I WILL… I WILL…" DIANA TURNED HER HEAD ON THE pillow, but the words followed her, echoing as if from the distant end of a long tunnel, combining with odd images that tumbled around in her brain in a shifting kaleidoscope of disjointed events and unrelated noises. I will… I will. … In her dream, the two words were overlaid by the incessant drone of jet engines, the muted ringing of a telephone, and the shadowy, indefinable presence of a dark male, a looming, powerful figure that she sensed in her dream but could not see. His presence gave her twin sensations of being in grave danger and of being safe; the voice she heard was not his voice, and yet he seemed to control her answers.

"Will you?" Now the voice was hers—a whisper in the dim glow of a soft light near an unearthly bed that seemed to float as she lay upon it. He was standing beside the bed, leaning over her, his hands braced on the pillow beside her head, resisting her. "No."

Her hands were on his shoulders, and she pulled him closer, watching his eyes begin to smolder. Roaring engines drowned his voice as his sensual lips formed a soundless word. "No."

She slid her hand around his nape, and the banked fires in his eyes leapt into flames. She was in control now, she knew it, she gloried in it. "Yes…" she whispered, and his scorching gaze dropped to her lips.

She was in control as his mouth covered hers, exploring… tantalizing, then slowly opening on hers, urging her lips to part, his tongue probing between them, forcing entrance.

He was demanding control, taking it away from her, and she moaned in protest even while she crushed her lips to his and fought to subdue his tongue with her own. Large hands covered her breasts, fondling them possessively; then his mouth seized her nipples, drawing them taut, and she cried out. She couldn't lose control, wouldn't, must not! He knew she wanted to hold back, he knew it, but he shoved his hands into the sides of hair, turning it into a tangled mess. His ravenous mouth left her breasts, only to invade her mouth again while his body moved on top of hers and his hips began to move sensuously.

She tried to resist the erotic demands, the heat, the pressure of him, but he wouldn't let her, and her legs parted as his hands lifted her buttocks and his rigid erection unerringly found the wet warmth at the entrance to her body. He thrust into her, his mouth devouring hers… and then it began—the slow, demanding thrusts that steadily increased in power and force, driving her to a terrifying precipice. She fought it, tried to recoil from it.

He knew she was fighting her own desire, but he wouldn't leave her alone. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled onto his back, his body still joined fiercely to hers. He curved his hands around her hips, forcing her into a tempo that made her forget that her hair was a tangled mess and her breasts were too small and her hip had a scar on the side of it.

She rode him and rode him because he wouldn't let her stop. Because she couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. Wild now. She was wild and sobbing with need, and his hips were moving with hers, hands caressing her breasts, fingers squeezing her taut nipples. She cried out as explosions racked her body, and he arched his back while deep spasms drove him higher and deeper into her. Engines screamed and the bed crashed to earth, rocking her violently off him; his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her, while blue lights flew past the windows with dizzying speed. Eerie lights.

Blue lights… revolving around and around… spinning past.

Diana tossed her head on the pillow, afraid of the lights, trying to escape the clutches of the demon lover who had taken much more than she meant to offer.

She tried to turn and run, but an entity was guarding her, preventing her from moving—a terrifying, four-legged beast as black as the hounds from hell. Its fangs were huge; its ears were pointed and stiff; its body was gaunt from starvation. Satan from Rosemary's Baby. She was Rosemary!

In her dream, Diana screamed with fear, but the actual sound was only a parched whisper: "No!"

Propelled by terror, Diana broke free of the nightmare and opened her eyes. Pain stabbed through the sockets of her eyes and embedded itself in her brain as she blinked dazedly at a spacious, but wholly unfamiliar bedroom. The sound of a door opening made her jerk her chin in that direction, which caused the pain to worsen, the room to revolve, and her stomach to lurch alarmingly. A man whom she suddenly identified as Cole Harrison was strolling into her bedroom as casually as if he had a right to be there. "Easy now," he told her in an amused voice as he moved toward her with a tray in his hand. "Don't make any sudden movement."

Diana couldn't seem to think beyond the misery of her entire body. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a small croak. She swallowed and tried again. "What— happened… to me?"

"It's only a theory, but your nervous system is probably under assault by a buildup of acetaldehyde," he provided with cheerful sympathy as he put the tray on the nightstand. "In severe cases, that causes blurred vision, headache, nausea, trembling, and dry mouth. At least that's the theory we're working on at Unified's pharmaceutical division. In layman's terms, you have a colossal hangover."

"Why?" Diana whispered, closing her eyes against the glare of bright orange liquid in a tall glass on the nightstand.

"Too much champagne."

"Why?" she said again. She wanted to know why she was here, why he was here, and why she'd made herself sick, but her brain and her mouth refused to function properly.

Instead of answering, he sat down on the bed, causing her to moan aloud when the mattress shifted and she rolled a little sideways. "Don't try to talk," he said with stern authority that contrasted with the gentleness in his movements as he slid his left arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her slightly upright. "This is buffered aspirin," he said, giving her two white tablets. Diana's hand shook as she took them from him and pressed them awkwardly between her lips. "And this," he added as he lifted the glass of orange liquid from the tray and held it toward her lips, tipping it carefully so she could drink, "is orange juice with a little 'hair-of-the-dog.' "

Diana's stomach lurched violently at the thought of dog hairs in her orange juice, but before she could react, he tipped it up, forcing her to swallow; then he eased her back down onto the pillows. "Go back to sleep," he said gently as her eyes closed. "You'll feel much better when I wake you up later."

Something cold and soothing was pressed against her forehead. A washcloth.

Cole Harrison was a kind, caring man, she thought. She needed to tell him that. "Thank you for helping me," she murmured as his weight lifted from the mattress and he stood up.

"As your husband, I consider it my duty to nurse you through any and all hangovers."

"You're very nice."

"I was hoping you'd still think so this morning, but I had some doubts."

The carpet muffled his footsteps as he walked away, and she heard the door close softly behind him as she lay there, waiting for the anesthesia of sleep. For several moments, his parting remarks were merely a baffling joke she tried to ignore, but they'd evoked stubborn images that began marching insistently behind her aching eyes. She remembered being at the Orchid Ball and drinking wine and champagne… and an amethyst necklace, and more champagne. She remembered going up to Cole's suite… and more champagne… and a limousine ride to Intercontinental Airport… and the cabin of a private jet, where she drank more champagne. She remembered another limo ride through a city ablaze with lights…

The images slowed and sharpened into better focus. She'd gotten out of the car and walked into a place with an arched trellis covered with fake flowers. A short, bald, smiling man had talked to her while she leaned her head back and mentally removed those awful flowers, replacing them with fresh ivy vines.

Swallowing against a surge of nausea, Diana tried not to think about the bald man and the flowered trellis, but the tableau seemed to be etched into her aching brain, a foggy, strangely ominous vignette—and yet, he'd seemed a pleasant enough man… He'd walked Cole and her to the door when they left. He'd waved to them and called out something to her as the limousine started to roll away from the curb. She'd leaned out of the window and waved back at him as he stood in the doorway beneath a pink-and-green neon trellis, with blinking neon bells above it and some words below it.

Words below it.

Words…

Words, in scrolling pink-and-green neon letters.

WEDDING CHAPEL

The man in the doorway had been calling out, "Good luck, Mrs. Harrison!"

Reality struck Diana with enough force to set off fresh explosions of pain in her head and a holocaust in her stomach. "Oh, my God!" she moaned aloud, and she rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to blot everything from her mind.