"Hey, beautiful."

That crooning voice doesn't belong in her dream. Wren frowns, shakes her head, and picks up the next hazelnut. Her bucket is still half empty. She ruffles both hands flat through the fallen leaves--

"Come on, wake up."

No. The leaves are dry and fluttery against her skin, almost prickly when the edges bat against her palms. She circles her hands wider, seeking out the smooth shells hidden--

"Please, beautiful. I need your help."

Mm-nnnnnn. Hidden deep within the mulch. There, there's one, glowing nutty gold at her through a crispy crackly leaf. Just as she pinches her thumb and forefinger around the hazelnut, the tree spits another, and another, they're falling all around her, striking her down for attempting to steal the treasure. The tapping on her forehead echoes through her skull, that's not right, that's not her dream, that's--

"If you don't wake up right now, I'm stealing your stuffed penguin and burning it at the stake."

That's Diego Sateeva threatening her beloved Boo.

Wren wrenches his tapping fingers from her forehead and opens her eyes.

Diego is indeed sitting cross-legged on her bed, just by the curve of her hip.

Blinking against the light from the reading lamp across the room Wren focuses on the slide of his fingers in her hand, turning a grip into a clasp. She follows the link upwards, lingering on the bandage wrapping his upper arm, peeking beneath the sleeve of a tight black t-shirt. The lamplight sheens the utter darkness of his hair chopped short and highlights the gleam of his eyes. Golden brown, sweetly dark, hazelnut eyes.

"You never called."

That angular face is blank with surprise. "Was I supposed to?"

Wren drops his hand as though it burns. Then realises. She yanks the doona up to her neck.

Too late." His accent curls the edges of the words and his smile is wicked.

She starts to hiss at him and stops, scowls. "How did you get in?"

Wren knows she locked the door, shot all the bolts, and her window frames swell shut in the autumn rains. She can hear it drumming on the roof and gurgling through the downpipes but she can't smell it on him. Instead he smells of sun-dried laundry, clean and crisp with a hint of rosemary and the ocean.

Diego taps her doona-protected knee. "Concentrate, cara."

Oh, she's concentrating all right, drinking in details. His eyebrows don't curve like most but slant, giving him a devilish look, and like the devil he wants something.

He narrows his eyes and his fingers tighten round her knee.

So she kicks him, doona rustling as her bare foot lands squarely on his chest, forcing him back. He elegantly flips himself upright and grabs her ankle. He points an admonishing finger at her.

Wren swipes the tangle of long curls away from her face and braces herself on her elbows. "Okay. What do you want?"

"A simple answer. Who makes the best lemon tarts in town?"

Not exactly the question she was hoping for� "Lemon tarts?"

"Mmmmm hmmm."

Diego's fingers smooth over her ankle, drift up the back of her calf in an almost caress that tingles all the way up the length of her leg and sends shivers cascading through her.

Wren's elbows melt and she slides into the support of her pillows. "Well, I've always been fond of Brunetti's." She folds her lips tight on a moan. His fingers still and she rushes into speech, craving more of that silvery pleasure. "I don't even have to go all the way to Carlton anymore, since they opened up in the city square."

Her eyes flutter closed as he leans in. Finally.

There's a tingling pressure, a lingering imprint of heat on the tip of her nose.

She waits a second, forces her heavy lashes apart.

Wren lurches upright, forgetting her hold on the doona. It falls to her lap and cool air raises a rush of goosebumps across her bare skin.

Not that it matters.

The bloody man is gone.

Wren clenches her fists, wishing she had his neck in range. Her nose. He kissed her nose when her lips are, what, two centimetres lower?

That's the action of a friend, not a potential lover. Wren stares blindly at the opposite wall, mind clicking away, analysing. Oh, hell, that kiss was almost� brotherly.

Nightmare!

Although that would have a bright side, it would mean she'd dreamt this whole interlude. Wren touches her nose. It's still tingling, and shivers still dance through her system, bright as lightning and throwing off heat. No. If she'd dreamt of Diego and lemon tarts there'd be a bottle of lemon massage oil involved.

And she wouldn't have dreamt him vanishing.

Although, if she hadn't seen him bleed she'd swear he was a vampire, able to dematerialise at will. Though who said vampires couldn't bleed?

It could explain a lot. Wren hugs her knees. Weren't vampires known for their seductiveness, their ability to enthral with eyes and voice, for dark passion and--

Wren falls into the embrace of the bedding, breathing hard.

At times a vivid imagination is not a girl's best friend.

Certainly not now when her brain is providing full colour images of herself yanking him down into a smouldering, tongue-tangling kiss. She turns, restless on the sheets, bites back a moan as the cotton drags across her aching breasts, tickles her belly button and lower. Eyes shut, senses taking over, breath thready, her fingers dip, circle and press, and it isn't enough, curse him.

Wren bites back a scream of frustration, not wanting to wake the neighbours. On second thoughts, to hell with it. She shrieks until her lungs are empty.

It doesn't do much to relieve the shimmering tension gripping her. Wren drapes her forearms over her eyes. She fell for him years ago and to her disgust hasn't recovered yet. But professionally, a case of unrequited lust - or love, as her brain suggested in moments found at the bottom of a bottle of bubbly - was the best thing that ever happened to her.

That's professional Wren, as distinct from everyday known-to-wear-her-socks-inside-out Wren. Both of them have a serious case of the hots for a man rarely about, who runs around surviving on the strength of his wits and bare hands.

Damn.

And that's another point.

She only ever sees him when he's injured. The very first time they'd met he'd been bruised and achy, and barely touched her hand. Tonight he'd worn one obvious bandage and she rated a kiss on the bloody nose� So they were making progress but at this rate, actual sex - full body contact, messy, joyous, up-all-night sex - would be a near death experience, literally.

If she didn't kill him herself first.

If one of the other women in his life didn't grab him first.

She hisses.

Wren might be out on the big southern curve of the gossip network but she'd heard about the women he ran with by choice and had for years: that blonde hell-raising Holly H, technically talented Tiffany, aero ace Amanda � and torturing herself with alliteration didn't help.

There was no way she compared with them. And to be honest, she didn't want to. They held the status of friends, and she wanted more, lots lots more.

Wanting Diego Sateeva wasn't wise, but he doesn't make her feel wise.

He makes her feel alive, awake�

Too damn awake now to go back to sleep.

Wren lifts her arms and glances out the window. The rain's moved on, clouds gone just like Diego and it's as starlit as a Stevie Nicks night out there.

No chance of going back to sleep. Wren's arms flop wide. She can feel the blood pulsing in her veins, an electric fizzing, sparking images and scenarios and oh, yes, she knows exactly how to write the next scene of her current book. She may as well use the energy Diego gifted her with to do it.

He's her inspiration, anyway, her muse, the demon possessing her imagination.

Time to exorcise him.

Wren slinks from the bed. She reaches for her robe and slides it on, sucking in her breath as the silk abrades her sensitised skin. She circles her hands over the slithery raspberry fabric, stirring the shimmers just below her skin to full glitter. Her feet curl on the cold floor, a point of pain mingling with the pleasure, pushing it higher, and she goes searching for a thick pair of socks, finds the silk-cashmere ones that tie high on the thigh, perfect.

The ribbon bows tease with each step, as she eases her foot into a slipper, as she passes the computer, stooping to flick the power button, and hops into the kitchen where she's sure she left the other one. Yes, there it is, under the caf�-style table in the window bay. She balances herself on the table as she angles her foot into the slipper and finds herself facing the fridge.

Wren runs her tongue over her lips. She reaches for the handle, bathes in the rush of cold air. She needs some kind of oral gratification, and while leftover lasagne isn't what she craves, it will do. And there's that bottle of Tigress she was saving for no particular reason� except she's wide awake at 2:47am, subject to the whims of the witching hour and her own dark imagination. Setting the pasta dish down on the table, Wren seizes the bottle, shreds the foil, twists the cork out, and swigs directly from the bottle. Bubbles slide down her throat and she shudders.

Hhooooooo-hhooo.

Oh, yes, she knows exactly what's going to happen next, and how to make the web of gossip work to her advantage for once.

Wren salutes her reflection in the window with the bottle and her smile widens. Away with pretence and subtlety; she's going to clearly dedicate this book to My Diego, my shadow in the night, and then make sure it falls into the right hands. If his eyeballs don't melt, he'll be back.

Mess with a writer of erotica at your peril.

Kate's a true Aquarius, a morning person, and sadly addicted to rapsberries and paranormal romances. Her quirky "Wishbone" crime series ran on www.australianreader.com through 2006, while other stories have found a home on radio. She plans to finish the novel that sparked it all sometime soon.