. "I can't tell you what's going on inside your head or your heart, Michael. But if all you really need is an example of what love can feel like, then I can tell you how I feel about Isabel. If it helps," he added softly.

"I...I think it might," Michael answered.

"Okay, then. Um, when I'm with Isabel, it's like I'm ten feet tall, you know? She makes me believe that I can do anything, as long as she's there with me. We can face anything together. And I'd do anything she asked me to do, Michael. Not in that crazy, obsessive way, but in a good, solid kind of way. And I know she feels the same way. And that, Michael, is a feeling unlike any other." After a moment's pause, he asked, "Is that how you feel?"

"I don't know, Alex." Michael struggled for the words that would express how he felt about Maria. "I mean, Maria's the most exciting thing I've ever seen, Alex. But, at the same time, being with her is peaceful, you know? It's like she's..."

"Everything," Alex finished for him, nodding.

Michael's panic grew. "Is that what this is, Alex? Love?" His voice was filled with fear and awe.

"Can you imagine living without her?" Alex's query was quiet, solemn, as was Michael's answer.

"I don't even want to think about that." His voice was emphatic, and Alex could see the look of steely determination in his eyes.

"You have to find the answers to this on your own, Michael, but I think already you know what you have to do."

Michael swallowed, staring at his hands, which were clenched into fists. "What if she doesn't love me as much as you love Izzy, Alex? What do I do if she finds out what I really am and bolts? Or worse, what if she goes to the authorities and tells them about us?"

His wife was still scared that the wrong people would find out about them. Sometimes, Isabel woke up in the dead of night, shaking from nightmares of sterile, white rooms and cold steel instruments. Even though they'd managed for years to evade it, Alex knew that none of the three would ever be completely free from their fear of discovery. "Liz trusted me, Michael, and I think that's what it boils down to. Do you know Maria well enough? Do you trust her enough to possibly hand her your life?" Alex shook his head. "You have to be the one to decide."

Michael nodded slowly. "I guess I should talk to Max and Izzy about that."

"It would be a good idea," Alex agreed.

"What would be a good idea?" Isabel asked, striding into the room and dropping a kiss on her husband's forehead. "What? What'd I miss?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"You want to what?" Max asked, his voice low but disturbed.

Michael scratched the back of his head nervously. "I want to tell Maria the truth about who I am. About what I am."

Max stared at him, then shook his head. "I can't believe this, Michael. Why? Why would you want to do something like that?"

When Michael, at Alex's urging, had broached this subject with Isabel, she'd simply listened calmly, then kissed his cheek and told him that she trusted his judgment. It had been a bit of a shock to Michael. If he'd expected anyone to oppose this, it would have been Isabel. But now Max was the one getting all up in arms about it. He took a deep breath. "I want to do this for the same reasons that you wanted to tell Liz all those years ago."

"Michael, she saw me use my powers! I had to tell Liz." There was a muscle jumping in Max's clenched jaw. "I had no other options."

"That's a crock, and you know it, Maxwell," Michael countered. "There were plenty of things you could have told Liz, up to and including nothing. But you chose to reveal yourself to her, and Izzy and me along with you. And you made that decision without consulting either of us first."

"That was different, Michael," he insisted. "For one thing, we had known Liz for years, okay? You've known this woman for less than a week. It's just insane!"

"It's not insane, Max." Michael pulled a chair back from the kitchen table and sat down. "Look, Maria is a complicated matter. In some ways, I've known her longer than any of you. I can feel it, Max. She and I are connected. I trust her."

Max continued to pace the floor, then asked hoarsely, "You trust her with this?"

Michael didn't falter. "Yes, Max. I trust her with our secret."

"You've never wanted to tell any of your other girlfriends," Max reminded him.

"None of them were Maria," Michael said simply.

Max looked at Michael for a long time, then exhaled. "What does Isabel think about this?"

"She gave me her blessing, Max." Michael put a hand on his almost-brother's arm as he paced by. "I wish you would, too."

There was worry in Max's eyes. "Will she be able to handle it, Michael? And I'm not talking about keeping our secret, either. I'm talking about you. Will she be able to accept the truth?"

Michael's smile was a little sad. "I’ll never know if I don't tell her, Maxwell. And I have to find out."

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

"And that's when I knew that I loved him." Maria pulled two sodas out of her fridge, handing one to Freddie. "And then he kissed me. Or I kissed him, I'm not sure which." She slid back into her chair. "It was positively amazing."

Freddie's eyes were huge. "Wow. Maria, you guys have this whole thing that's just...I mean, wow."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Maria grinned. Abruptly, the grin slid from her face. "But he said that nothing's changed. You know, that we can't get involved."

Freddie eyed her shrewdly. "Boy, is he in denial."

"No, I think he really means it, Fred," Maria maintained.

"I don't buy it, Maria. Now, I have had considerably more experience with these creatures, so let me share something with you here. Most men will say they can't get involved, or something roughly equivalent, when they're scared spitless."

"Scared?" Maria scoffed. "Of what?"

Freddie popped a chip in her mouth. "Of falling in love, doof. You know, of finally having some woman cut them from the herd and brand them for life. So they claim that all they have is the blazing red hots for you, and then whammo. One day, all of a sudden, they're fixing your leaky sink faucets and getting hacked off if you talk to ex-boyfriends at the grocery store."

"That's quite a romantic picture you paint, Fred."

"Don't give me any lip, DeLuca. I know what I'm talking about here. As soon as he comes to terms with this thing, you won't be able to get rid of him." Freddie paused, her burger halfway to her mouth. "You don't want to get rid of him, do you, Maria?"

"Of course not."

"'Cause I could take him off your hands if you--"

"Down, Freddie," Maria interrupted. "Read the 'do not touch' sign very carefully."

"Gotcha," her friend grinned. "Just checking, you know?"

"Yeah, sure." Maria's phone rang and she excused herself.

It was Michael. "Hi," he said softly.

"Hi," she replied, her heart pounding. "How was your day?" She waved a silencing hand at Freddie and walked out of the kitchen.

"Good." He sounded just as nervous as she. "I, uh...How was yours?"

"It was great. Freddie and I went to a teachers' workshop. They covered a lot of really interesting topics."

"I'm glad you had a good time."

Maria marveled at how awkward the conversation was. She and Michael had more important things to say to each other. "Listen, Michael, about tomorrow. I was hoping we could talk."

"I was hoping that, too. Um, listen. Are you doing anything for the rest of the weekend?"

"The weekend?" Maria squeaked. "You mean, the whole weekend?" Glancing behind her, Maria saw Freddie leaning back in her chair, blatantly eavesdropping through the doorway.

"Well, not the whole weekend, but maybe through Saturday? We need to talk, but I...It's complicated. I thought we could go to Roswell for a few days."

"Um...Sure, why not?" Maria was freaking out. Michael was actually asking her to go away with him for the weekend, and even she knew what that meant in the world of male/female interpersonal relationships. "It sounds like fun."

"Yeah, fun." Michael's voice sounded odd.

"Michael? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Maria. I'm just really looking forward to it. Why don't I pick you up tomorrow morning instead of you leaving your car over here?"

"That sounds good." They completed their plans for the next day, then said their goodbyes.

Taking a deep breath, Maria turned around to find Freddie smirking at her. "What? What? So he wants me to go away with him for a few days, so what?"

"Ah, I told you so," Freddie crowed victoriously. "Got your branding iron all heated up and ready to go?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Maria stared out the car window, lost in thought. In some ways, the scenery whirling madly by reflected her feelings. Stealing a surreptitious glance at Michael's strong profile, she swallowed a sigh. She wasn't sure if she was ready for this kind of step. Oh, she wanted it; there was no doubt about that. Where Michael was concerned, her feelings were powerful, unmistakable. But they were also so sudden.

You've known him less than a week, she reminded herself. Right, as if she could forget. The moment she'd first seen him was etched forever into her memory, and she smiled a little. She'd been so sure that he was a weirdo out to molest her.

In truth, Audrey was still quite convinced that might be the case. Maria bit her lip. Her sister had gone nuclear when she'd heard about Maria's plans to accompany Michael to Roswell. Her happy-go-lucky, laid-back sister, who'd been the one to suggest that Maria indulge in a casual affair with him in the first place, had hit the roof.

"Ria! The guy could be a nut! He could be a total whack job, and you're taking a road trip with him? What the hell is going on in there, huh?" Audrey had demanded, pointing a finger at Maria's head. "Have you lost it?"

Maria had stared at Audrey, shocked by her reaction. "Excuse me, pod person, but what have you done with my kid sister? You know, the originator and primary advocate of the 'Maria Must Seduce Michael Guerin Foundation'? This was practically your idea, Audrey!"

"I didn't mean that you should pack a suitcase and hit the open road with the guy, Ria. I meant a little flirting, maybe something more once you got to know him better. Note the phrase 'once you got to know him better'," she added. "For God's sake, Ria, you were engaged to Stephen and never slept with him. Now you meet this guy and, a measly five days later, you're dashing off for some lovers' weekend."

Maria had wanted to deny it, had wanted to assure her sister that sex was not an issue, or even a possibility. But it was. So she said simply, "I know what I'm doing, Audrey."

Audrey had responded by shaking her head vehemently. "No, Maria. I know I was the one to suggest it, but this just isn't like you. You don't sleep with men you don't..." Audrey's eyes had widened. "You think you're in love with this guy," she accused. "I should have known...You would never do this, otherwise."

Maria had shrugged. "So I am. So what?" Was Michael going to be the last person to know how she felt about him? At the rate she had been flapping her gums, it was a probability.

"Maria." Audrey had moved closer to her on the sofa, placing her hand on Maria's arm. "Does he know anything about you, huh? About Mom and Dad dying, or those spells that you have sometimes? Does he?"

Maria's spine went rigid. "I haven't had one in a while, you know. Probably about a week. That's a long time for me, you know." A sad smile. "It's almost like remission, isn't it?"

"Maria."

She was yanked back into the present by the sound of Michael's voice, his hand on her shoulder. "Yes?" Her voice was slightly hoarse.

Without warning, his beautiful lips curved, and he was smiling at her. "You're being so quiet. I was just wondering if you were having second thoughts." He paused. "We could go home, you know."

"We've been on the road for over two hours, Michael," she reminded him, trying to discourage the thought.

"I didn't say I wanted to go back. I just said that we could." His smile faded. "There's a difference."

"My sister didn’t want me to come," Maria admitted, her gaze returning to the landscape outside the car. "She thinks things are moving too fast between us." A glance at his face revealed the barely concealed tension there. "Plus, she's also still considering the possibility that you're planning on hacking me up, sticking me in a Hefty bag, and leaving me on the side of 285."

Even with her attempt at levity, his features eased only slightly. "I swear I left the axe at home."

Maria grinned. "She was thinking more along the lines of a chainsaw in the trunk, I think."

Michael reached out. He needed to touch her before he lost his nerve, before he turned the car back toward Albuquerque, away from Roswell, from the truth of him. He needed to reassure himself that he was right, that she really did want to be with him. So he took her hand from its resting place on her knee, lifted it to his mouth, and brushed his lips over her palm.

He marveled at her indrawn breath, and the fine tremor of her hand in his. It still had not quite sunk into his brain that this woman, this gorgeous, feisty woman, really wanted him. If his luck held out, maybe she still would, even after she found out the reality of what he was. He dropped their entwined hands to his own knee.

Wednesday night, after their heart-to-heart talk, Alex had given Michael one more piece of advice. "If you decide to be honest with her, Michael, then do it. Don't hold anything back from her. Trust me on this one. If she cares about you, she won't turn away." In the past, Michael had never really recognized just how wise Alex was. He was, however, beginning to.

"I don't keep the chainsaw in the trunk," he assured her. Then, quietly, he said, "Maria, this really does mean a lot to me. Your sister's right, in a way. We are moving fast, but I..." He took a deep, fortifying breath. "I can't help it, can't slow it down."

"Neither can I," she whispered, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "But it seems right, Michael. Like we've known each other forever."

"Yes." That simple word. "I think maybe we have, Maria."

She smiled at his charming fancy, not fully realizing his absolute sincerity.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Michael shaded his eyes against the midday sun, watching as Maria made her way out of the ladies' room. They were still about sixty miles out of Roswell, but they'd stopped at this small convenience store for drinks and a stretch break.

Their ride had been laidback and enjoyable. After her initial silence, Maria had relaxed and begun chattering away at him. At his urging, she'd been regaling him with stories of her childhood and college years.

Michael was still a bit shocked by her openness and candor. There seemed to be nothing about herself that she wasn't willing to reveal to him. That was something Michael, for reasons both obvious and complicated, had never been able to do.

He was admiring the way her heeled sandals made her legs seem about eight miles long when she reached him, a bemused smile on her face. "What?"

"What?" He leaned back against the side of his car.

She tilted her head. "You were staring."

"I guess I was."

His eyes fell to her mouth, and Maria, hit with a sudden wave of inspiration, lifted her drink and slowly closed her lips around the straw. She enjoyed his glazed expression for a moment, then held out the drink. "Want some? I got the Big Gulp, so there's plenty. If you want to share."

Michael was pretty sure his brain was shorting out. While there was nothing implicitly erotic about sharing a Big Gulp, the very thought of placing that straw in his mouth now was causing his pulse to race. "No thanks." What he really wanted (besides Maria) was the biggest cherry Coke known to man, liberally laced with Tabasco. But he knew that Maria would get suspicious if he drank such a strange concoction in front of her, so satisfying his thirst was momentarily out of the question.

"Okay," she shrugged, glancing around. "Not much to see here, huh?"

"Not really. You ready to go?"

"Yep, all done."

They had been on the road for less than five minutes when Maria snickered and pointed out her window. "Hey, look at that!"

The only thing Michael had been looking at since they'd left the gas station was Maria. Every time she put that damn straw in her mouth, it made his blood pressure inch slightly higher. It was also sending the movie projector in his head spinning into overdrive, producing some very interesting images of her. Interesting, and highly likely to get him slapped across the face. "Look at what?"

"That," she repeated, pointing out the window at a dusty structure beside the road. "It's a nookie motel," she informed him.

Hearing the words "nookie motel" coming from her sexpot mouth made the heated simmer of his blood burst into a full rolling boil. His mind dashed off in a dozen different directions. Well, okay, just one direction...but there was plenty of variation on that single route of thinking. His hands gripped the wheel as he tried to shove the scalding hot imagery from behind his eyes. Frantic, he ordered himself to focus on something else, anything else, like the road, or the car. Yeah, that's it, Guerin. Think about the car.

It worked for about thirty seconds, which was when the car began to sputter, smoke pouring from beneath the hood.

"Michael!" Maria yelled. "I think your car is--"

A loud bang drowned out the rest of her words, and Michael pulled off the road, the car coasting to a stop. "Dammit," he cursed. He slammed the car out of gear, then yanked the hood release, unfastening his seatbelt and climbing out.

Maria was out of the car just as quickly, coughing at the smoke that still billowed from under the hood. "What the hell happened, Michael?"

"I don't know," he answered shortly, staring dumbly under the hood. "Hang on just a second." He walked to Maria's door, leaning in and opening the glove compartment. The car's owner's manual wasn't going to be a bit of help, he knew, but he should at least try.

As he was exiting the car, book in hand, he looked up and caught a glimpse of the steering wheel. His handprints were outlined on it...in glowing silver.

I blew my damn car up.

Disgusted, he threw the manual back in the car and stalked to the front of the vehicle again. It figured that he would finally realize the full strength of his powers by doing something stupid like that. Typical.

"What? Why is that look on your face? What?" Maria demanded. "Tell me."

Michael grimaced. "I've got good news and bad news."

"Give me the good news."

He gestured to the car. "This puppy isn't going anywhere. It's dead."

Maria's eyes widened dangerously. "That's the good news? What's the bad, for crying out loud?"

Michael didn't say a word, simply turned and looked back down the road.

Maria followed his gaze, terribly afraid that she already knew what the bad news was. "Uh, Michael...No. No, that's not--"

"Wonder if the Big Bull Motel has any vacancies?"

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The decorators of the Big Bull Motel had steered clear of the usual Southwestern themes, choosing instead to go with a Spanish motif. Maria absently fiddled with the fringed bedspread and eyed an oil-on-velvet painting on the far wall of the room. It featured a cape-brandishing matador tormenting a bull.

Michael walked in, carrying a plastic bag and mumbling to himself. "Hi," he said.

Maria looked at him silently, then indicated the picture. "Can you paint me one of those?"

His artist's sensibility was truly offended. "What a piece of crap."

Maria was still staring at it. "It's like a car accident," she mused. "It's so horrific I can't look away."

"Well, try, okay?" Michael shuddered. He placed the bag on the bed beside her. "I got us some stuff from the gas station."

"Any luck with the garage?" Maria shuffled through the bag, examining the loot. "Mmm...junk food..."

Michael flopped facedown on the bed, giving the mattress an experimental bounce. "It would seem that Thursday is George's day off. George is, of course, the mechanic. Anyway, Reuben--you met him--seems to think that there's nothing that George can do for the car, but...Can't hurt to give it a shot, right?"

Maria had to agree. "I'm sorry, Michael."

He looked over at her, astonished. "For what?"

"Your car, this trip...The whole situation, I guess." Her eyes were focused on her hands as she toyed with the edge of the duvet. "I just..."

"You just what?"

Her eyes met his, and he read misery in their emerald depths. "I just feel so bad about all of this."

Michael pulled himself to his knees, then scooted over to sit next to Maria. "Hey...This isn't your fault, okay? It's nobody's fault. It's just one of those crappy things that happens, all right?" He put a soothing palm to the back of her neck, moving it in massaging circles.

As he rubbed Maria's back comfortingly, the strangest thing happened. For once, he didn't short-circuit from desire; the lust was there, like always, but it simmered beneath the surface of his skin, not quite breaking through his control. Instead, a bloom of tenderness opened in his chest, stretching its petals, curling through him slowly, surely. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to make her smile again.

And, just like that, he knew what Alex had been saying. Love. This was love.

Maria shifted position, turning toward him to rest her head against his shoulder. The warmth blossoming inside him doubled, then redoubled. He was reminded, strangely, of the title character from "How The Grinch Stole Christmas." Michael Guerin's heart grew three sizes that day... He smiled, then chuckled.

"What's funny?" Maria no longer sounded upset, but she didn't move her head away from its spot on his shoulder. Her words were muffled against the fabric of his pullover.

"Just thinking."

"About what?" She raised her head slightly.

"Dr. Seuss." Michael threaded his fingers through the silk of her hair and pressed his forehead against hers.

The look Maria gave him was priceless. "You are one strange bird, Michael Guerin," she informed him. The sting was erased from her words by the light brush of her lips over his, by her adoring smile.

His own smile was bittersweet. "You don't know the half of it, Maria."

"What are we going to do if George can't fix the car?" she asked. "Stay here forever?" She waggled her eyebrows jokingly.

"At the Big Bull?" Michael asked, struggling to keep a straight face. "You're kidding, right? This place looks like Ernest Hemingway's psyche threw up in here."

Maria's grin turned suggestive. "Nope, not kidding. We have the basics of survival right here, you know. All your crucial drives are covered--food, water, sleep...even sex," she added.

"Don't forget the tacky décor," he reminded her, deadpan.

She sat back on her knees, planting her fists on her hips. "Michael! Be serious."

"Serious, gotcha." He poked her in the belly with his index finger, then caught her before she fell off the bed. "If George can't fix the car, then Reuben is going to drive us into Roswell tomorrow."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. "That is so sweet! I can't believe he's actually willing to do that for us."

"Well, he got a lot more willing after I pulled my wallet out of my pocket," Michael admitted.

"Ah yes, what almighty power money holds." Maria pulled a bag of M&Ms from the sack of food. Tearing it open, she tossed a couple in her mouth and chewed contentedly as Michael reached for the television remote. An idea seized her, and she acted before she could rethink.

The red M&M hit Michael square between the eyes. "Stop it," he grumbled, rubbing the spot.

"That didn't hurt, you big baby."

He caught the next one she threw, noting absently that it was yellow. "Stop being such a cheesehead, Maria." His laugh belied the severity of his demand.

She froze in place, hand held aloft like a catapult, ready to fire but halted in the process. "Cheesehead?" she repeated.

"That's what I said," he replied blandly, hurling the yellow M&M back at her.

Maria raised her hands reflexively, dropping the package of M&Ms and spilling them all over the bed. "Oh, you dorkbutt! Look what you made me do," she wailed, swatting him with the empty paper wrapper.

"You asked for it, Maria, oh yes, you did." His hand snaked out and grabbed her ankle, his fingers easily closing around its delicate circumference. She squealed as he dragged her across his lap, then quieted as his mouth found hers. "Mmm," he breathed. "Tastes sweet." He levered himself up and over her, until they were lying down.

"It's chocolate," she answered with a moan.

He shook his head. "It's Maria," he corrected softly, dropping a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She turned her head as he did, tilting, seeking. She found his mouth again, coaxed it open.

His groan told her so much, and so little. "Michael...What are you thinking?"

Thinking? She wanted to know what he was thinking? Easy. He wasn't; he was feeling. And if she hadn't yet figured out what he was feeling, then she wasn't paying close enough attention to the fact that he was lying on top of her, their bodies aligned from chest to thigh.

He said the first thing that came to mind.

"Tabasco sauce," he told her, trailing kisses across her chin and down her throat.

"Tabasco sauce? You mean, like, hot sauce?"

"Mmm. Sweet and spicy."

He moved up to focus his attentions on her ear, and Maria whimpered. "Like I said, Michael...You're a strange bird."

Floating. Yes, that's what it was--she was floating. Maria was sure that, were it not for the weight of Michael's body on her own, she'd be bumping her nose on the ceiling. And he felt absolutely wonderful, and she never wanted him to stop, and then...

He did.

Michael pulled his lips from Maria's quickly, painfully. It was probably going to be one of the hardest things he'd had to do in recent history, but he had to get up. He had to walk out the door and not touch her one more time, at least not for a while.

Maria heard him groan, felt his body shifting. "No," she breathed against his neck, clasping him with her tiny hands. "Michael, no...don't..."

"I have to, Maria." His voice was rough in her ear, his breath sounding in uneven gasps. Bracing on his shaky arms, he raised up above her, easing away from the cradle of her hips. "I have to stop now."

"Why?" Frustration warred with desire, and she wasn't sure what she wanted more--to kiss him or to kill him. Another look at his smoldering eyes and wet lower lip, and she knew what she wanted more. The need to fuse their mouths again made her clumsy as she clawed at his tee shirt, trying to drag him back to her.

It looked like gradual withdrawal wasn't going to work, not when she kept pulling him back, back into the spiral of aching hunger that held her spellbound. He couldn't afford to slip back into it, to let his need for her skid out of bounds. It wasn't fair to her, he reminded himself. Not fair at all.

Maria's tongue snaked out to taste the hollow of his throat, the only part of his skin she could reach.

Enough. Michael groaned. "Maria, please. Stop." He rolled away from her and launched himself off the bed before she could resume the sensual torture.

She wasn't sure what stopped her from following him. It wasn't the pacing, or the trembling of his hands as he shoved them through his hair. It wasn't even the tense sound of his voice, pleading with her. No. What prevented Maria from going to him was the hunted, almost scared look on his face as he cast nervous glances at her.

"Why do you do this to me, Michael?" she asked softly. "Why do you lure me in, then push me away again? Just because you can, is that it?"

Closing his eyes against the wounded look on her face, Michael was silent for a moment. He didn't even try to play stupid or act like he didn't know what she meant. "I told you before, Maria. There are things you don't know about me, things you should know before you...before we..."

"So, tell me, and then I'll know." Her statement was firm, and flawless in its logic.

But Michael wasn't interested in logic. He forced himself to face the real reason why he hadn't already told Maria about his decidedly non-human status. "I don't want to lose you," he whispered.

"You wouldn't lose me, Michael." Again, her voice was firm, but he couldn't believe. She couldn't make that claim, because she didn't know the truth. "But you have to tell me, okay? Because, whatever it is, I obviously need to know."

Fear was a steel vise around his heart, screaming that she would run, she would cry, she would scream...There were a hundred, no, a thousand different reactions she could have, but one thing was certain. She would never again look at him with longing glazing her green eyes. And he needed that. He couldn't suffer the loss of it, he just couldn't.

Maria still sat on the bed, only now she didn't look confused anymore. She was clouding up in anger, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she began to storm. He could see it in the stiffness of her spine, the arms crossed protectively over her chest.

Michael Guerin realized that it was, clichéd as it sounded, now or never.

"Dammit," he swore. "I didn't want to tell you like this, Maria. Not in some sleazy motel off 285."

She rose from the bed. "If it's really that important, Michael, then it doesn't matter where you tell me, so long as you do." Maria was starting to get frightened by Michael's behavior. A dozen possibilities were flashing through her mind. He's a Communist. He's wanted in Oklahoma for a triple-homicide at a doughnut shop. He used to be a woman. He hates kittens and babies and rainbows. He's got a girlfriend. He's married...to four different women. He's a compulsive liar. He's an escaped mental patient. He actually likes Barry Manilow. She couldn't take it anymore, so she reached for his hand.

Michael allowed himself a few seconds reprieve as he essayed to memorize the feel of her fingers rubbing over his palm. It might be the last time she ever touched him. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and steeled himself. "You might want to sit down, Maria."

"For the love of God, Michael, just tell me, okay!" She was scared. She was worried and nervous and...resigned? That gave her pause. Yes, she felt disappointed and prepared to accept…something. She had no idea what. "Just tell me," she repeated, her voice nearly inaudible.

"I'm an alien, Maria."

She was silent only for seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Michael. When she did speak, her voice was cold and flat. "Oh, okay. I get it."

She thought he was lying, for whatever reason. "Maria, it's the truth. I'm...not from around here."

Maria was fuming, but she also felt an odd sort of disappointment. She'd been so sure that Michael was different, special...And now this. Different? Sure. Special? Of course, in that what-a-freaking-nutcase kind of way. "I guess possibility number eight was the one, after all," she mumbled.

"What? Number eight?" The confused, worried look on his face looked so real. It was hard, so hard to believe this caring was either an act or a delusion, but it had to be.

Maria laughed, a shrill, barking sound that held no mirth. "Possibility number eight, Michael. Escaped mental patient."

"Maria...I'm not crazy."

The bastard actually had the audacity to look hurt. "No, you are nuts. You have to be. 'Cause if you're just saying this to get rid of me, to get me off your back, well...All you had to do was say the word."

She started to walk past him, but he grabbed for her arm, halting her steps. His teeth were clenched, and his words came grinding painfully out. "I have never lied to you, Maria, and I'm not going to start. If I wanted you gone, I would have said so. But that's not what I want. That's why I'm trusting you with this, this secret on which my entire life rests."

"I have to hand it to you, Michael. You do put on a good show. Alien. Perfect." Maria froze, then clapped a hand to her forehead. "Of course! Roswell. You were taking me to Roswell to tell me about your extraterrestrial origins." She laughed again, and this time the sound was desperate. "Next thing you know, you'll be telling me it was your ship that crash-landed back in the 1940s."

"I