clouds had passed by evening. The clear wash of sky and stars sucked out any hope of warmth in the air. The cold was clean and sharp as a razor, slicing keenly against any exposed skin.
She walked fast, using her flashlight to guide the way.
She shook her head when she ran the beam over Mac’s Rover. He hadn’t bothered to dig it out. Typical Nutty Professor behavior, she decided. Ignoring the practical.
She stomped up to the door, pounded with a wool-covered fist.
He answered wearing a gray sweatshirt that had seen better days and jeans that looked equally well used. She caught the unmistakable scent of Nell’s beef-and-barley soup and quickly decided it was that, and that alone, that made her mouth water.
“Hi. Jesus, it’s freezing out there. Must be down around zero.” Even as he stepped back to let her in, he looked outside. “No car? You walked in this? Are you crazy?”
She studied the equipment jammed cheek by jowl into the tiny living room. “You live like this, and you ask ifI’m crazy?”
“It’s too cold to be out for an evening stroll.” Instinctively, he took her gloved hands, rubbing them between his own.
“You get grabby, we’re on the clock.”
“Check the attitude.” His voice wasn’t mild and easygoing now, but hot as a bullet. It had her eyeing him speculatively. “Have you ever seen frostbite?”
“As a matter of fact—hey!” She yanked back when he pulled off her gloves to examine her fingers.
“I was with a group in Nepal a few years ago. One of the students got careless.” Ignoring her resistance, he wiggled her fingers. “He lost two of these.”
“I’m not careless.”
“Okay. Let me take your coat.”
She shrugged out of it, the neck scarf, the wool cap, the insulated vest, piling each layer she peeled off into his arms. “I guess you’re not careless.” Then he glanced around, looking for a place to dump everything.
She couldn’t help it—she grinned. “The floor’s good enough.”
“No, we’ll just . . . the bed,” he remembered, and carted them out down the narrow path he’d made to the bedroom.
“Are you afraid of the dark?” she called out.
“Huh?”
“You’ve got every light on in this place.”
“I do?” He came out again. “I’m always forgetting to turn things off. I bought a quart of Nell’s soup today, I just nuked it. Do you want some?” He waited a beat, reading her perfectly. “Eating’s off the clock.”
“I’m not hungry,” she quickly responded, and felt a good sulk coming on.
“Okay, I’ll have it later so we can get started. Where did I put . . .” He patted his pockets, circled. “Oh, yeah.” And found his mini-recorder beside a monitor. “I want to get some basic personal data first, so we’ll just—”
He broke off again, brow furrowed. He’d piled old files, clippings, research books, photographs, and other tools on the sofa. Even the floor didn’t offer enough room for two people to sit.
“Tell you what, we’ll do this part in the kitchen.”
She shrugged her shoulders, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and followed him back. “I’m going to go ahead and eat, since it’s here.” He took down a bowl, then decided to take pity on her. “Why don’t you change your mind so I don’t feel rude eating in front of you?”
“Fine. Got a beer?”
“No, sorry. Got a pretty decent Merlot, though.”
“That’ll work.” She stood while he dumped soup in bowls, poured wine.
“Have a seat.”
He settled down across from her, got up immediately. “Damn it, one more minute. Go ahead and eat.”
Ripley picked up her spoon as he hurried back out. She heard muttering, papers rattling, and a small crash as something hit the floor.
He came back with a spiral notebook, two pencils, and a pair of metal-framed glasses. The minute he slipped them on, her stomach clutched.
Oh, man, she thought, an incredibly sexy geek.
“I’m going to take notes,” he explained. “Back up the tape. How’s the soup?”
“It’s Nell’s,” she said simply.
“Yeah.” He began to eat. “She saved my life the other night when I lost track of time. I found a container of chowder in the freezer and nearly broke down and cried. Your brother’s a lucky man. I met him yesterday.”
“So he said.” She began to relax, thinking that as long as he made small talk, the clock was ticking. “They’re great together.”
“I got that impression. How old are you?”
“What?”
“Your age—for the record.”
“I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. I turned thirty last month.”
“What day?”
“Fourteenth.”
“Sagittarius. You know the time of birth?”
“I wasn’t paying a lot of attention at the time.” She picked up her wine. “I think my mother said it was about eight at night, after sixteen hours of sweating in the Valley of the Shadow and so on. Why do you need that?”
“I’ll input the data and run an astrological chart. Give you a copy if you want.”
“That stuff’s totally bogus.”
“You’d be surprised. You were born on the island?”
“Yeah, at home—doctor and midwife in attendance.”
“Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity?”
She didn’t mind lying, but she hated the fact that it always made her throat feel tight. “Why would I?”
“Do you remember your dreams?”
“Sure. I had a doozy the other night about Harrison Ford, a peacock feather, and a bottle of canola oil. What do you think that means?”
“Since a cigar is sometimes just a cigar, sexual fantasies are sometimes just about sex. Do you dream in color?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Always?”
She moved her shoulders. “Black and white’s for Bogart movies and art photography.”
“Are your dreams ever prophetic?”
She nearly answered in the affirmative before she caught herself. “So far Harry and I haven’t gotten it on. But I have hope.”
He switched tactics. “Got any hobbies?”
“Hobbies? You mean like . . . quilting or birdwatching? No.”
“What do you do with your free time?”
“I don’t know.” She nearly squirmed before she caught herself. “Stuff. TV, movies. I do some sailing.”
“Bogart movies? Top pick?”
“Maltese Falcon.”
“What do you sail?”
“Zack’s little day cruiser.” She tapped her fingers on the table, let her mind drift. “I think I’m going to get my own, though.”
“Nothing like a day on the water. When did you realize you had power?”
“It was never a . . .” She straightened, carefully wiped all expression off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, but we can let that slide for the moment if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t understand the question.”
He set his pencil down, nudged the bowl of soup aside, and looked directly at her. “Let’s put it this way, then. When did you realize you were a witch?”
Four
She heard theblood rush and roar in her head, pulsing in time with the gallop of her heart. He sat calmly, studying her as if she were some mildly interesting lab experiment.
Her temper began to tick like a bomb.
“What kind of a stupid question is that?”
“With some, it’s an instinct—hereditary knowledge. Others are taught the way a child is taught to walk and talk. There are some who come into it at the onset of puberty. Countless others, I believe, who go through life without ever realizing their potential.”
Now he made her feel as though she was a slightly dim-witted student. “I don’t know where
you get this stuff—or where you’ve come up with the half-baked idea that I’m . . .” She wasn’t going to say it, wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it. “This hocus-pocus area is your deal, not mine, Dr. Weird.”
Intrigued, he cocked his head. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry.” She leaned forward. “Want to see me angry?”
“Not particularly. But I’m willing to bet that if I put a sensor on you right now, I’d get some very interesting readings.”
“I’m finished betting with you. In fact, I’m finished with you period.”
He let her get to her feet, continued to make notes. “You still have forty-five minutes on your time. If you’re going to renege . . .” He swept his gaze up, met her furious stare. “I can only assume you’re afraid. It wasn’t my intention to frighten or upset you. I apologize.”
“Stuff your apology.” She strained against pride, always her most fretful war. She’d made the damn bet, she’d accepted the terms. With a bad-tempered jerk, she scraped her chair back out and sat again.
He didn’t rub it in, only continued to make notes, as if, Ripley thought, grinding her teeth, he’d known all along he would win.
“I’m going to take a wild leap here. You don’t practice.”
“I have nothing to practice.”