The face in her mirror . . . It was her face. It had to be. But it looked unfamiliar as this morning's headlines, as frightening in its strangeness as the bogeyman who'd haunted her childhood dreams. The man in her bed was Nicholas Steele, and it seemed likely that he was her husband. Though his touch was unfamiliar, she was unable to escape his power to stir her passion. She might indeed be Deborah, a woman who had taken her husband's love and twisted it into something foul and frightening. That would be bad enough. Because if she wasn't Deborah, then Nicholas had murdered his wife - and she was in love with a man who had blood on his hands.