The sky had been blue that morning. Now it was an ominous gray. Just as Aurora Deveaux rounded the curve and saw Perry's Cove spread out before her, an enormous fork of lightning split the heavens.
It was like a warning — repeated in the earsplitting roll of thunder that followed.
Go back, if you don't want to die.
Her foot jumped on the accelerator. If she had a choice, she would have turned back. Not because she really thought she was in danger, but because the task ahead made her chest tighten.
She was here because Uncle Harold was dead, and she had to clear out his house — the house where she and her cousins Celeste, Skye and Eve had spent so many happy summers as children.
With an effort, she blinked back the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. None of them had.
"Not fair," she whispered.
Uncle Harold hadn't even been sick. He'd been murdered, along with two other members of his church congregation, by a man named Calvin Upton who had put poison in the church coffeepot. In a strange twist of fate, Upton was dead, too. He'd left a suicide note saying that he hadn't meant for anyone to die. He'd just been trying to teach the congregation a lesson in humility.
Rory rounded a curve and saw the ocean, the white-capped waves pounding savagely against the beach. Her breath caught, and she couldn't shake the eerie feeling that she'd summoned the scene of natural turbulence to express her frustration and anger.
No. It wasn't her doing. That was nonsense. Still, the conversation she'd had with Celeste that summer, almost 15 years ago, came back — the way it often did when she was stressed.
They'd been outside on the beach at night. It had been overcast and she'd wanted to see the stars. Like magic, the clouds had rolled away and she'd looked up in awe at the points of light above her, spread across a black velvet sky — so many more of them and so much brighter than in Raleigh.
"Thanks for clearing the sky."
Her head had jerked toward Celeste. "I didn't do anything."
Celeste shrugged a shoulder. "Don't be modest. You have special powers. We all do."
"I don't want special powers!"
"You don't have a choice. It's the blessing — or the curse — of the women in our family. Uncle Harold talked to me about it."
"He never told me anything like that!"
"He knew you didn't want to hear about getting a dose of Great-Grandmother's magic."
"That's just a legend."
"You can tell yourself that if you want to. But I know what my power is. I'm a fortune-teller. And you can change the weather. I've watched you do it."
"No!"
"Why do you want to be ordinary?" Celeste had asked softly.
Rory hadn't answered then, but over the years she'd often pondered that question. As an artist, she loved the unique landscapes and seascapes she created. But at the same time, she wanted ordinary relationships, and those had never worked out. There was something different about her — something that made it impossible for her to fall in love, even though plenty of guys were attracted to her.
Well, at least her career was taking off — not just in Raleigh, but up and down the east coast. She'd spent the past few months furiously painting. Now it was July, and she hadn't made it down to Perry's Cove — until that jolting call from a man she didn't know, Samuel Bridgeman, who'd said he was Uncle Harold's lawyer.
She'd been driving on autopilot. Suddenly she realized she had arrived at her uncle's house. As she peered through the gloom toward the porch, her nerves begin to jangle. As if to mock her, the wind picked up, and fat droplets splashed around the car. If she could really affect the weather, she'd make them stop, she thought with a grimace. But they continued to fall. So she reached into the backseat, grabbed a floppy hat and jammed it over her red hair before sprinting for the house.
The man inside the house kept to the edge of the window as he peered out into the gathering storm.
"Damn," he muttered as he watched the slender young woman sprint toward the front porch. "Who the heck are you?"
He'd planned this break-in carefully, and he'd thought he had the place to himself.
He got only a quick glance at the woman, because she'd ducked her head, hiding her face. But the wisps of red hair sticking out from under her hat tugged at his memory.
He listened as the front door opened. Did she have a key, or had she used burglar's tools on the old lock?
Straining his ears, he listened for her footsteps. They stopped in the front hall. Probably she'd just discovered that the electricity was off. If he was lucky, she'd turn around and leave.
"Rats," Rory muttered as she pulled out the small flashlight that she always carried in her purse.
The narrow beam did little to dispel the gloom, and she struggled not to shiver as wind seeped around the cracks of the old door frame. She'd like to wait until she could get an electrician in here, but Mr. Bridgeman had been very specific. Her uncle had wanted the house cleaned out as soon as possible.
As soon as she stepped into the office, she knew she'd made a mistake. Someone was here. She could feel his presence.
Before she could turn and run, a man materialized from behind the door. His face was in shadow, but she saw the glint of metal in his hand.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his tone gritty.
Her voice froze in her throat.
"Answer me!"
As she struggled to make her vocal cords work, a blast of wind surged outside, whipping a tree branch against the window. As it scraped the glass, the man whirled.
Taking the opportunity the storm had given her, she turned and pounded down the hall. But she never reached the front door. Something hard and metallic clunked to the floor behind her. Then a large hand closed around her shoulder, pulling her down — so that she fell to the Oriental runner, the man's hard body coming down on top of her.
Luke felt a tremor go through the woman who lay under him. He'd tackled her and prevented her escape. Now she was scared. Good.
Then her muscles tensed, and he knew she was going to try something desperate.
"Don't," he growled. "I don't want to hurt you."
She went still, but he didn't trust her to do the sane thing — not when she'd come sneaking in here for Lord knew what.
He should heave himself off of her, but his muscles didn't obey his mind. He couldn't stop himself from reacting in a very unprofessional manner to the nicely rounded cushion of her bottom. When he realized he was in danger of giving his arousal away, he eased to a sitting position.
"Roll over, nice and slowly," he ordered as he stared at her wild red hair. She'd been wearing a hat, which was now lying in the hall, along with her purse.
Head bowed, she pushed away from him, sliding her shoulders protectively up the wall. When she raised her face, he felt as though he'd been punched in the gut by a giant fist.
He hadn't seen her in years. Yet he'd know that face anywhere.
"Rory?" he gasped, feeling his heart start to pound inside his chest.
He saw the moment when she realized who he was, because her expression went from defiant to disoriented. Did she feel as dazed as he was?
"Luke?" she asked in a tentative voice.
The way she said his name made him want to reach for her. Instead he pressed his palms against the hard surface of the floor. Aurora Deveaux was not for a guy from Hickville, North Carolina.
She was speaking again, and her words penetrated the fog in his brain.
"What were you going to do — shoot me?"
"Shoot you? With what?" He glanced behind him at the object lying on the floor. "With a flashlight?"
"Flashlight! I thought it was a gun." She looked endearingly embarrassed. Before he could relax, she straightened her shoulders. "Maybe you'd better explain what you're doing in my uncle's house."
"Trying to find out who killed him. And why."
"Nice try. It was a creep named Calvin Upton."
"He didn't do it."
"You know more than the cops?"
"I've talked to Calvin's family. I'll stake my P.I.'s license that the suicide note is a forgery. I'm going to clear his name."
Rory tipped her head to one side, struggling to keep her cool as she sat facing Luke Stuart, still trying to come to grips with the reality of the man. He'd been a good-looking kid. Now he was devastating. Well, at least to her. The combination of dark hair, blue eyes, and sensual lips was making her stomach quiver. Over the years she'd made up fantasies about him, if she admitted the truth — to herself, not to him. Then on one trip back to Perry's Cove, she'd learned that he was engaged to a girl he'd met in graduate school at Chapel Hill. That news had twisted inside her. Truthfully, that was one of the reasons she hadn't come back to town recently. She hadn't wanted to run into him with a wife and kids in tow.
Now she couldn't keep from looking at his left hand. No ring, but that didn't prove anything. Floundering around for something to say, she came up with the dumb line, "You're a P.I.? Yeah, that fits."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Again she scrambled to sound coherent. "You never could leave a mystery alone. Like when the candy kept disappearing from Mr. Harper's store — and he banned all the kids. You found Bucky Peterson's stash and made him own up to Mr. Harper."
He laughed. "You remember that?"
"Yes." And a lot more.
"You missed your uncle's funeral," he said suddenly. "You and the rest of your cousins. Didn't you care about coming?"
Her face contorted. "None of us knew until after the funeral. Apparently he wanted it that way."
"Most people in town thought it was pretty strange."
"What? They're all talking about us?"
"Of course. This is a small place. What do you expect?"
She gave a tight nod. In Perry's Cove, everybody knew everybody else's business.
With a grimace, she pushed herself to her feet.
He also stood, and the way he looked her up and down made her nerves jangle. "Are you okay?" he said, his voice rough. "I mean, did I hurt you?"
"No."
As soon as the state of her health was established, he switched back to business. "So why are you here now — if you didn't come to the funeral?"
She kept her voice even as she answered, "Again, his wishes. He wanted one of us — me or Eve or Celeste or Skye — to clear out this house right away."
"You mean get rid of evidence?"
"Evidence of what?"
He shrugged.
"There is no evidence!"
"I think you're wrong. One of us will find something if we start looking."
"I think you'd better leave," she countered.
"Let me tell you about Calvin. Why I want to help his family."
Should she trust him? Maybe she should hear what he had to say.
He must have seen her wavering because he said quickly, "Maybe we should talk over a cup of tea. The gas stove should be working."
"Okay," she answered.
He picked up the flashlight, switched it on, and started down the hall.
"You know your way around the house?" she asked.
"I did a fair amount of handyman work for your uncle over summer vacations from college, after you and your cousins stopped visiting."
While she found the cinnamon-flavored tea that Uncle Harold always drank, Luke got out one of the antique coal oil lamps they'd used when the power was out. The old-fashioned light cast a warm glow over the room. When she filled two mugs with hot water and dropped in tea bags, the fragrance of cinnamon wafted through the air.
Turning from the stove, she found Luke leaning comfortably against the counter, watching her. Suddenly the atmosphere in the kitchen felt much too intimate, too cozy.
"Why do you want to help the Upton family?" she asked.
"Because the insurance company won't pay up on his policy, and they need the money."
"Oh."
"Whoever put that poison in the coffee is screwing his daughter and grandchildren out of their inheritance."
"I'm sorry."
"Then help me."
Unable to deal with the demand in his eyes, she set down the mug she'd just picked up. "I'm going out to get my suitcase."
Before he could answer she headed for the front door.
The minute she stepped off the porch, the wind surged, tearing at her clothing with savage fingers. At the same time, the heavens opened up. Not just with rain. With nasty little hailstones, as well.
With her arms over her head for protection, she ran for the car then remembered that she'd left her keys inside the house.
In seconds she was soaked to the skin, and the blinding rain was coming down so hard and fast that she couldn't even be sure which way to turn to get back to the house.
It was obvious from where Luke stood in the shelter of the porch that the sudden torrent of rain had blinded Rory.
It looked almost as if the storm had something against her — the way it had surged as she ran to the car.
Slitting his eyes against the downpour, he charged off the porch, caught up with her and lifted her into his arms.
The rain was like being dunked into ice water. Startlingly cold for a July day. By the time he reached the front door, they were both soaked to the skin, and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep them from chattering.
Looking down, he was fascinated by the way tendrils of her wet hair curled against her pale cheek and neck. But that wasn't the only interesting view. Her shirt and bra had turned transparent, so that he could clearly see her puckered nipples through the soaked fabric. That erotic sight was enough to give him a jolt of heat.
He pictured himself carrying her upstairs so he could bundle her into one of the spare beds. Instead he brought her to the den, where he set her on the couch, grabbed the afghan and wrapped it around her.
"I'll be right back," he said as he charged out of the room again and up the stairs. First he gathered towels and blankets from the linen closet. Then he grabbed a couple of Harold's clean sweatshirts and pants off of hangers in the closet.
Downstairs again, he brought the lamp from the kitchen and set it on the desk, illuminating the shivering woman huddled on the couch.
He sat down beside her "Rory?"
"I feel...so cold."
"We've got to get you warm," he said as he draped one of the towels around her shoulders. Tipping her head against his chest, he worked at her hair, rubbing vigorously, wishing that he could turn on the heat in the icebox of a house.
"I'm going to take off your wet shirt. Okay?" he asked in a voice that wasn't quite steady.
She nodded against his chest. Before he could tell himself this wasn't a good idea, he began working at the buttons on the front of her shirt, the wet fabric making each one take forever to unfasten.
He kept telling himself there was nothing personal about what he was doing as he tossed the shirt onto the worn Oriental carpet. But when he saw her breasts covered only by the lacy cups of her wet bra, he had to fight to drag air into his lungs. The cold had contracted her nipples, making them pout toward him. It was all he could do to keep from reaching up to touch those dainty buds.
Was she watching him? He was too much of a coward to raise his eyes. Quickly, he snatched up the sweatshirt and pulled it over her head, then helped her get her arms through the sleeves.
"Thank you," she whispered.
For covering her up? For getting her out of the wet blouse?
Leaning back, she tipped her head up. "You, too."
"Me too what?"
"You're just as cold and wet as I am."
"Not quite." He didn't exactly feel cold. But he pulled off his wet shirt and tossed it on the floor. When he went to reach for the other sweatshirt, he found only the pants. Maybe he'd dropped the garment in his hurry to get back down here. Or maybe he'd never actually picked it up, but he suddenly felt like a high school kid who'd left his gym clothes at home.
Knowing that he wasn't going to shuck off his wet jeans in front of her because a view of him in his briefs would give away too much, he grabbed the pants and stamped out into the hall. When he came back in dry pants, her jeans were in a heap on the floor, and she had made herself a nest of blankets.
Rory scrunched under the blankets, thinking that they were a good place to hide, if that's what she wanted to do. From Luke. From herself. Because she was afraid she was on the verge of making a fool of herself.
Apparently he had forgotten to get himself a dry shirt. But she didn't mind. His chest was magnificently bare and covered with thick, crinkly hair — the view leading her thoughts in dangerous directions. Still, as soon as she saw the goose bumps peppering his muscular arms, she knew she had a good reason for lifting the edge of the afghan in invitation.
When he crossed the room and settled next to her, a small sigh eased out of her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved or spoke.
She swallowed hard and asked the question that had been locked inside her, "What would your wife think about this?"
"What do you mean? I don't have a wife."
"Oh." She let some of the tension ease out of her.
"Do you think I'd be under the covers with you if I were married?"
"Some guys would," she murmured. Then, before she could stop herself, she moved her hand, pressing it against the cold skin of his chest. She was just trying to warm him, she told herself as she struggled not to comb her fingers into the crinkly hair under her palm.
"Rory?"
When she answered with a small nod, he leaned closer and brushed his lips lightly against hers.
She could have pulled back. But she didn't have the will to do it. Instead she pressed forward. It was a sweet meeting of his mouth against hers. And deep inside herself, she silently admitted that she had wanted to kiss this man for as long as she could remember. Feeling amazingly brazen, she lightly stroked her tongue against his lower lip.
He made a greedy sound, gathered her close, deepened the kiss.
His reaction made her heart leap and her blood heat, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of his kiss, of his touch.
Warmth flowed through her body when he clasped her against him, devoured her mouth, using his tongue, his lips, his teeth.
She was aware of so many sensations, all of them swimming in her consciousness. The thick hair of his chest flattened against her palm. The insistent pressure of his lips on hers. The masculine taste of him.
"Rory, you're so sweet," he murmured against her mouth as he bent her back onto the sofa.
But when his body came down on hers, she knew she was in trouble. She was alone in her uncle's house, with a man she hardly knew. And she was in danger of doing something that she would likely regret.
"Luke." She pushed against his shoulder. "Luke, don't."
It took several seconds for her to get through to him. When he raised his head, his eyes were dilated.
Then he focused on her face, and his body stiffened. He sat up with a jerk, putting several inches of space between them on the sofa.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have let you think..." The words trailed off.
"It wasn't your fault. It was the rain and the icy wind. I can't believe it got so cold and wet so fast. In July, no less."
In her supercharged state, she couldn't stop herself from snapping, "Are you accusing me of manipulating the weather?" she asked in strained voice.
From four feet away, Luke stared at Rory sitting with her back pressed against the sofa cushions. She had just asked a pretty odd question. Was he accusing her of manipulating the weather? For what? To get them wet and cold so they'd end up huddled together on the sofa?
A nice trick, if anyone could do it.
"Of course not!" But even as he answered, he was silently remembering the stories he'd heard about her family. Harold had always been considered a little strange. And the four cousins were also suspect. Some people had even whispered that they might be witches. He'd heard guys who swore that Skye had read their minds.
"Then what?" Rory demanded.
"I was just trying to explain to myself how we got tangled up on the couch like that. It wasn't something I planned or anything."
She looked away.
He stretched out his hand under the covers and brushed her fingers. "I'm sorry I stepped out of line," he murmured.
"You didn't do anything I didn't want," she said in a strained voice. "Then I got to worrying about where we were headed."
"Yeah. You did the right thing — stopping me."
"Because you'd regret making love to me?" she shot back, then looked shocked at what she'd said.
He brushed back his damp hair with his free hand, wondering how to respond. He settled on the truth. "I've wanted to make love with you for years."
"Oh."
"But acting on one of my all-time favorite fantasies would be taking advantage of you now."
"My fantasy, too," she whispered, and he wondered if he'd heard that right. But the color that rose in her cheeks told him she'd just matched his admission with her own.
He cleared his throat. "Maybe the way to go is to get reacquainted first, you know."
Rory watched Luke rearrange the covers over his legs and feet, thinking that he was as nervous as she was herself.
He cleared his throat. "I guess I should tell you that I've followed your career."
"You have?" she asked in surprise.
"Yeah. There have been articles in newspapers and magazines about you. You've painted some amazing landscapes and seascapes."
"Thank you."
"Uh...I always considered you out of my league."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
"Well, I've lived most of my life in this one small town. I'm a bush-league P.I. And I do handyman work, too. But you've got a fast-track career."
"I'm just me — Rory Deveaux. I haven't changed."
"You're from the city. You only came here in the summers."
"I didn't pick the city. It's where my parents live." Testing the waters, she added, "I didn't pick my strange family, either." When he didn't climb off the sofa she added, "My great-grandmother was supposed to be an um — witch."
He tipped his head to one side. "My great-grandmother was a...um...cocktail waitress. She got pregnant with my grandfather and had to go back home and live with her folks. Lucky for her they took her in."
"Oh."
"You shake anybody's family tree, and skeletons will fall out."
"I never thought about it that way," she murmured, wondering what he'd say if she told him that when she wanted to paint a particular kind of weather, it usually appeared. No, that was going a little far.
"We should see what there is to eat," he said suddenly. "Then get some sleep."
"That sounds like you're planning to stay here."
"If you're camping out in the house, so am I." He gave her a direct look. "It's not safe for you to stay here alone."
She didn't want to believe that. But she wasn't going to argue, not when it gave her an excuse to keep him close.
He stood and picked up the lamp. She followed him down the hall to the kitchen. Thinking that the interior of the refrigerator might be a mess, she bypassed it and stepped into the pantry.
"I'm going to get a shirt," he said, leaving the room.
She busied herself looking for food in the pantry. Everything was just as she remembered it, arranged in neat rows, and she easily found the supplies that her uncle kept around for emergencies — sausage and cheese that didn't need refrigerating. Crackers. Salsa and dip.
When she came back to the kitchen, she saw that Luke had opened Uncle Harold's wine cupboard. "Okay to open a burgundy?" he asked.
"Sure."
They worked together, getting paper plates and plastic cups, then carried the simple meal to the table.
Luke sliced the sausage. She opened packages of cheese.
"Do you remember Johnny Towson's clubhouse?" he asked.
She grinned. "Of course. We'd hole up there reading comic books and eating stuff like this. Plus sour cream potato chips and orange soda."
He grinned back. "Your comic book preference was Archie."
"You liked Superman," she countered.
"You noticed."
"I noticed almost everything about you."
"Me, too."
She ducked her head, trying not to make too much of this cozy meal with Luke and the memories they were sharing. But she couldn't dispel the feeling of intimacy enclosing them.
He shifted in his seat, then shattered her illusions. "You're probably tired from the drive down here."
So he was trying to cut the evening short. Standing, she started putting the food away, working with jerky motions. He came up behind her and cupped his hands over her shoulders.
"I know what you're thinking," he said in a gruff voice.
"What?"
"That I want to put some distance between us. That's sort of true. But what I was really trying to do was keep my hands off you." He turned her in his arms and folded her close.
She melted against him, realizing instantly that he was turned on.
Neither of them spoke as he nuzzled his lips against her hair, her ear. All she had to do was turn her head, and her lips would meet his. Wordlessly, she raised her arms, clasping him to her. She could feel her heart pounding, feel his breath accelerate — and her own.
"Help me do the right thing," he said in a husky whisper.
She didn't want to do the right thing. She longed to do just the opposite. But she forced herself to step away and drop her arms.
She saw his hands clench and unclench. Then he shoved the crackers into a plastic bag. When they finished putting the food away, they lit another lamp and carried both upstairs, along with the flashlights.
Luke took one of the other guest rooms. Rory bedded down in her old room. It was difficult to sleep when all she had to do was walk across the hall and she'd be in Luke's arms. But she stayed where she was, and finally she drifted off.
She woke early in the morning then went looking for Luke. He wasn't in his room.
Had he left after all?
Hurrying down the steps, she heard a stealthy noise in the den. When she looked through the door, she went rigid. Luke had his back to her, and he was rifling through the papers in her uncle's desk.
As Rory watched Luke going through her uncle's papers, she felt betrayed. In defense, fury rose inside her.
He'd acted so protective. Now she knew he'd simply been using her.
"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.
He turned to confront her, an abashed expression on his face. But his voice was steady. "I'm doing my job — finding out who wanted to kill your uncle and why."
"Oh, right," she answered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "That's why you stayed the night, so you could come down here in the morning."
"That's part of it."
"Get out."
"Okay," he said in a low voice, surprising her by not protesting.
Her vision was blurred, but she held herself together as he walked stiffly out of the house and down the steps. And she was happy to see the wind spring up and hurl a spray of sand and sea grass onto him as he disappeared around a sand dune.
When he was out of sight, she couldn't hold back her tears. They trickled from her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She had been too wound up with Luke Stuart. Too hopeful that something important was happening between them.
Grimacing, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she stared at the desk where Luke had been going through her uncle's file folders.
Maybe there really was something important here, but the desk wasn't the place to look. Probably it was the closet where Uncle Harold had once showed her a secret hiding place behind the back wall.
She was moving clutter out of the way so she could get to the wall when the hair at the back of her neck stirred.
She'd heard something — someone — moving in the house.
Luke?
She stood up, prepared to confront him. But what if it wasn't him? What if he'd been right — that she was in danger?
Frantically she looked around the room and grabbed the only weapon she could find, an old candlestick. Then she hid behind the office door.
Stealthy footsteps came down the hall. Seconds later, a man stepped into the office. A black hood covered his head, making it impossible to identify him. But it wasn't Luke. He was too tall and too heavy.
"Put down the candlestick before you get hurt," he growled, raising one of his gloved hands.
Before she could swing the makeshift weapon, Luke charged through the door and lunged at the intruder.
Wide-eyed, she watched as the big man whirled, lashing out at him with a foot. Luke dodged away then punched at the black-clad face.
The man gasped as the blow connected. Recovering quickly, he snatched a copper vase off the desk, bringing it down on Luke's head.
As Luke dropped to the floor, the intruder ran past him and down the hall.
Her heart in her throat, Rory went down on her knees beside Luke. He was out cold.
"Luke, are you all right?" she gasped.
Finally, his eyes blinked open. When he pushed himself to a sitting position against the desk, she scooted forward, taking him in her arms.
"You're hurt," she whispered.
"It could be a lot worse." Turning his head, he brought his mouth to hers.
In a corner of her mind, she knew that was the wrong thing to do. He'd been unconscious. He needed medical attention. But when his lips moved urgently against hers, she couldn't stop herself from responding. When his tongue swept into her mouth, playing with her teeth and the sensitive tissue of her inner lips, she was helpless to hold back a small sound of need.
He lifted his mouth far enough away from hers to ask, "Does this mean you're not pissed at me anymore?"
"Oh, Luke, I'm sorry. What were you doing out there? Watching the house?"
"Yeah, I couldn't take a chance on someone hurting you; you're too important to me," he answered and brought his mouth back to hers.
Important for what? As a source of information? It certainly didn't feel that way. Not when he was kissing her like a starving man who had just been served a banquet. Not when his hand moved up to cup her breast, his fingers stroking back and forth across her already hardened nipple, making it contract even more.
It seemed like the conk on the head had loosened his tongue, because the next thing he said was, "I've wanted you since the day you strutted out on the beach in that green-and-white bikini."
She was just as reckless in her response. "I bought it for you. I thought you didn't notice."
"I noticed all right."
"Then why didn't you even talk to me that day?" She asked the question that had been locked inside her for years.
"Every time I thought about coming up to you, I got so hard I knew I was going to embarrass myself."
"Oh."
He brought his mouth back to hers as his fingers did clever, erotic things to her nipple.
She wanted to let herself go — to take what he was offering. But inconvenient thoughts kept intruding.
Drawing back, she lifted his hand away from her breast and pressed his fingertips to her mouth, knowing she had to be the sensible one.
"Luke, we can't do this now."
"Why not?" he asked, his voice plaintive.
"Because you got hit on the head. You were unconscious, and I have to take you to the hospital."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"If we leave the house unguarded, that guy will swoop in."
She wanted to argue the point, but she knew he was right.
He closed his eyes for several moments, then solved the dilemma. "Let me call Mark Ramsey."
"Who is he?"
"A good guy. Someone in town I trust." He laughed. "Of course, he served time for murdering his wife."
Rory drew in a sharp breath.
"But then the conviction was overturned, and he came home to prove he was framed. He knows the ins and outs of Perry's Cove."
"Okay."
Luke fished his cell phone from his pocket and called his friend. Within a half hour, Mark arrived. Rory regarded him curiously. He looked fit and capable, and she wanted to ask how he'd gotten railroaded into prison. But not now.
After thanking Mark for watching the house, she drove Luke straight to the emergency room. And as soon as she told the nurse that he'd been unconscious, he was taken to the back. Then she waited for three nerve-wracking hours to hear how he was. Finally a doctor came out and said that Luke had suffered a mild concussion and shouldn't be left alone for the next twenty-four hours.
"You don't have to feel obligated to baby-sit me," he said gruffly when they were back in the car.
She stared at him. They'd gotten close, and now it looked as though he was trying to distance himself from her.
"I think I'm capable of looking after you — unless you'd rather have your friend do it," she answered in a tight voice.
The emergency-room physician wanted somebody to stay with Luke for the next twenty-four hours because of his concussion. Rory waited tensely to find out if Luke would let her be that person.
"You don't have to feel obligated," he said gruffly.
She turned to face him. "What do you want — to stay with me or not?"
"With you," he murmured.
She let out the breath she'd been holding. Then, because she wasn't ready to delve any further into their personal relationship, she said, "Maybe we'd better make a stop so I can pick up some food.
They drove to Sea Breeze Café, a restaurant where a lot of the locals ate.
When she cut the engine, he put his hand on her arm. "In the emergency room, I told the doctor that someone broke into the house. So the police may be out to interview us."
"What do you mean 'may be'?"
"Perry's Cove only has a small department. And Sheriff Hammer has had his hands full since he lost one of his deputies. It may take a couple of days. Um — do you know who that guy was who brained me?"
"Of course not. Do you?"
"I wish I did. Gloves and a hood made it hard to identify him."
Luke climbed out of the car, and she followed.
She realized as soon as they walked into the restaurant that the stop was a mistake. All eyes turned toward them, and she knew she was either going to have to answer a bunch of questions or come off as a stuck-up city girl.
To give herself time to think, she placed a huge carryout order — for two soups and several salads. Finally, she turned to face Ray Myers, the grizzled old man who had run the dry goods store in town ever since she could remember.
"Sorry to hear about your uncle," he said. Half a dozen other local men and the young blond waitress nodded and murmured in agreement.
"Yes. Thank you."
Before anyone could ask why she and her cousins hadn't attended the funeral, Luke explained the situation to the assembled crowd, then said, "It would help Aurora to know what was going on with Harold in the last few months."
Ray looked uncomfortable, then cleared his throat. "Your uncle was acting kind of strange."
"How do you mean?" she asked.
"He kept saying someone was after him. But we didn't put much stock in that. And when we asked, he wouldn't say who it was. But one thing he kept coming back to was you and your cousins. He kept saying you needed to come down here so he could talk to you."
"Oh," she breathed, feeling worse than she had when she'd first driven into town.
Luckily, the order arrived, and Luke picked up the carryout bags and paid for them.
"Come on. We should get back," he said.
"Thank you all for expressing your sympathy," she told the restaurant patrons, then made a hurried escape.
When she'd slipped behind the wheel, Luke covered her hand with his. "Don't let them make you feel guilty."
"I should have been here for Uncle Harold."
"You might have gone to church with him and gotten poisoned, too," he said, tightening his grip on her.
With a quick nod, she headed back to her uncle's house.
When they got home, they found that Mark Ramsey — a building contractor by profession — had gotten the electricity on. Rory thanked him profusely and asked him to stay and share their meal, but he said he had to get back.
Once they were alone, she busied herself setting out the salads and warming the soup in the microwave.
"How does your head feel?" she asked Luke, when they were sitting across the table again.
"Tolerable."
She ate several forkfuls of salad while he spooned up chicken soup. But she knew he was watching her, knew he wanted to turn the conversation back to Harold and his odd behavior. Only, he wasn't going to press her.
She sat there, torn. Luke had risked his life to rescue her. For that, she owed him information. Yet if she started talking about her family, she wasn't sure where they were going to end up.
She shifted in her seat and knew that he had picked up on the small movement.
"That guy who broke in... I...uh...might have some idea why," she allowed.
He waited silently for her to go on.
"I...um...told you about my great-grandmother who was supposed to be a witch. Well, there's more to the story. Apparently there was some kind of magic stone that got broken apart. I think Uncle Harold might have had a piece of it. At the very least, it would be a unique antique. And what if somebody thought they could use it to work a spell or something? So maybe my uncle wasn't paranoid. Maybe he thought somebody was after the family treasure."
There, she had said it.
Tensely, she waited for Luke to respond.
"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said.
"Do you think Uncle Harold was crazy? And I am, too?"
"No!"
She was on a roll, so she gulped and pressed on. "Okay, I blew up at you when you mentioned the weather. But what if it's really true? What if the magic stuff in my family is real? What if I called up that storm to keep you here?"
To her astonishment, he laughed. "It's just as likely that I was the one who did it. Because I wanted to stay with you. Very much."
"Thank you for telling me," she whispered. Then she gave him a critical look. "Luke, you're worn out."
"I didn't sleep much."
She didn't comment that he'd been up early — snooping. Instead she said, "You should get some rest."
She thought he'd make a macho denial, but he agreed to lie down. Which probably meant he was feeling pretty washed out from the day's events.
"I'm supposed to check your eyes," she reminded him.
His pupils both contracted normally when she tested them with the flashlight. So she sent him up to bed then lay down on the sofa in the den.
For an hour she tried to rest. But she couldn't stop thinking about the hiding place in the closet. Finally she got up and began examining the wall.
It took another half hour to find the panel and figure out how to open it. But she finally accomplished the task.
When she lifted the section of paneling out of the way, she found a niche built into the wall. Inside was an old trunk with a humped top and rusty hardware.
Her heart was pounding as she pulled it out. Did the trunk hold the proof she'd been dreading — the proof that her family was abnormal?
She had just opened the hasp and lifted the lid, smelling the musty contents, when she heard footsteps behind her. Instinctively she slammed the top shut again.
Rory leaned over the antique trunk she had just slammed shut. The trunk she had found hidden behind a secret panel in the wall of the closet.
"So you don't trust me after all," Luke said, tension crackling in his voice from where he stood behind her.
She slowly turned to face him, hating the uncertainty in his eyes.
Trying to keep her voice even, she said, "You were upstairs lying down, and it could have been that guy coming back."
"Yeah," he answered, giving her that much.
She dragged in a breath and let it out. "And — keeping secrets is a family trait. I guess I need to retrain myself — where you're concerned."
She'd just revealed more than she should, and she waited with the air frozen in her lungs for his reaction.
Swiftly, he crossed the room, rounded the trunk and came down beside her — pulling her into his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.
She wanted to stay where she was, but after a few moments, she eased away. "We should look in the trunk."
"You want me to make myself scarce?" he asked gruffly.
For her answer, she pushed the lid open.
He moved so that he was sitting behind her, giving her unfettered access to the contents, but he pulled her against his chest as though he were protecting her.
To her mixed relief and disappointment, it looked as though there was nothing important inside, just some old clothes, which she set on the floor.
Digging deeper, she found several pieces of yellowed paper. Carefully she unfolded them and saw the words Deveaux Family Legend.
Her eyes scanned quickly. Words and phrases leaped out at her. A curse. An evil wizard.
"It's true," she whispered. "Solange shattered the stone to save her family."
As she spoke, an unseen force seemed to compel her to reach into the trunk again, where she found something heavy, cushioned in a wool shawl. When she unwrapped it, she found a chunk of gray stone. Well, not just ordinary stone. It was flat and engraved with mystical symbols. One edge was smooth, but the other two were jagged, broken from a larger circle.
As she held it in her hand, it seemed to grow warm, and she let it fall back into the trunk.
"A piece of the Stone of Power," she whispered. Her chest had gone tight with tension. "So it's true. I can't keep hiding from it. There's magic in my family. This stone and the notes are the proof."
She turned to look at Luke.
"And what do you think I'm going to do — run away?" he asked.
"Are you?" she pressed, feeling as though she were balanced between heaven and hell.
For answer, he took her in his arms. Then quickly, decisively, he lowered his lips to hers. The hunger and passion of the kiss seared her from the roots of her red hair to the ends of her toes.
All the barriers she had erected between herself and the world were suddenly gone. Deep in her heart, she knew it was impossible now not to give this man everything she could offer. And ask for everything he could give.
He made a low, needy growl as she lifted her arms around his neck. Still, when he raised his head and stared into her eyes, he whispered, "Rory, you can tell me to stop."
"Why would I do that?"
She lay back on the rug, pulling him with her, pulling him on top of her, so that she could feel his arousal wedged against the aching place between her legs.
His gaze burned into hers. Then his lips came down on hers, and she could taste his need, not just in that mouth-to-mouth contact, but in every cell of her body.
The kiss broke, and he rolled to his side so he could unbutton her shirt and the front fastening of her bra.
As he pushed the garments aside, her breath stilled.
"Lord, that is a beautiful sight," he murmured as he reached to lightly stroke one hardened nipple then take it between his thumb and finger. She moaned, then moaned again as he lowered his mouth to the other nipple and sucked.
She arched into the caress, helpless to do anything besides respond to him — physically, emotionally, on every level that a woman could respond to a man.
When he rolled away from her, she made a sound of protest. Then she saw that he was getting rid of his shirt and pants.
She did the same, kicking her pants away and shrugging her arms out of the shirt sleeves.
When he came back to her, they were both naked. She wanted to feast her gaze on his body. But he didn't give her much chance. With a growl of satisfaction, he pulled her against himself again, and the feel of his naked flesh pressed to hers was like an erotic shock wave.
It was only the beginning. Drawing back, he stroked her body, pausing at all the sensitive places.
When his fingers tangled in the curly hair at the juncture of her legs, then slipped into the warm folds of her feminine flesh, she arched into the caress.
Leaning down, he nuzzled her ear with his lips and teeth. "You're so responsive, so ready for me."
She knew it was the truth. Because this was Luke, the man who had been made for her.
He pushed her higher and higher to a place where there was room for only the intense pleasure he was giving her.
Then his body was over hers. She took him deeply into herself, feeling so much more than just physical sensation. When he began to move, she clung to him as small tremors radiated from that place where his body joined hers. The sensations built quickly, exploding through her in a burst of ecstasy that brought his name to her lips. In the next moment, he followed her into that bright realm of sensation.
The light in the room had changed. When she turned her head toward the window, she saw a rainbow arching across the sky, sending a cascade of bright colors down around them.
"Do you see that?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. That burst of color is for us."
He rolled to his side, kissing her, keeping his arms around her, and she snuggled against him, wanting to tell him she had never felt such intensity — not with any other man. But she didn't want to make him think he had to make some kind of declaration. So she kept silent.
She wanted to stay in his arms forever, but after several minutes, she felt his body growing tense.
"What?" she asked, rising up to look at him.
"There's something I'd better tell you," he answered.
From the tone of his voice, she was pretty sure it wasn't going to be anything good.
Rory's chest tightened. Luke had just made wonderful love to her, but now he said there was something he had to tell her. Something she was sure she didn't want to hear.
He gestured toward the trunk. "Whoever killed your uncle was probably looking for the stone. Maybe it's even this evil wizard coming back somehow to steal the pieces and make sure you and your cousins can't put it back together again."
She stared at him, hardly able to believe he'd bought into the old legend.
"Come on. We'd better get dressed."
When he sat up and reached for his clothing, she did the same.
Luke had started toward the telephone to call and ask Mark Ramsey if he could keep the trunk for them when a man stepped into the room. A mask still covered his head and face and now he was holding a gun.
"Thanks for finding that treasure chest your old fool of an uncle was so proud of."
"It belongs to my family."
"Not anymore." The man turned to Luke. "Don't try anything funny, or your girlfriend ends up with a bullet in the heart."
He had brought rope and other restraints. First he made her tie Luke to the desk chair. Then he secured her hands and feet with plastic handcuffs and tied her into another chair.
When he hoisted the trunk to his shoulder and left, Rory felt like a piece of her flesh had been hacked away. But Luke leaped immediately into action. Moving the chair to the end of the desk, he began to saw at the rope with a sharp edge of the glass top.
"You have to stop him," he growled.
"How?"
Luke gave her a piercing look. "With your powers. Hit him with everything you've got. Rain, lightning, hail. Anything to keep him from driving away."
She stared at him. He was acting as though he really believed that family legend, when she hardly believed it herself.
But she squeezed her eyes shut and tried. When she peeked through her lashes at the window and saw that nothing had changed outside, she moaned in frustration.
Luke was watching her. "Use your anger," he told her as he worked at the rope. "That bastard is stealing your heritage. If you don't get it back you have no hope of breaking the curse."
It was hard to believe in the curse. But as she looked toward Luke, she realized that he had cut his skin. The sight of his blood was what made her wrath surge.
In her mind, she pictured dark clouds, freezing rain, wind and hail. And when she heard an ominous rumble outside, she knew that she was on the right track. When a torrent began to hit the window, her spirit surged.
While Luke worked to free himself, she added to the storm. She pictured hailstones, and they began to hit the side of the house. She built the wind, hearing it lash at the trees.
Triumph surged through her as she pulled a lightning bolt from the sky, hearing it strike somewhere nearby.
When Luke gave a yell of triumph, she swung toward him. His hands were free, and he quickly untied his legs, then hurried to her and cut her free.
Then they both rushed for the front door.
The intruder was lying in the driveway, his hands protectively over his head. Through the open door of the car, she could see the trunk. But the car wasn't going anywhere. One of the tires looked melted and the windshield was shattered.
The storm stopped abruptly. Luke whipped the man's hands behind his back and bound him with his own rope.
When Luke pulled off the hood, Rory gasped. She knew him. It was Ambrose Fairfax, a local antique dealer.
"Call Sheriff Hammer," Luke told her, as he pulled the trembling man inside. "Then bring me the phone."
She did, and listened while he told the sheriff that he'd apprehended the man who murdered Harold Deveaux. The trunk full of heirlooms he'd stolen was in his car. And his gun was stuffed in his belt.
After Sheriff Hammer arrived, both Luke and Rory went down to his office to make statements. The trunk and its contents were locked up as evidence, but at least she knew it was safe. And Sheriff Hammer thought there was a good chance they'd be able to connect Fairfax to her uncle's murder.
Two hours later, she and Luke were back on Uncle Harold's porch, and she felt her tension mount. Luke had seen what she could do. And it wasn't pretty.
When he put his hand on her shoulder, she jumped.
"Are you worried that I'm going to think you're weird?" he asked, turning her toward him.
She gave a tight nod.
"Rory, your great-grandmother gave up her life for you. Don't let her down."
"What do you mean?"
"You and your cousins have to put the stone back together."
"Use my magic. And give up love?" she breathed, raising her eyes to him.
He shook his head. "No. Not in this day and age — when a woman can have both. If that's what she wants."
She'd been afraid she would never find a man to share her life. But this man had made it possible for her to say "Oh Luke, I love you so much."
"Good. That's good." He tipped her head up and brought his mouth down on hers for a long, deep kiss.
When it ended, he said, "If you'll have me, I want you for my wife. Please say yes."
Stunned, she gave her agreement, and he clasped her to him.
This time she knew what she was doing as she brought a shower of little raindrops down from the sky, each one catching the sparkle of the sun like a small diamond in the sky.
Luke grinned. "A neat trick," he murmured. "Don't ever change, sweetheart. I love you just the way you are. Thunder and lightning and rainbows."
She tightened her arms around him, knowing for the first time in her life that she was loved and cherished for what she was.
And knowing that she had a hard task ahead of her to join her power with her cousins' to find the rest of the Stone of Power and somehow put it back together. But she also knew that Luke Stuart would stand beside her.
The End